Sorry my blog entries have been sparse for the past few days. I am on vacation.

Rob and I are staying in Homestead Suites, an anonymous but functional hotel in Irvine, California. We chose this establishment because each room has a kitchen (hence the "suite") and a work counter. Each room does not, apparently, have shampoo, but luckily I stole some from the well-equipped Disney hotel we patronized two nights ago. Kleptomania has its rewards, most notably lots of stuff you would otherwise have to spend money on.

As I type this, Rob is sitting across the room in his underwear, writing music for his next play. I have been taking the past couple of hours to catch up on news of the world. Spending two days at Disneyland does much to insulate one from the headlines and Macintosh rumors. (Big rumor: new desktop systems within a couple of weeks!)

Last night, Rob's play (a different production of Vanishing Point) opened here in the Los Angeles area. It was amazing. The best performance yet, and I have seen it five times. We earlier saw a terrible dress rehearsal that made my heart sink and my hair stand on end, but there was obviously nothing to worry about. We are going to see it two or three more times before we leave California on Tuesday. The director, the designer, and the actresses have all been extremely friendly and welcoming to me.

OK, I know this is reading like a chatty postcard, but I suppose it says something about me that I cannot make my good news seem interesting. In fact, these have been some of the best days I have ever had.

Just so you do not think I have been body snatched, I will relate the bizarre experience of my first night here. We stayed at the Motel 6 (chosen for its location more than anything else). The man who checked us in had the eyes of a lethargic serial killer. Rob and I named him "Uncle Creepy." There was another woman behind the counter who had a sad prune face, and I secretly named her "Sad Prune Face," but I did not share this appellation with Rob because we were too busy noticing the trucks labeled "Batesville Casket Company" that surrounded the building. The trucks bore the logo of evergreen trees surrounding a pond with a mountain in the distance. I found this inappropriate, but then again, I cannot imagine any viable alternatives. The room, which was the size of a Batesville Casket and smelled as if it had not been occupied by anything but mildew in twenty-five years, was ostensibly non-smoking, although it did contain an ashtray. An ashtray with a no-smoking sign affixed to it; there were also cigarette burns on the blankets. This establishment, as well, did not provide shampoo, and as I had not yet had the opportunity to pilfer essential supplies from The Mouse, I made do with the reluctantly bestowed bar soap, which made my hair brittle for the rest of the day.

For the record, the Disney hotel also provided bathrobes, hand cream, a fold-up crib, an ironing board, an iron, a mini bar, a tasteful Bambi shower curtain, a shoe mitt, and dozens of other amenities that I did NOT steal. I must confess, however, my grabby hand was only restrained in the case of the shoe mitt because I could not imagine a use for it.