"There's a real danger in doing a sequel. There are some benefits, but that all hinges on how well you execute. Quite frankly, most sequels don't execute well."*

   I’ve been pretty bored this summer, because my friends all have jobs (and now I do, too! But more about that later), and a bunch of them also have children (so they want to hang out up to 7:30 p.m.) and a few of them have vacation money (so they’re gone) and so it leaves me with a lot of time to myself. I shouldn’t say that. I’m not really by myself, because my family is usually home. But after they go to bed around 8:15 p.m., I’m by myself. And there’s only so much Frasier you can watch on Netflix (263 episodes—seen all of them 5 or 6 times, so NO there is never so much Frasier, it would appear) or stats homework you can do in advance. (More on stats later, too. Actually, here’s all you need to know about stats: it’s terrible and I suck at it.)

   So, I’ve thought a lot of thoughts. And most of them aren’t too useful. But some of my more frequent thoughts have to do with ideas for sequels to movies. I’d like to share some with you now.

1.  Father of the Bride III: Who’s Baby is This? Okay, so remember how at the end of Father of the Bride II, Steve Martin and Diane Keaton have a baby (miraculously, it would seem, since they were both in their 50’s at the time) on the same night that their daughter has a baby? And then the daughter moves to another city? What if they accidentally switched babies? Okay, so I know that one was a boy, and one was a girl, but it would easily take a few hours to figure that out and lots of good movies happen in 3-hour time frames. It could combine the hijinks of Planes, Trains, and Automobiles with the hilarity of Look Who’s Talking. Granted, Look Who’s Talking blew (if I recall correctly, and I think I do), but this could be that extra element that makes it pop. And I don’t think I’d let the babies talk, because that’s creepy. I essentially want the feeling of Father of the Bride sandwiched into the plotline of Planes, Trains and Automobiles or basically any other road movie. Right?

Steve Martin in a new, hilarious comedy?

2.  Seventeen Candles. Okay, so now it’s a few minutes after Sam blows out the candles on her birthday cake and she and Jake Ryan have kissed. Then what? I’d really like to see them go to high school the next day and navigate the shit storm that is guaranteed to ensue when people find out Jake Ryan and Samantha Baker are dating. What? Okay and then, about 3 months later, he’ll go off to trade school and they’ll break up and she’ll be just another loser teen again. Unless she somehow manages to maintain some clout for having once dated a senior that no longer attends John Hughes High. (Hmmmm…this is mostly a curiosity of mine because I’m so super obsessed with 80’s movies and John Hughes’ movies in particular.)

3.  Harry Potter: The Sorcerer’s Stoned. What if, like 20 years later, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger’s kids all turned up at Hogwarts and were total douche-bag stoners? I love that idea. You know how good behavior always skips a generation? So instead of trying to ward of the great evils of the world, they were just learning spells to keep them out of getting suspended for smoking weed and having sex? It’s a thought. Not a brilliant one, but a thought.

The child of Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger. Hogwarts Class of 2030.

4.  Greasier. And wouldn’t it be interesting if, in Grease, Rizzo really was pregnant with Kenickie’s baby? And then, after Sandy and Danny FLEW AWAY in what one can only guess was Kenickie’s car (untied plot line, for sure; if I were Kenickie, I’d be pissed.), they had to move in together and raise a family just like Ricky and Lucy Ricardo? Rizzo learning how to cook. Kenickie learning how to do anything. At all. Both of them singing about it until they got to their late 20’s, grew ugly and fat and just didn’t give a shit anymore. Okay, now I feel sad…

   I have other ideas. I always thought West Side Story should end with Maria committing suicide. It was based on Romeo and Juliet, so let’s keep it Shakespeare. And I was always confused about the ending of Annie. Did Daddy Warbucks adopt all the orphans, or just invite them over for that big party? Their lives after the fact were sure to be a big let-down. As was Miss Hannigan’s, despite her elephant ride and flirtation with Punjab. So maybe there could be a continuing story of Miss Hannigan?

   Most of the reason I wrote all of the above had to do with my general malaise and/or boredom over the last few weeks. Please don’t judge too harshly…I know it’s all crap. I have a job now, so maybe I can start writing about that soon. I can tell you about how I faced my ultimate nemesis (not a Shider, it would appear, SHOCKINGLY) and came out the other side. Or about what it means to live with your parents when you’re 30. There’s a whole lot of things I could share, but I have trouble finding writing spaces here in Omaha. A lame excuse, I know. BUT…

1. I have run a 14 minute mile on 2 occasions.

2. I have run for 34 minutes in a row.

AND

3. I have killed several terrifying insects, including several silverfish and the newly famous (to me) Nebraska Red Spider, which is HORRIFYING. (I made my dad clean them up post-smashing. Baby steps.)

Not sure if this heinous picture does this spider justice. It's terrible. And terrifying.

   I will write about the job in the next few days, if I can manage to find a tidy corner.

   Sweet dreams.

*Donnie Wahlberg. Of New Kids on the Block fame. Clearly, the man knows of which he speaks.

"What the hell are you driving here?" "We had a small fire last night, but we caught it in the nick of time." "Do you have any idea how fast you were going?" "Funny enough, I was just talking to my friend about that. Our speedometer has melted and as a result it's very hard to see with any degree of accuracy exactly how fast we were going."*

   I regret the decision to write about Planes, Trains and Automobiles in my last post. For those who haven’t seen it because they care nothing about culture or the world in which they live, it is a movie about a man (Neal/Steve Martin) who is attempting to get home to Chicago from a work trip in New York in time to celebrate Thanksgiving with his family. In New York he stumbles upon Del (John Candy) a shower ring salesman who inadvertently poops all over every attempt Neal makes to get home. The two wind up traveling together on planes, trains (though I honestly don’t remember a train part—but I’m sure it’s in there) and also in automobiles. And it’s rough. It takes days. And Del is a slobbish buffoon who makes life hell for Neal, who doesn’t really have the holiday spirit (Thanksgiving holiday spirit, not Christmas) in his heart to begin with. But then it stops being funny and gets sad and I can’t stand it. Intrigued? Because you probably should be.

Neal and Del have an accident. (Photo)

   I regret my decision to bring this movie up because I’m pretty sure I planes, trains and automobiles-ed myself by even mentioning it. It’s like saying Candy Man three times or mentioning the name Macbeth in a theatre. It’s bad luck and/or certain death. I’m Irish, was raised Catholic, and spent the first 28 years of my life in theatres so it’s okay for me to be superstitious to a decidedly ridiculous degree. I have no choice in the matter and can't do anything about it, anyway. Just ask my Tarot deck and my Ouija Board.

   The shit started with a phone call around 12:30 on the Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving. It was Primetime Shuttle calling to inform me that my shuttle would be arriving at 1:05 pm instead of 1:20. That was surprising in and of itself because I’d scheduled the ride for 1:50. So despite being butt-naked and just out of the shower (you're welcome for that imagery) I had to bust ass to get ready on time and having done that, I sat on the couch and turned on My Best Friend’s Wedding to pass the 5 minutes until the shuttle arrived. At 1:25, I called Primetime Shuttle and said, “Hey, not to be a pest, but where the fuck are you? I’m already to the part where Cameron Diaz sings karaoke.” And they said don’t worry, the driver will be there at 1:35. Then the driver called at 1:45 and said he was 5 minutes away. So I went outside and waited and he showed up at 2:10. (He also took a truly asinine way to the airport and had trouble realizing he was driving a conversion van and not a Camaro and nearly killed us about 8 times. Whatever.)

Traveling image: Best part of Thanksgiving. I walked with my family at Neale Woods. Omaha skyline in the background. Traveling on foot seems to be the best mode of transit for me, across-the-board.

   So then I got on a plane to Las Vegas and sat there for four hours due to circumstances beyond everyone’s control. I really don’t know why the flight was delayed so long. They never told me. But the Las Vegas airport is an especially depressing place and flights never leave on time from there, so I don’t know why I keep going back. Oh yeah, and I had to spend my eating money on tampons because…well, for obvious reasons, and the tampons cost way more than normal tampons and they were embarrassing to buy in a way they never are when I buy them at Target.

   When I arrived in Omaha, it was 1:40 in the morning. Normally Omaha's Epply Airfield stops receiving flights around 11:30. It's two terminals and 2 random dudes running baggage to the carousels. Seriously. So I called my Mom figuring she’d be glad that I’d gotten in 20 minutes earlier than expected, but she didn’t answer the phone. Because she was asleep. Which is totally fair because it was 2 in the goddamn morning. But she kept not answering her cell, so I finally called the home phone and no one answered that either. When she called me back at 2:06 a.m. I was relieved because most of the people were gone…and so were all of the (3) cabs. It wasn’t that big of a deal—she’d set her alarm for another day. And my mom doesn’t regularly keep finding projects to work on til 2 in the morning like I do. I blame it on Las Vegas, but more than that I blame it on the fact that I wrote about Planes, Trains and Automobiles right before I flew home for Thanksgiving. 

An Omaha gas station. Also loosely related to travel.

   Then on Saturday I ate lunch at Runza. If you’re not from Nebraska, there’s a good chance you don’t know what Runza is. Don’t worry about it. It’s kind of embarrassing, but all you need to know is it’s a fast-food place and my best friend Michelle wanted her boyfriend, Danny, to try it since he’s not from Nebraska, god love him. So I met them and ate Runza and then left and promptly backed into a car. Now, I didn’t back into the car going very fast. In fact I was going about .25 miles per hour. But I backed into a parked, empty car and then parked and got out to survey the damage. I circled the damn car and inspected it’s rear-end and saw no damage. While I was doing this, a family inside was watching me and laughing. I thought that was mean. But I saw no damage to the car so I left.

   Well, the highly-amused family of four must’ve been madder than they looked, because I guess they took down my license plate number and four hours later the cops showed up at my parents house looking for my mom.  I asked what they were there for and they said it was for a hit-and-run. And I said, “Oh, that wasn’t my mom. I guess you’re here for me.” And then they said they weren’t going to take me to jail (perhaps only because my mom said, "You officers aren't going to take my little girl to jail, are you?"**), but that they probably should and they gave me a citation and now I have a lawyer and I’m a big-time criminal. IT IS ILLEGAL TO HIT A PARKED CAR AND NOT CALL THE POLICE, REGARDLESS OF DAMAGE. Lesson learned. I’m an idiot. Again. Still?

   Did I mention we were on our way out the door for my dad’s birthday dinner? Happy Birthday, Dad! Guess what? I’m still a fuck-up at 30. Thanks for working hard every day so I can go out and raise your insurance rates during one of the 20 days you see me each year. Let's go eat fancy dinner!**

   My lawyer (that feels kind of grown-up to write…in a sad sort of way) says that it’s good that it was 1 in the afternoon at a Runza and not 1 in the morning at a Taco Bell, because the cops had/have no reason to think I was boozing it up and then running away. He says lots of people in Nebraska get drunk and hit cars and then go home and by the time the cops catch up with them they can say they got drunk at home. I was not drunk or drinking, but the whole event made me want to start drinking. And it cast a dark shadow on my favorite week of the year and I still feel really bad all-around. And I didn’t have the heart to write about it until now. I’m remorseful and, as is so often the case with me, full of self-pity.

   And I can’t help but think about scenes in movies like the one in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles where Del falls asleep in the rental car and somehow simultaneously starts a fire and ends up driving into oncoming traffic and they barely escape with their lives. Where’s the gruesome, icky and yet somehow also monotonous aftermath scene in the police station and the follow up scene in the lawyer's office? These events seem funny in the movies, but they really suck a whole lot in real life. And you know what else, they’re embarrassing moments that stick in your brain and run like reel-to-reels for days and days on end.

   Today I flew home to Los Angeles. It was uneventful, thank Shiva. I did however see the following text exchange on the phone of the woman seated next to me:

Incoming: I need drugs. And help.

My seatmate’s reply: Drugs I got. I don’t know about any help.

   Anyway.

   Needless to say, I think I’m pretty much traveled out for this year. Since January I’ve been to Denver, Phoenix, Omaha, Minneapolis, San Francisco, Omaha again, Chicago and now Omaha. It’s a miracle I didn’t relive that entire movie. My luck has officially run out. I’m a grounded eagle. I may never fly again.

   P.S. Sorry for being such a Debbie Downer.

*An interchange between a State Trooper and Del in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles (John Hughes, 1987). 
**Despite my failings as their daughter, my parents are truly amazing, supportive, incredible people who keep loving me and being nice to me anyway. Which I don't think they are legally obliged to do at this point, seeing as I'm well over the age of 18. So my Negative Nancy attitude aside, I think I have to acknowledge that I'm VERY LUCKY INDEED. 

***As a tie on to this more-sane (saner?) train of thought, I'd like to tack on this link to Gabe's recent blog post, which put things Thanksgiving- and other-related into a bit of perspective.