Memorial Day Weekend Report

So I spent most of the long weekend in Los Angeles, as it was my uncle’s 80th birthday party. I lived with this aunt and uncle for several years while I attended the University of Southern California, and I consider them my surrogate parents. They have the same address where I lived lo these many years ago, but they’ve torn down the house and built a new, palatial estate in its place about five years back, and it still takes some getting used to. My uncle was once fond of saying they lived in the “white trash” section of Bel Air – they bought one of several tract houses in the area back in the Sixties. I think they paid something like 70 grand for it. I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure the property is worth considerably more than that now.

I flew down on JetBlue with my oldest daughter, Cleta, who, like me, enjoyed the personal TV screens and the flight into Burbank Airport instead of LAX, which was constructed using hell’s original blueprints.

The party was nothing but fun, except for Cleta, who fell asleep during the slideshow while sitting at a table. She’s not all that fond of reminiscing with people she doesn’t know. As for me, I was in heaven. I saw a picture of myself from the summer of ’77, wherein I was sporting a Star Wars t-shirt, a flyaway bowl cut, and a massive, pre-orthodontic overbite. Good times.

I also got into a series of political discussions, which I handed off to my sister, who argued with my cousin’s boyfriend about whether or not it’s appropriate for the US to sit down and negotiate with Hamas. I sided with Sis, but the opposition insisted that we Americans need to be more flexible and understanding. I didn’t say this, but I wonder if these open-minded folks would be willing to wear burqas to make our enemies feel better.

I quickly decided I hated politics, but not before concluding that our country is doomed.

We then took a series of family pictures, which may be more excruciating than most political discussions. I’m pretty sure that hell is exactly like LAX, except that everyone is being forced to pose for a family picture every fifteen minutes.

I didn’t have time to visit my myriad of friends and family in LA who didn’t attend the party, although I did pass by Universal City and thought of posing in front of the Black Tower and sending the shots to one Andrew Fullen of Chicago, Illinois. Languatron, you’ll be pleased to know that my uncle is, in fact, a former studio executive – at Fox, though, not Universal – and a personal friend of Glen A. Larson, although apparently not close enough to have Mr. Larson show up to his shindig. However, since Mr. Fullen presumes that I am Mr. Larson, my uncle accepted me as a suitable surrogate.

I came home and Mrs. Cornell informed me that Stalliondo was now potty trained, which worked out well until last night, when he crapped into his diaperless pajamas.

Not so good times.

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