mouse time

It’s not the three-weeks-on-a-tropical-island I need. Or the live-on-a-sailboat-with-a-beautiful-girl I keep dreaming about. But it’s better than being at work. Tomorrow I’m taking the family down to visit the mouse, braving bone-chilling (for SO Cal) temperatures and holiday crowds. Early December is one of the best times of the year to visit Disneyland; the park […]

It’s not the three-weeks-on-a-tropical-island I need. Or the live-on-a-sailboat-with-a-beautiful-girl I keep dreaming about.

But it’s better than being at work.

Tomorrow I’m taking the family down to visit the mouse, braving bone-chilling (for SO Cal) temperatures and holiday crowds.

Early December is one of the best times of the year to visit Disneyland; the park is decked out for xmas, teh Haunted Mansion is overlaid with ‘Nightmare Before Xmas’, and Small World is re-done with enough holiday twinkle to defrost even my scroogian heart. We’ve missed the perfect window, last week; but I’m hoping poor weather and terrible economy make for less crowding.

I need a whole lot more vacation than this though. Three days off work and then I’m back home. I’m hoping for a lot of recharging in a short period, which means I need extra sugar and plenty of Pirates and Haunted Mansion.

Myths and Mice and Thanksgiving MILFS

I’m off tomorrow to fly to Anaheim to visit family and The Mouse. I’d be driving down already, as are half my family, only Olivia and I have tickets tonight to see Mythbusters Live. More on that later, as I’ve no real idea how they can turn that show into a live thing. Meanwhile, I’m […]

I’m off tomorrow to fly to Anaheim to visit family and The Mouse. I’d be driving down already, as are half my family, only Olivia and I have tickets tonight to see Mythbusters Live. More on that later, as I’ve no real idea how they can turn that show into a live thing.

Meanwhile, I’m packing kilts and my Sad Kermit t-shirt to wear to the park, trying to decide which combat boots are best for walking.

Sunday, I fly mouseward, and then wednesday, drive back here, stop quickly to drop my disneyland clothes and pick up my dinner party clothes, and head north for thanksgiving with a friend mine (who is a MILF, and I mean that both literally and personally), in the napa-sonoma area

I won’t really be home for a week, and thus blogging is unlikely, unless I decide to live-blog from inside pirates of the caribbean on my iPhone.

Pack head, y’all. That’s what this week’s holiday is about. The feast of Saint Gluttony.

Dad Points on Ice

There are certain things a man does for no other reason than to win the approval of women. This can include gifts, certainly. But it can be as simple as lawn-mowing, or putting the seat down, or getting one’s fucking feet off the table. Little else, though, has quite the innocent payoff of pleasing adolescent […]

There are certain things a man does for no other reason than to win the approval of women.

This can include gifts, certainly. But it can be as simple as lawn-mowing, or putting the seat down, or getting one’s fucking feet off the table.

Little else, though, has quite the innocent payoff of pleasing adolescent girls.

Hence, I accompanied my nine year old daughter Ruby to “Disney’s High School Musical on Ice” at what was once called the Oakland Coliseum (though it now seems to be named after some over-monied high-tech database giant).

It was a bit odd being in that building again. It’s been a while. I’ve lost count of how many concerts I saw there through the seventies and eighties. They seem to have re-modeled the place heavily, or the drugs I was on back in those days did worse to my memory than I was aware.

But that night, it wasn’t stoner boys in down coats and waffle-stomper boots, sporting Yes and Genesis and Pink Floyd t-shirts. Tonight, the smell of shampoo and lip-glass and adolescent excitement was in the air.

There’s a sound – unlike any other sound, anywhere. This is what Beatlemania must have sounded like in person. This is the sound five thousand adolescent girls screaming as one, at the top of every tiny set of lungs, when an skater dressed and made up and wigged to vaguely resmble Zac Efron takes of his shirt and does a bit of fancy footwork across the ice.

I have to admit, such excitement is infectious.

Now, if you have adolescent girls at home, or know someone who does, you are all too aware of the whole High School Musical phenomenon. I won’t bother to describe, or try to explain, why this low-budget Disney Channel made-for-television movie has become such a massive hit. What I’ll say, though, is that it’s cute, silly, has pretty good songs, and likable stars (and as we know from the gossip pages, Vanessa Anne Hudgens is pretty tasty indeed in her birthday suit.)

But one has to be at least a bit afraid at the idea of – well, anything on ice that isn’t either olympic, or a comestible.

Ok, maybe it was just the screaming girls. Maybe it was the fantastic seats I had (I could reach the ice from my seats, which means I was close enough to see the skaters sweat, and see the expressions on their faces when they would occasionally drop character). Or maybe it’s that I genuinely love figure skating. But I admit it – I liked it. It was, possibly, the most soulless piece of live performance I’ve ever seen, and yet I enjoyed it.

Yeah, I’m blaming the little girls. It’s hard to be jaded and cynical when you’re sitting behind a ten year old who looks like she’s seeing god every time a favorite character skates by

Ruby was absolutely paralyzed with excitement. I thought she was unhappy halfway through the first act, and then realized, she was utterly overwhelmed into a fugue state. She wasn’t even able to applaud at first. I’m not entirely sure she was even breathing. When we got home, she had a sobbing breakdown, a combination of exaustion (WAY past her bedtime) and thrill over-load.

I can’t say I want to go back and see HSMonI again right away. But I also don’t at all mind the time and money. Well, well worth it. And damn, are those good Dad Points.

Saturday, Ruby goes with me to her first hockey game; thus, she gets to see what ice should look like, ie, with blood on it.

Update: I just read a review of this show by SFGate’s Peter Hartlaub. He captures it perfectly.

Alas, poor Pluto

Ok, so first things first. Pluto is dead. Disney World worker run over, killed by parade float at Magic Kingdom Second, is this the end of Disney as we know it, or the birth of a new, better, post Eisner Disney? Comcast proposes to buy Walt Disney Who knows? I’d like to ask Roy Disney […]

Ok, so first things first.

Pluto is dead.

Disney World worker run over, killed by parade float at Magic Kingdom

Second, is this the end of Disney as we know it, or the birth of a new, better, post Eisner Disney?

Comcast proposes to buy Walt Disney

Who knows? I’d like to ask Roy Disney this question though.

The question is, will Comcast have the sense to leave it alone, respect the tradition, but make it GOOD again, fixing the problems and painting and fixing and all? Or will we have replacement of the old with pointless new, as in Cory Doctorow’s Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom? (And a big thanks to MP for telling me I should read that book, it kicks major ass, particularly for Disney fans.) Speaking of which, I bet Doctorow has an opinion on this whole comcast thang. This will require more research.

While I’m pointing to these good things, how about we ask the folks at www.mouseplanet.com, see if they have an opinion on the whole deal?

What’s the relevance? Well, not much, other than that I’m going to be at D-land next week, so I’ll be thinking much on this matter. That and thinking about – well, that story isn’t for public consumption, but trust me, I’ll be thinking about it.

But enough about that. Let’s talk about me. Wait, first I need scotch.

* * *

Ok. There. A wee dram of Oban.

So where were we? Ah, yes.

The sequel to Wanton. Which people keep asking me about.

Let me say, first, that I don’t like sequels. I know of several stories I don’t think need them (Say, on SS). One story I co-wrote that I think is sort of done (At least in my view – YMMV). Stories by other favorite SS writers that where part one is better than whatever followed.

People want Die Hard II though. It’s better than going to see some indie flick that might not have as much stuff blowing up.

So that said – the main character in Wanton was birthed for something other than Wanton. He has a novel. The first chapter was written but died a painful death with the laptop it lived on several years back. He was un-named at the time, but he had a drinking problem, women problems, no job, a disrespect for authority, and a tendancy to walk into trouble by choice. So that novel still exists, and has a title, but isn’t yet written.

But between that novel, and Wanton, there’s a piece of story that has to happen. because – well, just because. I’m the writer I get to decide.

This is where I should have a link to the in-progress story. Only I’m not yet sure the story is in progress yet. I have 4000 words of it, but still no idea if the story is there yet, or if it has to wait a while. Below, though, is an excerpt.

The thing is, getting back to where I was when I wrote Wanton is hard. For I was possessed. Muse-ridden, like some Loa of creativity summoned with a dream veve, perched upon my shoulders and feeding fire into my brain.

I don’t know if this will happen again, nor do I know if I can write this story correctly, yet, without it. Time, and my friends whos opinions I trust more than I trust my own, will tell me if now is the time, this the story.

The character’s voice comes easily though. That much I know. All I had to do was write the excerpt below and I was back inside his head.

With that said, here’s a passage:


I had tried to get my job back. They ditched me, when I started to come unglued, before.

I went to see my ex boss. Told him I had it together, the whole episode with the girl, it was over, I was clean now, man. Ready to get back into the groove and be a team player. I thought for a minute he was going to give my job back to me, there in his office. And then I let go of his throat and it turned out he was trying to say something else.

Security took me out of the building. They tried to walk me but after I took the little one’s stick away they used something on me, like an electric cattle prod. I don’t remember much after that, but at least they didn’t call the cops. The cops were tired of hearing my name.

The old bag who rented my apartment to me kicked me out after a while. I think she was going to try to hold my possessions in lieu of back rent, but she must have realized I didn’t have a damned thing she could figure out how to sell. Honestly, some of the artwork was worth more than I owed her but I wasn’t going to tell her that. She just changed the lock one day and told me I had til morning to get my crap outta there.

I loaded the art into my van. Walked away. Whatever else was in there, I didn’t care about. The art, the clothes I could pack in a gym bag. Fuck the rest of it.

I dropped the shit off, the artwork, dropped it with my friend Patrick. Bummed cash from him for gas. His roommate, or boyfriend or whatever the fuck he was, fed me some dinner.

I didn’t know where I was going after that. They wanted me to stay but – no. I had to go. The hills, I remember thinking. I’ll head for the hills. Because it was either that or the ocean, and when I hit the ocean I thought I might just take a swim for the horizon.

So the hills were better. Maybe try to find a horizon in the other direction, or something between me and it that would stop me