To sort of celebrate the Roswell UFO incident 61 years ago this week, I thought I would recount a drive along the Extraterrestrial Highway that I took earlier this year. It's been a while since a photographic travelogue has appeared in Brevity. (My apologies; these days, my only trips have been to weddings, and who wants to take pictures to remember those?)
Obviously, I don't live anywhere near Roswell, but the rough location of the alleged Area 51 is the next best thing. The truth is out there, and it starts about 2 hours north of Las Vegas.
(All photos taken personally. Copyright 2008.)
Even the GPS recognizes its uniqueness. No "Nevada State Highway 375" here!
Did anything strange happen? As a matter of fact, yes.
1. Within the first 5 miles, I suffered a nosebleed, NOT prompted by rubbing my face or sneezing or anything. Classic alien abductee material. While there is some health precedent for this, it was still very, very weird.
2. We came across an unusual natural phenomenon just off the road, on the eastern side. I remember saying, "Take a look at that smooth rock up ahead... no, that's sand, NO, that's WATER!" It was a small reservoir of perfectly milky, seemingly clean, tan-colored water.
3. Miles later, also on the eastern side, we saw a mini-sandstorm that looked like it would cover the sky, but as we got closer, it kept getting further away. Then, when we thought we had to be passing it, there was nothing there.
We eventually reached the town of Rachel, Nevada, the only (public) stop on the Extraterrestrial Highway. Not much to it -- some houses, no gas station -- but it does boast the Little A'Le'Inn. Total tourist trap, but I mean that in the nicest way possible.
We had no reservations about entering this fine establishment.
Though some species aren't as comfortable with exiting through the same door. (Note the American flag. Proof positive that the United States is now the most awesome country in the universe. Take note, Stephen Colbert!)
We took a bathroom break and scanned the souvenirs with amusement. While we took our leisurely time, we had to get back on the road. But I couldn't help but feel like we were leaving something -- or someone -- behind.
Semi-related note: last weekend I revisited The X-Files, specifically a two-parter airing on TNT. They were the Morris Fletcher episodes, in which a time/space rift causes Mulder to switch bodies with Michael McKean's character, an Area 51 government tool. The episode is set in Rachel, Nevada and showcases the Little A'Le'Inn, or a larger version of it.
I'd forgotten how funny it was. When it chose to be light in tone, The X-Files was the funniest show on TV. The closest thing we have to that now is Dexter, which is similar both in its haunting instrumental music and in its darkly comic approach.
I didn't expect to leave Texas unscathed, but I was hoping the recovery period would be shorter than the trip. Now my enlarged body parts include both tonsils and my uvula. That's U-V-U-L-A.
Broken the fever, cut down on the body aches, and now trying to work on the throat and not sound like Kim Carnes. Wait; I'm a guy, so I should say Harvey Fierstein.Daniel: What's the difference?Frank: Some Scotch tape and red hair dye.Houston is Atlanta on steroids. A combination of expanded roads and buildings to an existing and crumbling infrastructure that just makes everything look old. I expected a large, vibrant city with a healthy skyline and obvious Latin influences; what I saw was, say, a bloated and uglier Louisville. I... don't understand the appeal.
Anyway, the wedding festivities were beautiful and went mostly according to plan. I entertained myself with the idea that, after five such Indian extravaganzas this summer, none loom on the horizon for at least the next two years. Because if people are waiting for me, they'll have to keep waiting.
... including parts of my body, which have swollen to three times their normal size since I landed. Relax; I refer to my ear canals.
For the first time since 1980, I'm in Houston, Texas. Of course it's for a wedding, and of course it's not mine. (Always a bridesmaid, or the male equivalent.) The humidity is relentless, and exactly how I left it. Even with a decent amount of sleep, I'm still dizzy and tired.
Without personal, air-conditioned bubbles, I don't understand how people can live like this. We're not mosquitoes. At least not yet.
More later, if I survive the long weekend.
Like many Las Vegas travelers, I fly Southwest a lot. There's no assigned seating, but it's generally understood in the industry which seat is mine: it's the window seat right behind the emergency exit door with no seat in front of it. There you'll find ample leg space that people in aisle seats would kill to have, and your choice of two windows. Also, unlike some seats in that area, this one reclines. Best of all, the pre-boarders aren't allowed to sit in the emergency exit rows, so the spot is easy to grab if you're among the first in line.
I suppose the only downside is the plain view of the wing during the flight, which may cause your imagination to wander into "Nightmare at 20,000 Feet" scenarios. (That Twilight Zone episode is a lot less scary now that I'm an adult.)
My return flight yesterday stopped in Nashville, and the flight attendant (who dressed like Sean Hayes) asked me to recount his instructions from the first leg of the flight to the newly boarded passengers. Despite sounding miserable and congested (which I was), the show must go on.
"First of all, does everyone speak English?"
Laughter. But not a bad point. On my flight out last week, the passenger next to me had to be moved because he only spoke Spanish. It's not pretty, but you don't want the only barrier between being trapped in a plane and outside of one to be a language barrier.
"Okay, second, does anyone watch Lost?"
Less comfortable laughter. I could tell the steward was unprepared for that; it's just assumed that the grand literature of plane mishaps should remain unspoken. I let that pause hang for a split second and quickly followed up with "Because we'd be called the middies." Then I resumed proper instruction, right down to repeating, verbatim, his comparison of the exit door to that of a DeLorean.
Something tells me I would not get (nor would I deserve) this educational opportunity again, but if I did, maybe I'd bring the above visual aid -- the whole card can be found here.
Sorry I've been away again... another wedding, you see. Despite the title above, I did not do much dancing, whether referenced by Wham! or not. Extreme lower back pain in the past few weeks (the reasons for which are beyond the scope of this blog) made me question going at all, much less being active.
Still, I went for a long weekend, giving myself painkillers to endure the flights and visiting everyone I knew in the RDU area. And even a few I did not know. My reward? Traditional allergies, fever, a nasty cough, and a solid re-affirmation that I never want to live near the East Coast again. Sorry, "Brevity in 2012" campaigners.
At least this wedding gave me a chance to reunite with fellow invited guest and writer Quinn the Brain. Also in tow were her Spouse and their firstborn, the Drama Queen, who I hadn't seen since she was Elmo-sized. (Seriously. She wore fuzzy red pajamas then.) New to the family, at least to me, is Quinn's own little jitterbug, the Wild Boy. Something seemed familiar about him; I couldn't place it at first because I was distracted by the Maddox Jolie haircut, but then I saw him purse his lips in apprehension when dinner was presented to him, and it hit me.
The Wild Boy resembles Derek Zoolander, Jr. at the end of male model manifesto Zoolander. It was uncanny. And though a nerdy academic by nature, Quinn seems open to her son making a living out of being really, really, ridiculously good looking.
Does Las Vegas have a distinctive type of food? Memphis has its barbecue. Chicago has deep-dish pizza. San Francisco has sourdough bread. Buffalo has, well, buffalo wings.
This city has a taste of everything. There are casinos that try to be like Paris or New York. But the one food that all the best places try to offer is the Italian ice cream known as gelato. Especially in the hot summers, when temperatures can reach 120 degrees, gelato is a delicious way to cool down.
I made sure that Flat Stanley tried gelato before he left Las Vegas.
Here he is in front of a display case showing about 20 freshly made kinds of gelato. In addition to the standard chocolate and vanilla, there were flavors like caramel, cinnamon, pistachio, and papaya.
We bought a scoop of mango and a scoop of blackberry. Both flavors were tasty. Some gelato may have ended up sticking to Flat Stanley's right hand.
All good things must come to an end, and soon Flat Stanley had to leave, and we drove along the Las Vegas Strip on his last night here. Like many tourists, his Vegas experience came in two forms:
(1) A few distinct memories, like seeing this small-scale Statue of Liberty outside the New York-New York Hotel and Casino; and
(2) All the other memories, which combine to form a big blur.
Bon voyage, Flat Stanley!Go back to: The Flat Stanley project
To the kids (and adults) reading this: it is wrong to sneak into movies. That's the same as stealing, and we all know you shouldn't do that. Flat Stanley can get away with it because, well, he's flat; theaters do not make him pay admission.
Flat Stanley joined me and some family and friends to see Spider-Man 3.
The movie is a little scary for small children. There was a moment where Venom (Topher Grace) jumps toward the audience and flashes his sharp teeth while he screams. More importantly, however, there were scenes where Peter Parker (Tobey Maguire) would disco dance. I'm an adult, and even I found that frightening.
In the theater's lobby was a giant, life-size display for The Simpsons Movie. Ropes surrounded it so that no one could sit down on the couch, but there's always room for Flat Stanley.
Next: Flat Stanley enjoys gelato
Starting with the 2008 Presidential election, Nevada will be one of the first states that the candidates visit before voters decide which Democrat and which Republican they want to win.
Nevada is an interesting state; the people in Las Vegas and the rest of Clark County vote overwhelmingly Democratic, while the rest of the state votes mostly Republican. Because the city of Las Vegas is so large, this is about an equal number of people.
That's why many famous politicians come to Nevada, specifically Las Vegas. Even President Bush has been here a few times, and Flat Stanley had a chance to meet him.
Well, it was Flat President Bush. Which is fitting, because many of his policies are two-dimensional. Anyway, he spent a few moments talking to Flat Stanley in what I called the Manila Summit:
Only Flat Stanley got the joke.Next: Flat Stanley sneaks into a movie
According to customer surveys, what is the #1 reason to visit Las Vegas? If you answered "gambling," you'd be wrong. While many do come to gamble in the casinos, even more people come here for the shopping.
Flat Stanley is, of course, flat. This means that he's not a big spender. (Even though dollar bills and credit cards are also flat, he has yet to find a flat wallet that can hold them.) So he enjoys window shopping. Below is a store called Five Little Monkeys that carry a number of independently crafted toys as well as some of the major brands.
We were in Mandalay Place, which was added a few years ago to the Mandalay Bay casino. It has two dozen stores that you won't find anywhere else in town. Because shopping has become so important to visitors, every casino on the Las Vegas Strip has tried to create large and glamorous shopping areas. Las Vegas has quickly become of the world's best shopping destinations, carrying stores that you might not even see in New York City or Los Angeles.
Mandalay Place also has something that is a little hard to find in a casino: a family bookstore. The Reading Room is a cozy place where you can catch up on the latest books for kids or grownups.
Here's Flat Stanley catching up on his reading. The book is Blink, by Malcolm Gladwell. I offered him a new Spider-Man pop-up book, but he wanted something more sophisticated.Next: Flat Stanley gets political
People who regularly visit Las Vegas often have a favorite casino. For adults, this may mean the place where they win the most money by gambling, or where the hotel rooms are the nicest, or where they receive the best customer service. For kids and Flat Stanley, however, it's an easy choice: go to the giant black pyramid with the sphinx and the pointy tower in the front.
The Luxor Hotel and Casino is unique because visitors can avoid the casino floor altogether if they don't want to gamble. (In many others, you have to walk through the casino to see everything else the place has to offer.) After we parked, we entered a hallway that advertised some of the shows appearing at the Luxor nightly.
Oh no, not Carrot Top! The loudmouthed comedian that carries a big trunk of funny props was too scary for Flat Stanley, so he closed his eyes.
Much better was the view of the pool, available only to guests of the hotel. You can see part of the pyramid in the background.
The Luxor is decorated with Egyptian-style art, both on the outside...
... and inside. Even guests at other casinos take the time to visit the Luxor just to see its impressive sights. Flat Stanley decided to pose with a few. (Click the picture below to see a larger version.)
Looks like he's at home in this last photo, doesn't he?
Next: Flat Stanley goes shopping
The base rate of U.S. postage recently went up from 39 cents to 41 cents. But to Flat Stanley, it is still the cheapest way to travel.
In May, Flat Stanley was mailed from an elementary school in Delaware to one of the fastest growing cities in the country: Las Vegas, Nevada. The host was all too happy to show Flat Stanley around and take a few pictures.
The famous welcome sign greets people who choose to enter the city by driving into the Las Vegas Strip, an expensive group of roads lined with billion-dollar hotels and casinos. Unlike them, Flat Stanley arrived in a mailbox, so we drove a little out of the way to get here.
Las Vegas is a city nestled in a valley. It is surrounded by mountains on three sides. This is Cathedral Rock, one of the smaller mountains located 40 miles northwest of the city. Hikers need about two hours to hike up the trail and reach the top. On this day, the host was too tired to climb, and Flat Stanley noticed how windy it was and did not want to risk it.
About 30 miles southeast of Las Vegas is the Hoover Dam, a popular tourist attraction with a very important purpose: it controls the flow of water from the Colorado River and generates energy in the process. The Hoover Dam is located along the border that separates the states of Nevada and Arizona.Next: Flat Stanley visits the Luxor
My visit to the Bay Area was an education in the business of law practice, a comparison between city and country life, and a personal triumph over a bad case of bloggerphobia.
I braved public transportation Tuesday night to meet Maisnon. While I had faced my fear of meeting other bloggers earlier in the week, I was still nervous about meeting a fellow blogging attorney. How competitive would it be? Would we take turns shouting exceptions to the hearsay rule? Would we overhear conversations at neighboring tables and try to spot the most legal issues? Would we have to chug a glass of wine every time the server mentioned Justice Alito? All good concerns, I think.
We dined at Maverick at 17th and Mission. I was disappointed that I couldn't run with the Top Gun theme by ordering the goose, or the iceman. Maisnon used her adept wine wisdom, and I mean that earnestly. (I am much more of a wine slob than she is a wine snob. I usually pick the box with the fewest dents.) After dinner we joined her friends (some or all of whom also blog) for dessert. As the outsider, I listened intently and began to understand the pecking order of the mini-society. As a people watcher, I found it fun.
Wednesday night I decided to try my luck with Janelle once more. I clung for dear life as she raced across the Bay Bridge to meet up with fellow blogger Mike, a native of San Francisco. (He recounts the evening here, and Janelle offers her dreamy interpretation.)
We met at the Chenery Park restaurant, one of many business fronts where Mike is a well-regarded investor and semi-godfather. It was like out of some Coppola film circa 1972 or 1974. As we entered, our eyes naturally landed on a man sitting alone in the back table, decked in a white suit and hat, like some Caribbean villain. Several wine glasses lay in front of him, as he was sampling that week's shipments. He twirled his moustache and shouted at the sommelier in some unidentifiable accent. Like the weather outside, a fog of mystery surrounded the man. We treaded cautiously.
"Oh good. I thought you were with the Zamboni family," he said, motioning for us to join him. As I wondered what kind of business he had with the ice resurfacing company, he grinned wickedly and complimented us on our all-black attire. "I hate to be shown up at my own table." I think Janelle and I both breathed a sigh of relief.
Servers were always on hand, and we were treated like the kings of dinner. Never afraid to show his power, Mike suggested a comely young waitress sit on my lap, cut savory bites of my entree, and feed me. I wondered about the repercussions should anyone decline his requests, but was too afraid to find out. When he asked me to sit on Janelle's lap and feed her dessert, I did as I was told.
After a joyous if awkward meal, Mike wished us well and let us live. I suggested that we take a look around the hipster areas while in the City, but Janelle wanted to call it an evening. Window shopping wasn't her thing. She has a point: quirky neighborhoods are to people in the Aughts what restaurants were to people in the Eighties. I read that in a magazine.
(Author's Note: upon learning of my trip to the Bay Area, fellow blogger Janelle Renée of Just Thoughts suggested we meet. Having never before met a person I knew only from blogdom, I was a little apprehensive. But I agreed, and we spent Sunday afternoon together. This is my version of what happened. Janelle tells her version here.)
Scene 1: They meet cute.
I rushed out of the shower, vigorously shaking my suitcase- pressed clothes into something comfortable and natural, and dressed quickly. Janelle was prompt and prepared, waiting just outside the apartment complex at 11:15. I make eye contact and feel immediately relaxed. Immersed in gray and green was an assurance that she's not a 43-year-old man, after all.
Scene 2: They make small talk.
"Hi."
"It's good to meet you, Neel."
"Uh, hi."
"You already said that."
Scene 3: They dine.
Janelle swears by Rick and Ann's in Berkeley for breakfast. Being told of the hour-plus wait, I just swore. "Why, you son of a..." I exclaimed. I could tell that Janelle and I had already connected on a mental level, because she instinctively held me back as I tried to punch the host. She's a special woman, I thought.
Scene 4: They drive.
She drives, actually. Janelle whips her Porsche Boxster up the mountain roads, gritting her teeth and loudly mocking the bicyclists through the open windows, as I cling to the door handle for dear life. "I come here to think," she tells me, and I wonder if I can think at all. She laughs maniacally and purses her lips with cryptic intent, perhaps choosing her words carefully. "What you have to understand is that this city can chew you up and spit you out if you're not completely in control. And I'm always in control. Your life already is in my hands, but do you trust me?"
"What?!" I yell over the wind.
"Do you trust me?"
Afraid of the alternative, I muster a loud "Yes" as she screeches to a halt, backs down a steep hill and lands on a hidden lookout.
Scene 5: They share.
We step out of the car and stand on the wooden precipice. Janelle confesses that her blog conveniently leaves out her dangerous side. I'm past brevity at this point and am utterly speechless. I stare ahead at the view from Grizzly Peak, open-mouthed for multiple reasons. She grabs my chin and turns my head to her. "You cannot tell anyone about this." About what, I wonder, but soon realize that her statement was a preamble rather than a recap. She whispers into my ear. I faint.
Scene 6: They recover.
The next half hour is kind of a blur. Janelle rushes me to refreshment in the form of an iced chocolate at Bittersweet, an Oakland cafe. As I nurse my beverage, she asks me if I have any questions. I remain silent and focus on a playful baby at the next table. I can't help but think that I was just as innocent a few hours ago, before we met. Before the drive. Before I knew the truth.
Scene 7: They part.
We return to the apartment where my friends live. Next time Janelle promises the full top-down experience from her convertible, so I can feel the cool onslaught of the wind more directly. I nod, hoping that the added air will help me breathe and limit the revelations in our conversation. Then I start to wonder if there can be a next time. If I can survive feeling that alive again.
I'll be in the Bay Area next week, but it's not a vacation. Anyway, some of my evenings will be free and I thought I'd take a few books to read. Always prepared, I reserved a few titles from the library last week, so I have the following:
First in Thirst by Darren Rovell
The Boy Who Fell Out of the Sky by Ken Dornstein
Flavor of the Month by Joel Best
Which Brings Me to You by Steve Almond and Julianna Baggott
Icebergs by Rebecca Johns (who blogs here)
For now I'm ignoring the lack of racial diversity and reading the first few chapters of each to gauge my immediate interest. I know I'll read the last one eventually -- it's not often that an author of a published book visits Brevity and leaves a comment -- but I have to believe that, even with my unusually proactive reading tendencies, I won't finish them all.
And, like a skittish radio listener who's found a good song on one station, I can't help but think that there's some great option I'm not exploring. So what are you reading, or eager to read? What do you think I'll like? Feel free to leave suggestions.
55 Fiction Friday counted 927,548 little pieces. Such betrayal!Josie was hired by the government to address low voter turnout. She tried countering every common excuse: inclement weather, work schedules, distrust, lack of information, indifference. Miraculously, her new measures withstood judicial scrutiny.
Now, after the singing debates, Americans could call in their votes at any point during Election Week. Standard text messaging rates apply.
My mother wants to visit India. Now that she lives in Las Vegas, she has a new option: Virgin Atlantic. Navigating their website, I noticed that they have a second travel service: Virgin Galactic.
My earthbound search wasn't fruitful (long layovers in London, where she'd switch from Gatwick to Heathrow), but the idea of commercial outer space travel has merit. Perhaps with interstellar inbound traffic in mind, Virgin has agreed to build a spaceport in the state of New Mexico.
Sign me up. Actually, I did put my name on their mailing list for future newsletters, but I couldn't commit to placing a $20,000 deposit on a $200,000 flight. First, I need to know if that's a round trip or one-way fare. Then I'll have to check Orbitz.
55 Fiction Friday always wanted to be the next Lance Bass.Little Ivan turned two, and his parents withstood the jokes. They wondered if their spiritual leader had, with her choice of names, set up their youngest child for a life of infamy. Still, they were insistent upon the value of their proper nurture.
Besides, his older brothers Saddam and Benito seemed to be doing well.
Cue the Sade music.
I was presented with a legal issue while in the San Diego area last weekend. During a scenic drive from La Jolla to Del Mar, made painfully long by all the Buick Invitational traffic, I saw a parked van covered with a large logo that said "Skateboarding is Not a Crime." (I was driving and was not able to take a picture. With permission from the FOX network, it might have looked like this.)
I agree with the sentiment. It's a civic annoyance, sure. But a crime? Probably not, and especially not in Del Mar, a town that's very much a part of skateboarding history.
The story is different elsewhere. Saffron, a Thai restaurant on India Street not far from the airport, makes a good sticky coconut rice and mango dessert. And it also prominently displays this sign:
That was way harsh, T(h)ai. I'm sure the police love getting that call. There are some crazy roads in that area, but India Street has at best a slight incline. Where's the harm? Besides, anyone can do it. And I mean anyone.
55 Fiction Friday wants to wipe all of this out and concentrate on one main decorative statement.He lay still for a moment, his eyes following the patterns on the wallpaper above him. His legs twitched involuntarily, and he crinkled his nose at nothing in particular. Then, as he touched his hot and itchy ears, he started crying, almost inconsolably.
He was five months old, but already knew that having eczema sucks.
Last weekend's theme was set, at least dramatically: 1590s London meets 1960s London, but in San Diego. Saturday's offering was in North County, at the Poway Center for the Performing Arts -- a magnificent, well-funded building seemingly in the middle of nowhere. I think the arts community in this city has a bit of an inferiority complex when compared to Hollywood, but I admire their enthusiasm. And money.
For one night only, Michael York was here to perform Will and I, a show about his days as a Shakespearean actor on stage and in film. While he doesn't bring up Basil Exposition from Austin Powers, it's evident from his anecdotes that he's a part of that era. And while he doesn't bring up Asher Fleming from Gilmore Girls, he's still very much in literature professor mode.
To some degree the evening went as expected. The actor's clear and calming voice would seamlessly volley between storytelling and performance. Name dropping would be par for the course. Moments of levity would invite much needed laughter, mostly from the older, starstruck patrons. And the whole event would seem very pretentious.
I wished the atmosphere had felt more transporting, and less like a lecture. The actor wore no costumes and brought nothing more decorative than a projected illustration of William Shakespeare. He brought some notes and usually stood at a podium. His voice was a little too clear and calming; sleep became very tempting. To this audience member, seated fourth row center in the balcony, his mere mentions of Laurence Olivier, Maggie Smith, Albert Finney, or Judi Dench were pleasant breaks, and reasons to sit upright. It's obvious he loves the subject matter -- he calls it bardolatry -- and as lectures go, it was good.
But I wonder if this show had to be a lecture at all. Couldn't he have brought a sword or something?
First things first: the Oscar nominations are here. This news used to feel a bit like Christmas morning, and I guess it still does, now that I don't celebrate the holidays the same way. No real comment, but I've noticed that boring nominations yield exciting winners, while exciting nominations yield boring winners. Use your own judgment to determine which is the case this year.
In San Diego last weekend I saw two shows that I considered companion pieces. The first was a production of Much Ado About Nothing set in the swinging 1960s. The second was Will and I, a one-man show about the Bard by Michael York, or Basil Exposition in the Austin Powers movies.
Friday night brought me to the La Jolla Playhouse, paying $15 for a last-minute rush ticket (sixth row center) that was far better than the $52 others paid for generally poorer seats. This production of the show (by the Aquila Theatre Company) called for a large square stage, bare with the exception of a British flag covering the wall and a 1968 Mini Cooper that was rolled around for various scenes.
While the dialogue was unchanged from the text (made familiar by Kenneth Branagh's 1993 film), the look of the play strayed. The men wore bowlers and sharp gray business suits, some with brightly colored shirts and ties. The women were in skintight black leather, like Emma Peel in The Avengers. Music resembled The Saint, and "Hey Nonny Nonny" became a vamped-up musical number in the style of Burt Bacharach.
The actual business of the men was unclear. As in the play, Don Pedro, Benedick, Claudio, Don John, and Borachio have arrived from war, but my best guess is that they were doing spy work, or special ops. Don John carries an umbrella with a sword inside. Borachio appears in a short but dressy raincoat. As the governor of Messina, Leonato wears a black glove with a button on it to help move his (apparently mechanical) hand. Suitcases are exchanged, bombs are defused, handguns are wielded. Friar Francis hangs among the lights and descends a rope to make his entrance. It's all very strange and amusing.
The comedy only works if the actors playing Benedick and Beatrice can dominate their own scenes, but can also have good chemistry together. Here they succeed on both counts. This Beatrice was very young, but still effective because her portrayer channeled older actresses, holding her mouth like Ellen Barkin and delivering her lines like Priscilla Barnes. (Yes, I notice these things.)
It's great fun. I notice that, through the end of April, the Aquila Theatre has touring productions of Hamlet and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, mostly along the East Coast. I have no idea if their adaptations are similarly inspired, but performance dates and locations are here. If you have the means...
For today's flight to San Diego, I'm using an airline companion pass. On the plus side, it's cheap, and does not require much planning ahead. The only disadvantage is that my passage is not confirmed because it's a standby ticket. When I made the purchase at the airline counter Wednesday, I was told that my desired flight had 62 seats already claimed, out of a possible 124.
This got me thinking. Is the plane half empty, or half full? An optimist would say it's half empty, since there are 62 seats still available. A pessimist would consider the flight half full, seeing as how 62 of the seats are already filled.
Magnificent. It's exactly the opposite of a glass of water.
55 Fiction Friday donates its frequent flyer miles to the poor.Her clay sculpture did not look anything like me. My hair
is not that greasy. The chin is enormous and just... wrong.
And the less said about that nose, the better. Still, what
can I do? The girl is blind.
So yeah, we're going out now, but our beginning feels
suspiciously like a music video.
Even the GPS recognizes its uniqueness. No "Nevada State Highway 375" here!
Did anything strange happen? As a matter of fact, yes.
We eventually reached the town of Rachel, Nevada, the only (public) stop on the Extraterrestrial Highway. Not much to it -- some houses, no gas station -- but it does boast the Little A'Le'Inn. Total tourist trap, but I mean that in the nicest way possible.
We had no reservations about entering this fine establishment.
Though some species aren't as comfortable with exiting through the same door. (Note the American flag. Proof positive that the United States is now the most awesome country in the universe. Take note, Stephen Colbert!)
We took a bathroom break and scanned the souvenirs with amusement. While we took our leisurely time, we had to get back on the road. But I couldn't help but feel like we were leaving something -- or someone -- behind.
Semi-related note: last weekend I revisited The X-Files, specifically a two-parter airing on TNT. They were the Morris Fletcher episodes, in which a time/space rift causes Mulder to switch bodies with Michael McKean's character, an Area 51 government tool. The episode is set in Rachel, Nevada and showcases the Little A'Le'Inn, or a larger version of it.
