Me, I was kindnapped by a gaggle of randy Slavic dwarves and tickled the pope. You?

I accidentally crashed the moon in to the Earth Friday night, I was the only survivor, so I had to build a time machine (which is fucking HARD when you're floating in space) and that took up most of Saturday, then Sunday I spend going back in time to Friday to stop myself.

Well, Friday night I packed my mid-sized Vuitton to go to Binky Marlowe's place in the Hamptons. Tweeds mostly and some beach things. Saturday I toured some antique shops, including a really amusing one called "Junque," and found the most exquisite bit of Lalique, just the thing for left end of the sideboard in the Mid-Century dining room. Saturday night Mrs. Binky's cook made the most extraaaavagant Venison Bourguignon; luckily I had remembered to tuck in that 1982 Chateauneuf du Pape when I packed -- it was just the thing. We all went for a drive Sunday and spent hours drinking Sloe Gin Fizzes at that funny little place just past Baker's Pier -- you know the one, I think it's called The Goat and Compasses or something like that. Bunny Duffman was there, and a couple of van Dorens. Great fun, although I must say the traffic coming back was simply TERRible, and I somehow managed to loosen the heel of one of my Ferragamos.

I ate the most delicious home-cooked meals with a boy that I really like, and then he washed my dishes. We lay together in bed and read some really interesting books. Then we walked in the park and saw adorable puppies. And there was fabulous sex.

Oh, you said made-up weekend. I got nothing.

My real weekend was too awesome for me to need to make one up.

then he washed my dishes.

I sense a new euphemism being born.

I separated all the matter in the universe down to its essential immaterial components and gave it all a good polishing, metaphysically speaking. So if things seem shinier today, that was me.

Two chicks at the same time.

My made-up weekend certainly didn't involve spending an afternoon with my father OR the amount of rain and drizzle that my REAL weekend was full of.

Let's see...

On Friday night, I bought my own jet with the squajillion dollars that I was awarded as a government grant for awesome-ness. Saturday, I flew to Tahiti where I made paintings far superior to those of Gauguin and sunbathed. Sunday, I sold my paintings to the Louvre and got drunk and woke up in a sarcophagus in the Ancient Egyptian wing. It was mighty cozy.

I was out trimming the bushes, wearing, naturally, a long skirt and leather vest over my chain mail bikini, when a small vortex drifted into my yard and I fell through it. I was fighting off a three headed velociraptor with my electric bush trimmer, alternating with karate kicks and the occasional stab with my sword when a handsome man on a flying black horse rode up and helped me dispatch it neatly. Then we flew to his floating castle, where we had a lovely dinner but I learned through subtle hints that he was actually planning to sacrifice me to the serpent god! Major bummer, but as I was fighting my way out of the castle I freed these prisoners, among whom was a noted poet and revolutionary who cleaned up nicely and took me to a bohemian cellar pub. We had mad revolutionary bohemian sex all night and then we rode off to fight evil together; also, to find the crystal ball of unending happiness which is reputed to be under the red dragons left claw. Fuck the bushes.

MGL, did Teldra greet you at the door to the flying castle?

Early Friday afternoon I cured AIDS.

Friday afternoon through Sunday night: World-wide orgy. Didn't you get the notice?

sheesh, mike, you know Morrolan would never sacrifice me to a dragon god. This was another floating castle altogether.

I shot a man from a rooftop Friday, at twilight, as he hurried across Cooper Square with a box in his hands. It looked like a cake, or some other food, as the box was tied with string and not wrapped like a present. Perhaps he was on the way home from the black market on Bleeker, where he spent most of his wage packet to bring a beautiful cake made with real sugar home for his wedding anniversary, or maybe he traded two packets of foreign cigarettes to the Generalissimo's maid for several cream-filled pastries. They must have been good, for even as the bullet I fired tore through his spine and down into his chest, even as he was flung forward by the impact, he cradled the box, never letting it tip, and placed it carefully on the reddening mosaic of flat granite surrounding the statue, before he shuddered and gave up the ghost. What devotion! I wonder who he loved so much.

On Saturday morning I stepped out of the cold shower, dressed, and walked to the cafe to meet Smart. We talked about how hard it is to staff a summer house in these times, and the trouble bandits are causing him on the other side of the river, before he gave me my instructions and a new code reference. After a trip to the bookstore to verify my orders, I arranged a car and started the long drive to Washington, a seemingly endless progression of tolls and police checkpoints, searches and wave-on-throughs. I didn't arrive until quite late, and the duty sergeant quizzed a few passwords out of me, then showed me to a bunk in a room full of sleeping soldiers.

On Sunday, like all good patriots, I rested. Now it's Monday and I just ordered three soldiers hanged for selling supplies to the local racket. They were tough, seasoned men, and they went without a struggle, though Jackson kicked vigorously from the gibbet.

I dunno, MGL, you are an Easterner. But, um, yeah, I saw 'flying castle' and made my post before reading the rest. Heh. Premature commenting. I'm reading Athyra for the fourth time right now. Yay.

It is with a curious trepidation that I pen this missive. It was the 13th May 20--, and I had received a delightful letter from Mama requesting my company with the family in Nottingham. I had not been back to the homestead for many months, but we wrote frequently enough for me to not require the intellectual company my family afforded.

I nearly wrote a quick letter back offering my apologies, but within the interim period between musing my excuse and actually penning it, a vicious knocking on the door reminded me that I had an unpaid gambling debt, and it was in my best interest to take a few days out of the city.

I therefore packed a few neccesaries into an old leather hold-all I owned, and a good while after the knocking had ceased, I surreptisiously made my way to the railway station.

efc, efc.
I can't keep this up.

It is with much regret that I inform you that the Trisha Lynn you knew passed away Friday night. She was taken to the hospital complaining of lower back pain, but it was really the alien transponder malfunctioning. The aliens beamed her up to their ship where they repaired the device, erased her memory of the procedure and proceeded to make 15 clones of her to distribute throughout the galaxy.

The "real" Trisha Lynn is currently living on Gr'UtNiar under the care the High Galactic Overlord because it was discovered that her voice is pitched at the exact tones that triggers the post-hypnotic suggestions she implants in all of her children from birth. Currently, she's singing a Broadway showtune while her 122nd oldest son cavorts around the throne room wearing nothing but his blartwort and a toothy grin.

It was difficult, at first, to get the formula right. Initially, I added too much science fiction and too much fantasy. To counteract that I added some conservative economics, and utilitarian choice theory. Much to my chagrin, of course, I discovered that they really were one and the same. So, back to the drawing board I went until finally I had the perfect PH and Space-Time balance to make up my weekend. Now that I have figured it out, I can have "made-up weekend" any time of the week. Thank you metachat, and thank you, SCIENCE.

You know what's weird?

Seeing John C. Reilly, Paul Giamatta, Meryl Streep, Kathy Bates, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Bruno Kirby and Julia Stiles all saying words you wrote years ago and smiling about it. That was Sunday, on location in North Carolina, filming my set of short stories, Incidence.

You know what's weirder than that? Having Robin Williams and Eddie Izzard both critique your stand-up act on the same night and then buy you beers after. This was Saturday night in NYC, on a bet.

Friday? I don't remember Friday. Something about planes, tranes and automobiles and my cellphone was silent only for takeoff, so I finally just left it with my agent when I landed and said "screen", then headed off to bed after doing a quick interview for Cahiers du Cinema while in my fucking pajamas.

That's my blartwort, dammit!

My weekend r0x0rz!
Friday, I went to help set up for the (mostly) annual Wig N Skirt party. Came home to my GF and a big plate of brownies and chocolate chip cookies she baked for me!
Saturday, got up cranked "Full Grown" in my woman's honor and then I went to help a friend move and do some shopping with my best friend and his fiance for the aforementioned party.
Saturday night - bewigged and beskirted we rolled in to the joint. My tranny friend Chrissy was there as well as a lot of folks I hadn't seen in awhile. We hadda bottle of strong drink and proceeded to get messed.
There are pics on Flickr (Tags: wigskirt Seattle)
Mine aren't up yet.
Got home around 2.
Went out for Chinese food and then a nice drive along the lake, then spent the rest of the day in bed...

*sigh*

Oh wait...it was a made up weekend?

ah hell.

I went to Paris. Actually that wasn't made up.

It's all getting a bit blurry around the edges now, but I was in Blackpool, and I ate rock candy and walked on the pier and it was raining and terrifically poignant to see children all bundled up with rainhats riding the merry-go-round, and we saw the Crypt of Horror! and endless seaside amusements, and I was with wonderful friends, and we ate at decent restaurants and I was able to drink awesome Strongbow cider which is so hard to get at home, and I talked with Thom Yorke, and I saw his band play Friday night, which was one of the great musical experiences of my life, and then again on Saturday night and then last night and I'm going again tonight, here in Wolverhampton where Radiohead is playing in a venue about the same size as your average high-school auditorium.

Oh, and all the above it true. Yes, I'm insane. But having so much fun.