Have had very intermittent internets for the last four days. If you feel I've missed something important, speak up. (or call or write, because technology is pissing me right the hell off atm)

I has a sad

While I'm thrilled for all my online peeps who are in the middle of the two-night Frankenstein presentation, I has a deep sad that I'm missing it. It's playing at a relatively nearby venue, but due to the fact that I can't drive at night, the only way it could have worked out is if my one friend in town consented to go as well.

He proved remarkably ... intransigent on the subject. Alas.

All I can do is enjoy the vicarious squee (which I am, quite a lot) and hope and pray the National Theatre makes it available in some other way.



49 is the atomic number of indium.

49 is the square of seven and is therefore the fourth squared prime number.

49 is the number of days and night Siddhartha Gautama spent meditating as a holy man.

A 49 is a term used to describe a party after a powwow or any gathering of American Indians, held by the participants. It also refers to a particular type of song that is sung on such occasions. A 49 is typically held in an isolated place and features drumming and singing.

Crosby, Stills and Nash, 49 Bye-Byes

Muted post horn symbol from Thomas Pynchon's The Crying of Lot 49.


In which there is travel and happy fun tiems

And also angst, but we'll get to the happy fun tiems first.

So. After having been here for nearly a year taking care of Mom and Dad, I was in serious need of a break. I decided this past weekend would be the ideal time, because no doctor visits were scheduled, it was near enough to my b-day (which is tomorrow) that I could convince most of my friends to show up. I called up Boy and Girl, booked their guest room for four days, and hied myself off to Orlando via the train.

I'd never taken a train before. It beat driving, but not by much.

Upon arriving, spent a lovely evening hanging out with Girl and various critters, (Boy had to work night shift) then had an equally lovely restful night's sleep. Saturday, after Boy had recovered enough of his sleep, he and I went to Spooky Empire's May-hem event, where we saw many cool things and people, including James Marsters and Linda Hamilton, and also this guy, whom I have loved since I was a child --

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(also, technically, I didn't *see* Marsters. But I saw where he'd been sitting a few moments previously.)

We then went out to dinner with a couple of Boy and Girl's friends who were there (Girl met us at the restaurant, since monsters and whatnot are not really her thing) and had many fine foods and lots of rum.

Sunday I did nothing. Okay, well, I did introduce Boy and Girl to Sherlock, which they seemed to enjoy greatly.

Yesterday was Party Time! More great food, LOTS more rum, and buttloads of great conversations and giggling like loons. I rode back here with my dear friend Sean, and that's when things went all to hell.


I had asked Mom and Dad weeks in advance if they'd be all right for 3.5 days on their own and received a positive response. They'd been on their own for a few weekends previously, back when I was packing up my apartment in Orlando and moving part of it here, with no problems. I made sure they had plenty of food, all their medications were in order and fully supplied, etc.

What I could not do, evidently, and will probably never be able to do is convince them to have a lick of sense when it comes to their general well-being. My dad went out Saturday morning to get the paper, and fell. Actually, he fainted first, then fell. And when he woke up, he couldn't get up by himself.

My mother eventually noticed he was taking an awfully long time, and went to the door to look for him. She couldn't see him, so she called out, "What are you doing?" My dad, who really, really needs to learn the time and place to practice his smart-assing, said, "Trying to survive," instead of something more appropriate, like, say, I don't know, "I've fallen" or even "Call 911."

So my mom went back in the house.


After another half hour or so had passed, I guess it sunk in that her husband with the HISTORY OF BEING LIGHT-HEADED AND FALLING DOWN was taking a *really* awfully long time, and went back out, by which point he'd managed to work himself into a sitting position and she could see him. 911 was called, Dad was taken care of (no injuries other than a scrape on one elbow) and cleared by a doctor on the phone, at which point he got himself back in the house and the EMTs took off.

I heard about all this on Sunday morning. I stressed to my mother that if she felt the need to go out herself to collect the paper on Monday (which of course she did) that she should wait until Dad was awake and knew she was going outside, since she also has a history of falling on her ass.

Did she do this? Of course not! Because she didn't want anyone to steal the paper, which obviously the little neighborhood thugs (of which there are NONE) would do if she didn't snatch it right up the second it hit the walk. She justified this by pointing out that she did not, in fact, fall on her ass, to which I responded, "But if you had, you would have laid out there on the concrete for god knows how long until either a neighbor saw you or Dad got up and noticed you weren't there. DON'T DO IT AGAIN."

I guess I'm never leaving them alone again, so it was good I got this weekend in when I did.
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Okay, I'm like 10 minutes into Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and I've already figured out who the mole is, thanks to an incredibly ham-handed series of camera shots. Way to go, director!

Fortunately, the movie is so stuffed with man candy, I am willing to overlook it.

On a somewhat very related note, Benedict Cumberbatch has a stellar ass.