albadger: (What Badgers Eat)

I had lunch at Wendy's yesterday; went in expecting to get a salad, but they have a new "4 for $4" promotion, Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger, fries, 4 chicken balls (they call them nuggets but we all know), and a small drink. So I had that, because I'm class.

That's not the story, though. Here's the story. While eating my treasure, I toyed with my Nexus 4 smart phone, as one does, until I realized that I was out of iced tea. Back over the to the self-serve iced tea dispenser I went, filled the cup, and got back to find... no phone! Had I carried it with me? No, I'd left it on the table... right there... not under the wrappers or on the floor... panic set in...

What had I done, I thought. What had anybody else done, I thought. I had a vague memory of a woman coming in the side door, walking past my table, and going into the ladies room, this while I was at the drink stand... could SHE? I felt terrible for suspecting a stranger, but suspect I did.

There was a Wendy's employee on his lunch break at the table next to mine, toying with his cell phone, as one does. "My cell phone seems to have gone missing," I told him; "did you see anything?"

He hadn't but was smarter than me. "You want me to call your phone, see if we can hear it?" I gave him my number; it went straight to voice mail, of course. I was getting more and more convinced that this woman had snatched the phone off the table as she walked by. My stomach was turning into knots (not connected to what I was eating I'm sure).

But then -- then -- out from the ladies room bursts a very tall woman, holding my cell phone up in her hand. "Is this somebody's?" she yelled. "Is this somebody's? I was just sitting there and all of a sudden this phone rings from the trash bin, is this somebody's?"

It was -- Nexus 4, black plastic protector, wallpaper the cover of pulp SF paperback "the Gods Hate Kansas." Mine! I was so relieved, I offered to buy her lunch. She took me up on that but then only ordered a side salad and fries. And then hugged me.

So here's what I'm thinking, that there are two possibilities for what actually happened.


  1. Woman A walked in the side door, saw the phone sitting there, idly snapped up the unguarded trifle, went to the ladies room, thought better of the theft, and put the phone in the trash. Then, Woman B went into the ladies room and had her business rudely interrupted.

  2. There was no Woman A. Woman B snapped up the unguarded trifle, and was startled into full consciousness (and conscience) when it rang, so she concocted the fiction that let her return the phone without consequence or blame, a fiction I am quite happy to endorse.

So, what's your bet? If option #2, this would hardly be the only instance of everyone agreeing to a falsehood in order to keep civilization from falling apart. We usually do that with family members, but sometimes it's important with strangers too.

And I checked. I still had my wallet after the hug. Yeah, I feel a little bad about that.

albadger: (Cat at the Birdbath)
Not much. Two things.

  1. This sentence from the Wikipedia bio of Charles Napier:
    Out of the blue he was summoned to Universal Studios to meet Alfred Hitchcock (who had just seen a print of Supervixens) and Napier was given a one-year contract.
    Now I can't stop thinking about Alfred Hitchcock watching Supervixens. This changes everything.

  2. Drinks for pets.



albadger: (Frontier)

I previously posted about getting registered to be a Lyft driver; that seems to have come to an end, at least temporarily. The hitch is that Lyft (and all the app-based jitney outfits) provide their own insurance while a passenger is being carried, and only then, but from the moment I'd "punch in" to announce my availability, my own insurance ceases to cover (since from that point I'm driving a commercial vehicle and not the private car that the policy is for). Somebody smashes into me while I'm driving to pick up the fare, I'm SOL.

I called my insurance, and they offer "rideshare coverage gap extensions" to take care of this donut hole, but only in some states, and not in California. I'd have to cancel my existing policy and buy a new policy that would cover me as a commercial vehicle at all times, and for a lot more money.

My own view, that Lyft and Uber only exist because they push expenses like this onto the backs of working people, once again reinforced. So be warned, if I give you a ride somewhere, it's as a friend, and you can't pay for it. You're not allowed to!


Had a very interesting Tuesday -- drove down to Cupertino, where I lived in the 1980s, and saw a movie in a movie theater I went to a lot in the 1980s, across the street from the community college I attended classes at in the 1980s. Afterwards, met up with [livejournal.com profile] progbear and had Mongolian BBQ at a restaurant I ate at in the 1980s. Also, the movie was Terminator: Genisys, a sequel/remake/reboot/homage to a 1984 movie. It would have been déjà vu except I really had been there before.
albadger: (Baby Hitler)
The process of becoming a Lyft driver and thus contributing to the destruction of civilization continues. Drove to San Francisco, met with my "Lyft Mentor," a very cheerful young lady whose cel phone cover matched her blouse; she clearly loves driving for Lyft, and signed me off (valid Driver's License, check; proof of insurance, check; car works, check). We even did a "test delivery" where she gave me an address to drive to. "Do you use Google Maps or -- ?" she began to ask, but stopped, awe-struck by the built-in GPS in my wonderful car. The GPS is named Navi, and sounds just like the character from Ocarina of Time.

Next step is the criminal background check. If they miss the panda-smuggling, I'll be a Lyft driver in days!
In other news, I submitted my Hugo awards ballot last week just before the final deadline. Why was I voting for the Hugos after years of inaction on that front? Sad Puppies. Rabid Puppies. You can get a fairly good explanation here.

If you're like me and too lazy to click through, point is, some right-wing nutcases felt that the Hugos were going to too many women and dark people and homos (sometimes all three in one writer!), so they "gamed" the system, and filled up most of the slots on the nomination ballot with work done by themselves and their allies. People were outraged, mud flew, and I thought, what the hell, I sent in 40 bucks to be a "supporting member" and vote on the final ballot. A lot of people did just that (around 1400), with the intention of stopping the Puppies nominees from getting any awards. But, hey, I thought, I'll be fair, and I'll read the nominated stories -- maybe they're good in spite of pleasing the teabaggers.

And now I'm angry.

Every one of the right-wing slate nominees stinks like a skunk poop cracker with Munster d'Alsace on it. On them. Each one in a different way. Which is worse, because if they'd all stunk in the same exact way I would have given up and imagined throwing my e-reader against the wall (I wouldn't really do that, it's my second e-reader, I sat on the first one). After 13 of the damn things (aliens who conquer earth but are taken in by a simple trick! ghosts who realize Jesus can still save them! sentient war machines who read their user manuals aloud to us!), I'd had enough, and only bothered with the first 8 pages of the last one, which has a sentient war machine reading its user manual aloud to us, but stopping long enough to let us know that a mob had broken into the United Planets capitol building and lynched all the do-nothing bureaucrats and this was A GOOD THING. I think I've done my due diligence.

I'm mad at the Puppies because they nominated crap, and I had to read it. Had to. Lord knows there's lots of "conservative" SF & fantasy out there, and it often wins awards (Lois McMaster Bujold springs to mind, but of course she's a woman), and these pups couldn't find anything of value. I have never voted for NO AWARD with such gleeful relish.

On the other hand, because of all this, I did read the Goblin Emperor, which I might never have done without the froo-frah. I'm grateful for that -- it's a great book, it wasn't on the Puppies shortlist, and I voted it first place among the novels; also nominated for Best Novel and also recommended is Ancillary Sword, but read the first book in that series first. So, read those 2 novels, avoid the Hugo-nominated short fiction this year, and if you need a ride somewhere, I may be your guy!

After I clear the criminal background check.
albadger: (Named Death the Streetcar Is)
This happened while I was on the phone with a friend, who was saying, "if you're that bored, you could volunteer for the Aaron Peskin campaign!" My friend lives in San Francisco, while I do not. "But apparently," he went on, "you're not that bored."

But if I weren't that bored, why did I sign up with Lyft?
In other news, I experienced the emotion described in some circles as "they ruined my childhood," usually uttered in relation to movies like Transformers or Jem and the Holograms. Mine is about a movie too, but not a 90-minute commercial for toys.

When I was 9, I saw a trailer for a movie that scared the hell out of me. I remembered only three shots:

  1. a young couple looking up at the towers of a castle;

  2. the young couple sleeping in twin beds; and

  3. (this is what had me going) a shot down a long dark corridor. You could hear a thump; thump; thump as a large demonic form moved down the hallway, visible only as a dark outline, horns in its forehead -- and this was the kicker, it didn't exist below the waist, and was pounding slowly down the hall on its two gigantic fists.

In the decades since, the memory of this would rise up now and then, and I'd get a shiver of fear. For years I tried to find out what movie it was -- people were helpful & had suggestions, but nothing panned out -- until a few months ago, when a random search led me to that very trailer on YouTube.

Memory is a tricky beast.



The "demon" of my memory was actually just a very small man who seems to have worked in the sideshow business as that was dying, and made a few movies; the image is of him scampering through the couple's bedroom, not down a dark hall. Also, I'm amazed that I didn't recall the "I caught you spying!" lady at all. Still, the trailer makes it look like enjoyable cheese, so I ordered the DVD. Second mistake.

I've seen few movies that make 61 minutes seem so long; every interesting frame from the entire film is in that 90 second trailer. On top of that, the resolution is of the Monster a Go Go variety, and I don't want to say another word about it. I don't mind having my childhood fear revealed to be an exaggeration, but I'm kinda peeved that it's from so boring a movie.

Mind you, if anybody actually wants to make a movie with a legless demon shabling down a dark hallway on its fists, I'll contribute to the IndieGoGo campaign.
albadger: (Oh Cat Don't fly away again)
Nothing like being in a comfortable train car, nodding off in your comfortable seat, and then you notice that all the other passengers are getting off. ALL of them. Time to actually pay attention to the announcements!

There was some kind of technical problem with the rear cars of the train (which of course I was in), so we all had to get out & walk up the platform to the front of the train, and it's the LONGEST train that legal in Germany (I like to think they run double-length trains in the middle of the night just for kicks). Bonus of the new seating -- in the very front car, and I can see the "windshield" or whatever trains have instead of windshields. And this is beautiful country, rolling down from Cologne and Frankfurt to Munich -- one of the most densely populated places in the world but it looks like forests and pastures and cows from the train, quite lovely. Remind me to move to Germany when Miramax greenlights my screenplay.

One downside of on-train WiFi is that connectivity is spotty -- every time we enter a tunnel, the world goes away -- and there are LOTS of tunnels. Like that last one. 2 minutes, I timed it! And we're going 249 km/h, so that means...
albadger: (Hufflepuff)
And the OTHER reason I have not posted daily on this tour -- tools! I have a newish laptop, a Toshiba something-or-other, and I love it, except for the touchpad software, which never worked right and now doesn't work at ALL -- I am using a little bluetooth mouse instead. And then, on this trip, the WiFi started cracking up big time. The machine had always had a tendancy to knock me off the connection, but that was easily remedied by disconnecting and reconnecting... but starting in Northern Ireland, I'd get connected in a "LIMITED" way, which meant no connection at all, and there was no way to progress past that. If you selected the "CAN I HELP YOU WITH YOUR INTERNET CONNECTION PROBLEM?" thing, it would say "SORRY YOU ARE NOT CONNECTED TO THE INTERNET AND I CANNOT HELP YOU." Gotta love Windows 8.

Finally my withered brain kicks in -- get on the net with the PHONE, and ask -- sure enough "TOSHIBA LAPTOP WIFI CONNECTION PROBLEM" gets lots of Google hits, including a simple two-part suggestion that I follow. Change one setting, run one netsh command, reboot & hurrah! We're up and running reliably for the first time in a week.

Great week, too.  A weekend of hanging with Steve & Steve in Ravenstone, England included a trip to Leicester Cathedral to see the tomb of Richard III, England's most unfairly maligned king. Not the most maligned but with the others it's pretty fair. Very handsome, and the museum was cool too. Also Steve (the one who drives a Kia Soul) made what was easily the best meal of my trip, chicken stuffed with sausage and wrapped in bacon, then drenched in a rhubarb sauce with mixed vegetables.  "'Twere nothing, just something I whipped up," he says, but he beats the fancy restaurants and the castle banquets and the awful pizza I had in Amsterdam.

Pizza being the ONLY bad thing I had in Amsterdam, which is an amazing, wonderful, dazzling city, and it smells of pot. REALLY. Of course, I was primed to love it, coming in after a 4-hour layover in Brussels, where every Brussellian I dealt with seemed to despair of the future of the human species, and responded with poor customer service. Like a city run by US Air. Stick to Amsterdam.

Right now I'm in Cologne, another fine city, dominated by the magnificent cathedral on the Rhine -- here to meet & have dinner with a young friend. I've known her since she was four years old, and here she is getting her masters degree! I don't feel aged at all, no.

Tomorrow, off to Munich, to see THAT PICTURE.  If I succeed in my quest, I will definitely post an image here. I'm no good at photos, but I'll make myself good just for this one thing, dammit!
albadger: (Wildfire)

Good Gravy, I meant to post every day while I was in Ireland, but I underestimated the tenacity of the Escorted Tour. Nearly every night I arrived back at the hotel exhausted and unable to post, and every morning I awoke just time to go out on an exciting expedition -- often, a life-changing expedition. For example:

I have now kissed the Blarney Stone.

Technically, I head-butted it. But I figure that gives me the power to psionically trasmit waves of flattery at you out my pineal gland. And given the unpleasant climb up and back down, I'm not going back there. It's not dangerous anymore, there are lots of guard bars, and an irritated local who holds your knees while another less-irritated local snaps pictures of you "kissing" the stone (pictures you can buy later for 10 Euros). Neither of the locals cares if you kissed it, or if you head-butted it. If you heard that rumors that the locals pee on the Stone after the Castle closes for the evening, you can kiss the camera guy instead of the stone, which is supposed to be as "lucky." I wasn't tempted by option 3.

But so much else has happened! We rode the Escorted Tour bus around the Ring of Kerry, which really is spectacular, and went to two more "evenings," one a satisfyingly curatorial approach to Irish music and dance with just enough flash to satisfy the stupider tourists too, the other a rubber-chicken banquet in a ruined castle, with a harpist and two singer/actors doing poetry and songs from the Irish Renaissance -- worst-bang-for-buck item on the tour, don't check that box when you sign up.


More significantly, we went to Inishmore, site of the movie Man of Aran and the play the Lieutenant of Inishmore, and though we saw no cats, terrorists or shark fisherman, it was indeed amazing, as you would see from my photographs if I were any good at taking them or understood how to upload them from the camera. By the time I get home I should have that down.

We're currently in our last night in Belfast, which is a very different city from Dublin, but I won't go into details until I get home. Don't read much into that. My favorite thing in Belfast is the Leaning Tower of Albert, which I would totally have climbed if they let you.

Going to bed now, will be back with you when I land in England tomorrow!

PS I got my replacement Amex card! Thanks to Allie, greatest Escorted Tour guide in the history of ever!

albadger: (Frontier)
Didn't post last night because I was up late on the phone with American Express. I seem to have mislaid my card in the Dublin airport, and when I first spoke to Amex they were wonderful -- "we'll get a replacement card sent to your hotel tomorrow before 5pm!" Sounded too good to be true, and nothing showed up at the hotel. When I called back, the agent at first refused to believe I was telling the truth until I testily asked him to review the notes. "Well, yes, they did the replacement card," he came back, "but it's gone out. It should have arrived at the hotel." Hotel says no. Says no the next morning. Probably still says no a day later but I'm too tired to call and find out tonight.

Eh, whatever, the account's sealed now, and I have other funds. So two exciting days! Wednesday we visited one of those grotesquely huge estates that rich people used to maintain to prove their superiority to rest of us (what do they use for that now?) and its gardens -- Japanese garden, Italian garden, English garden, one garden for each salad dressing. There was even a pet cemetery, with many horses, chow dogs and cows. The inscriptions on the stones seemed sincere.

More importantly yesterday, we visited Glendalough, a beautiful vale with a pristine lake overlooked by the ruins of an ancient monastery. As I was drinking in the natural vistas, it struck me -- this was where they didn't film Zardoz. It looks a lot like Zardoz, and I did some research -- the real shooting location was at Lough Tay, only a few miles over in County Wicklow. As we were not on the Zardoz Filming Locations tour, we didn't get to see it. DAMMIT.

Today, also, dominated by places Zardoz wasn't filmed. A stud farm was a fascinating glimpse into a subculture, and also wasn't the horse barn where the Apathetics lived, and the Rock of Cashel, which is a hill with a ruined Gothic cathedral on top, and would look a lot like where the Exterminators gathered to greet the giant floating stone head, if the ruined Gothic cathedral wasn't there. Then on to County Cork, and we're staying in the town of Blarney tonight, getting ready for tomorrow's ritual of being dangled by a stranger over an abyss so you can put your lips on a flithy piece of granite that's got everybody else's germs on it in case you don't die.

Also I'm still terrible at uploading the pictures from the camera, but I hope I will have that figured out by tomorrow.
albadger: (Brendon is a pretty lady)
Today was the first real day of our escorted tour -- a form of travel with which I am mostly unfamiliar (I did one with my Dad in 2001). Today, a bus ride with a local tour guide through the streets of Dublin, the first half of which was a complete waste, since the guide had no clue as to using a microphone, and was either inaudible or distorted and muddy. I thought it was me until somebody else went to the front & showed the guide how to hold the mike. Once I could comprehend her, I liked her, because she had a laughing contempt for inherited aristocracy.

With one exception -- the Guinness family seems to be revered in Dublin, because, even after centuries of inbreeding, they still devote a huge portion of the family's income to public projects that don't just Band-Aid problems but really make things better. Also, they make beer.

Also on the tour was St. Patrick's Cathedral, a truly beautiful building (largely restored by the Guinnesses), and the Book of Kells exhibit at Trinity College, which was a true Mona Lisa experience -- a historically important but not that visually impressive object locked in a case and effectively invisible through the backs of the milling crowd. On the other hand, the huge library room upstairs was awesome and I need a room like that in my house.

Not on tour but accessible on foot was the museum that had the bog bodies. Sure, there was other stuff there, but I don't remember what, because we were there to see leathery corpse parts and nothing else. My favorite was the one who was found when an automatic peat digging machine jammed. Perfectly preserved right down to the line where the peat machine was chewing him up and finally got stuck.

Tonight, we went to an "Irish Evening," a dinner followed by a show. Everybody in the audience seemed to be on escorted tours. This led my brother to describe the event as an "Irish Luau," as the setup resembled what you'd see at the Hawaii Cultural Center. Riverdance-style dancing, a guy playing a tin whistle, and an aged comic with hoary jokes about Paddy Murphy and long-suffering Mrs. Murphy. If you comment on this post, I will reply to the comment with one of his jokes. At least until I've done all the ones I remember.

Tomorrow: On a bus to someplace out in the country that I forget what it's called. That's the glory of an escorted tour: I don't HAVE to know!
albadger: (Leprechaun Merle)
Now at the Maldron Parnell hotel in Dublin, which seems to be staffed almost exclusively by beautiful young French women. My brother found a brochure in the lobby for a "Leprechaun Tour," but he must have grabbed the last one, because I couldn't find it when I went to look. On the other hand, Riverdance is celebrating its 20th anniversary.

I got here yesterday afternoon after a blissfully uneventful Aer Lingus non-stop from SFO (good: the seats next to me were occupied by two petite girls who used the other aisle and never bothered me; bad: the most intriguing movie in the entertainment system was Mortdecai). We got to walk around a bit, it's a nice, compact town and has the world's largest flagpole with no flag on it (google "Millennium Spire Dublin," I haven't broken the camera out yet). Today is our city tour, so some real pix I hope. Leprechauns if I see any.
albadger: (Oh Cat Don't fly away again)
Here's me! On my usual pattern of only posting to LJ when I'm out of town, and this one is a doozy -- 2 weeks in Ireland, then a weekend with friends in England, followed by a quick train ride (only 6 hours total!) to Amsterdam, then dinner with a friend in Cologne, train down to Munich where I hope to satisfy a 3-year itch, then fly back to SFO. Two new countries for me on this trip, or 3 if you count lunch between trains in Brussels -- I couldn't figure out how to fit Luxembourg in, so that will be a future get. The Ireland weeks are with an escorted tour, a form of travel I don't do often, so it will be an interesting change.

Currently in the San Francisco International terminal, near my gate G94, with plenty of time; I know some people hate cooling their heels at the airport but I'd rather know that no surprises stand between me and seat 41G. I also got a new camera, so I'll try to be posting GOOD pictures, not those crappy ones I'd take with my phone. Next stop, Dublin!
albadger: (Badger's Bad Mood)
One of the worst theatrical experiences of my life was the production of La Bête in 1992. 22 and a half years later and I still shudder when I think of that afternoon. I left the theater shaken and disgusted, swearing to myself that I would never again buy a ticket for a comedy composed entirely of rhymed iambic pentameter, set in the French Ancien Régime.

Which, in retrospect, makes it odd that I bought a ticket for another comedy composed entirely of rhymed iambic pentameter, set in the French Ancien Régime.

This was a little different; the Metromaniacs is an adaptation of an actual French play, not a pastiche like La Bête... and the costumes on this one didn't make me want to retch. But still, something about this combo pushes all my buttons. I found myself trapped in my seat (oh how I love aisle seats & grieve when I don't have one), squirming, filled with a sense of existential revulsion. First act was less than an hour, but I couldn't make it that far; I begged pardon of the two women between me and escape, and cut out. I'm still a little shaken.

I hate that this happened. And it's entirely me, not a reflection on the quality of the work; everybody else there was having a great time. And it's not a reflection on the French, either, whom I love as a people and consider more polite on average than the English, even though the third worst theatrical experience of my life was Pelléas et Mélisande.
albadger: (Brendon is a pretty lady)
Yes, I know I should be pursuing a voice acting career, moving to Hollywood, building my network of contacts, and eventually grabbing the attention of the producers of a faltering sitcom about a spunky young woman in the big city, which would lead to them casting me as the heroine's randy bisexual grampa, instant C-list fame, too much pressure, a mental breakdown, and relocating to an ashram in eastern Oregon where I would finally find peace and harmony. I'm just too busy travelling to foreign cities to see operas. Tonight it's Washington DC, where I saw Dialogs of the Carmelites tonight.

Opera Blabbing behing lj-cut )

Hard to believe this is night 2 of 4 -- nearly halfway through the trip. Tomorrow, more theater, all near Metro stations! I hope.
albadger: (Fabulous Ones)
I'm in Washington DC, or close to it -- staying at the Hyatt in Arlington, and here's the view from my room:
IMG_20150227_085119
Here for theater, with 2 opera performances as the centerpiece, but I'm filling in with random non-singing stuff, starting with Synetic Theater's Much Ado about Nothing, which isn't not non-singing, it's non-speaking, not actually Shakespeare but a dance-movement piece based on the Shakespeare play. Great fun, and, more importantly, right on a Metro stop, you don't have to go outside!

Because it's cold.
albadger: (Film Film Film)
Just got this in under the wire! In the 18 categories open to English-language fictional feature films, I would vote for, respectively, Grand Budapest Hotel, Boyhood, Birdman, Two Days One Night, Whiplash, Birdman, Grand Budapest Hotel, Whiplash, Mr. Turner, Whiplash, Grand Budapest Hotel, Malificent, Interstellar, Selma, Interstellar, Whiplash, Guardians of the Galaxy and Grand Budapest Hotel.

Behave accordingly.
albadger: (Carol Channing!)
I ask because I ordered an iced coffee at Starbuck's, and they "sweetened" it without asking me. This normally only happens east of 100 degrees West longitude.

A quick glance out the Starbuck's window confirms that this is Burbank, California, whither I have flown to attend tonight's performance of the Ghosts of Versailles, part of my LA Opera mini-subscription. I'm excited for this, it's been getting great reviews, and it's been staged by my favorite theater director, Darko Tresnjak. After that, I'm heading farther south, meeting my brother & my sister-in-law, and we're going to Disneyland! So, of course, I forgot my Disney Annual Pass, which is in my top desk drawer (I meant to swap it out with my library card last night, and I blame the cat).

...or perhaps I can blame the excruciating pain I was in most of last evening during the West Edge Opera performance of Rossini's Zelmira. Not pain from the performance -- that was magnificent, with the lead tenor in particular shaking the Freight & Salvage rafters -- but from my dress boots, which have remained the same size even as my feet have grown. Wrong footwear aside (when I am rushed I gravitate towards the pull-on boots instead of the lace-ups), it was a great evening, but I hobbled home around Midnight, and had to be up & moving at 6. Fortunately, Disney has an easy policy for things like forgetting your annual pass. Also fortunate is I'm wearing my Red Wings now.

I still have a few hours to kill here in the greater Los Angeles area; it's 11:16 AM as I keyboard, and the show doesn't start until 8:00 PM. Any ideas? Please note that any ideas will reach me after it's too late for them to be of any use. I'm still interested, though.
albadger: (Named Death the Streetcar Is)
And it's February 15th, which I've been informed is "National Bottoms Day," and I still haven't filed the final section of "Year in Review." This implies that this year's "Year in Review" will be completed in August of 2016. This feels stale, but I've eaten lots of stale Triscuits in my life.Read more... )
albadger: (Krazy Kat)
I dreamed I went to Disneyland last night, but it wasn't Anaheim; the Disney people had acquired a long, thin section of downtown Los Angeles and had built a quasi-replica of the original park, but with the lands in sequential order down a long avenue. I sat on a park bench and had a lengthy discussion with strangers on the relative merits of this layout vs. the wheel-and-spokes approach in the original park. One of the strangers asked me where I'd gotten my produce. "At the produce stand," I naturally replied. He left and came back empty-handed. "You have to go farther down the avenue to get to the produce stand," I told him. He thought it would be in Fantasyland. What a maroon!

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