That’s the first and only Robin Williams impersonation I’ll make you guys sit through. Pinky promise.
It’s early morning, and I’m sitting in chilly, empty Downtown Disney listening to Christmas music and drinking a magma latte. Other than the fact that I just burned off half my taste buds, I’m giddy. GIDDY! This, my friends, is called living the dream. I’ve got my Walt Disney biography, my Little Red Journal, this blog post and the aforementioned coffee straight out of Lucifer’s asshole to keep me occupied until it’s time to go visit Grammy this afternoon. One could ask for worse things in life.
Three fat ass sparrows are up in my grill. I think they want to braid my hair. Go for it, guys, but I’m not singing. It’s way too early for that shit.
I don’t remember my first visit to Disneyland. Probably because I was 9 months old at the time. I kind of like that I don’t have that first memory of this place. I’ve spent so much time here, been here more times than I’ve been to visit most family members. So it fits that, in my memory, it’s always been a part of my life. I’m getting to that age where nearly all my friends either have kids or are gearing up to pop out some miniature landbeasts of their own, and they’re constantly asking me for advice on bringing their kids here for the first time. It’s got to be perfect, the kid has to be just the right age for optimum enjoyment, 100% fairytale status, a milestone moment in a kid’s life. WHY?! So much pressure! Just bring the damn kids, they’ll have a blast no matter what age they are! All this “it’s got to be magnificent” shit is for the parents, not the kids. Whether your twerp is two or twenty, there’s magic here for them. Jesus, I’ve been here over 100 times, I’m 24 for crying out loud, and I get down here every chance I get. I’m here by myself today. As soon as the park opens, you bet your ass I’m relocating to the Partners Statue to do some mind-dumping and soul-pouring into my Little Red Journal, then taking a few laps on the E.P. Ripley and maybe dozing off for a little while. Not only that, but I’m coming back tomorrow to help cure Jenna of her cadaveritis after she guts her first corpse in lab. Who needs Lysol and therapy when we have annual passports to the Happiest Place on Earth? “California dorks, we’re unforgettable, Disneyland like four times a week.”
Anyway, point is, there’s no wrong way to do Disneyland with kids. It’s MAGICAL. That’s the whole point. So what if I don’t remember the first time I saw Mickey Mouse or flew over Neverland? That causes zero detriment to my current enjoyment of my favorite place in the world. In fact, I’m glad I don’t have some obscure memory of this place as a frame of reference that I measure each subsequent trip against. Nope. Just a feeling of being home. I don’t care if I’m sweating my dick off (like our Megatrip a couple Junes ago) or freezing my nards off (like I am currently). No matter what, I’m always unconditionally happy to be here, and I feel bad for anyone who doesn’t have a place that holds similar comfort for themselves.
Goddamn, I love peoplewatching here. It should be a sport. God bless the Japanese people here. They’re so fuckin’ adorable. They’re crazy miniature creatures that run around in horrendous outfits with bad haircuts and more peace signs that you can shake a churro at. What’s that, you say? I’m being racist? Fuck you, no I’m not. My kids are going to be part Japanese, so how can I be racist? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s called science.
Whoa, one of the aforementioned corpulent sparrows just jumped into my bag. Get outta here! One of your friends pooped on my mouth this week, you’re all on the shit list, no pun intended! Now, NOW, friends, I’m being a racist. Or a speciesist. Whatever. Tomato, tomato.
That phrase doesn’t work in print.
So I finished the rewrite and polish of the pilot! And there was much rejoicing! Such a relief. Now I can focus on Skullcrusher Mountain and our new spec episode without feeling like I’m juggling too many projects at once. Because we all know I’m suuuuch a bad multitasker. (Spoiler alert: no I’m not.) Point is, I now have no excuse not to start busting my ass on producing some new material to shop around and get feedback on. And that’s never a bad thing. I’m not one of those writers who calls herself a writer but never actually does writing, either out of laziness or fear of failure or criticism. Nope. I write all the time. Too much of the time. I’m filling up my Little Red Journal faster than ever these days, and I have no problem getting feedback on my actual “professional” writing. If people don’t like it, I should know why and what I can work on. And if they do like it, awesome! I guess it helps that I’m (normally) impossible to shake, rattle or roll by criticism or insult.
I’m in love with Regina Spektor. That voice, those lyrics, those melodies! Aieeee! She’s so amazing. There’s one song, On The Radio, that has lyrics that just wreck me. There’s one stanza that goes “This how it works: you peer inside yourself. You take the things you like, then try to love the things you took, and then you take that love you made and stick into someone else’s heart, pumping someone else’s blood. And you walk arm in arm, you hope you don’t get harmed, but even if it does, you just do it all again.” Nailed it, Regina. NAILED IT. Oof. Aaaaaand that’s my cue to transfer over to the Little Red Journal, kids.
Nanoo nanoo. Yeah, I lied. Sue me.
Tune du Jour: Marche Au Supplise (4th Movement) – Symphonie Fantastique by Hector Berlioz Seriously, guys, if you can stomach my utter pretention and love of the Romantic era, the story of this symphony is so bitchin’. In this movement, a despairing lover tries to poison himself with opium. While the dose is too weak to kill him, it plunges him into a crazy delirium where he imagines he’s murdered the object of his affection and is being marched to the executioner’s axe. The plucked “bum, bum” at the end is his head rolling off, followed by the cheering crowds celebrating his demise. EPIC. Guys, I’m bringing Romanticism back. Them other genres don’t know how to act.