Random memory.

I had an aunt who used to write the messages on her vacation post cards upside down. She thought it would stop the mail carrier from reading them.

They grow up so fast.

Primus's birthday was on Valentine's Day, but because of our winter-break travel, we're having his party tomorrow. Fifteen elementary school boys playing laser tag. For this year's party favors, he's moved on from wanting a bag of assorted Party City crap, preferring to hand out a book. I'm going today to hit up the Barnes & Noble in White Plains, and I give him the option of coming with me.

"I'd better," he says darkly, "to stop you getting anything embarrassing."

(What, fifth graders wouldn't like a board book of Goodnight Moon? Not even ironically?)

. . . and Effie.

Although Oliver is supposed to be the hero of the series, I'm beginning to suspect that I have more fun writing Effie Strongitharm, his police-officer girlfriend; and as a male writer, I'm particularly pleased when female readers find her complex and credible. Effie's most salient physical characteristic -- apart from a degree of attractiveness that leads critics to wonder what on earth she sees in Oliver -- is her remarkably curly hair. Here's a picture of actress Kate Beckinsale, where she seems to have temporarily adopted the look that Effie, like Frieda in Peanuts, achieves naturally.

But there's no secret about the origin of Effie's curls. They belonged (also naturally) to Julia, my girlfriend of the late teenage years -- hair so remarkable that sooner or later it had to be preserved in fiction. (Although Julia's resemblance to Crystal Tipps, the heroine of an animated TV series for kids, was well noted at the time.)

When I contacted Julia many years later to sheepishly report that I had borrowed her appearance and some other characteristics for Effie, she graciously agreed to be flattered by the portrayal and not sue me for copyright infringement or defamation of character. And she also sent me this picture of us both from 1975 that not only gives a fuzzy indication of those amazing tresses, but also shows that, at that time, I could give her a run for her money. They say that if you can remember the sixties, you weren't there. The problem with the seventies is that you do remember them, even if you don't want to. Especially the hairstyles.

The faces of Oliver. . .

People sometimes ask me who I think would play my characters in the movie ("Hello? Hollywood, are you listening? Movie rights for sale. Help me, Obi-Wan -- you're my only retirement strategy.") I don't know who could do Oliver right now, but for a guideline, I often cite the appearance of James Spader in 1994's Stargate.

But oddly enough, Oliver's appearance is partly based on a real actor, called Robert Longden. (Oliver's actually an amalgam of a fellow psychology student at Oxford, Longden, and a Chase Manhattan banker who used to work for my ex-wife, who all shared a vague resemblance. Not my ex-wife.) It was Longden's appearance in a 1980 Agatha Christie television play that registered with me, but no amount of Googling or Binging has brought a picture of that performance to light. And then yesterday, I was watching a documentary on advertising from Britain's Channel Four, which included a segment on Peter Seller's last work -- a 1980 television commercial for Barclays Bank that was shelved following Seller's death a few days after filming ended. His costar was the young Robert Longden, and here's a screen capture of him from that long-unavailable film.

The first rule of Write Club is there are no rules.

And what, you may then ask, of your novel, dear sir. Only two chapters to go, and you left for Florida clutching a laptop and good intentions.

I've found writing is like exercising -- it's thoroughly addictive when it's a daily routine, but a little tough to get back into after an unavoidable break. And writing was impossible in one hotel room holding five people, three of them addicted to Cartoon Network. (To create quite unnecessary tension, I won't reveal which three.)

I'm not one of those writers who's internally driven to write every day. But I am one of those writers who's internally driven to keep going once he's started. Can't start, can't stop. A bit like my problem with being both an anal retentive and having an attention deficit. I'm both organized and untidy. Everything in the office, the closet, the bookshelf, the CD rack has a place, labeled, alphabetized, and color-coded, as appropriate. It may just have to wait in a random pile on the floor for a month or so before it's put there.

That's why the best advice for writers is still to follow a routine -- have a daily time when you apply the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair, whether or not you're in the mood. It's taken me too long to learn this.

Now I'm on record as saying how much I hate rules or fixed templates for creative writing, and one of the most heinous is the one that says true writers have to write. They can't help themselves. The muse takes over -- if they have to wait more than a minute for the barista to froth up their machiato, it's whip out the netbook and on to the next chapter of their intimate memoir.

What a crock. Sure, there are authors like that, but they're more likely to be highly disciplined than constantly in the throes of inspiration. There are great writers who hate writing and have to be manacled to the desk by frazzled agents and publishers. There are fine writers who are content with 100 words a day, as long as they're good. For some, writing's a breeze; for others, it's a grinding, heart-rending chore. Just because you're good at something, it doesn't always mean you enjoy it. (And, of course, vice versa.) Dorothy Parker -- with whom I share a birthday, but sadly, little else, not even underwear -- said "I hate writing, but I love having written."

But just to contain multitudes, I shall make one observation that's perilously close to a rule. A person doesn't have to write much to know that he or she wants to be a writer. But the person who proudly upholds that ambition without having written anything -- and I've met some -- should be encouraged to keep the day job.

(I've been cheating on you, gentle reader. I didn't even write these blog entries while I was away. Most of them have been added since I've been back in Rye, because the hotel didn't have free wi-fi. I kept notes of what I wanted to say about each day and backdated the posts to match, just to keep it logical.)

And so we say farewell . . .

Epcot, then the Disney Hollywood Studios, then the Magic Kingdom again.

No, we may not be the ideal family for Disney, with the boys currently in that zone between the wide-eyed submission to charm displayed by the tots in the TV commercials and the ironic regression of the returning teenager. Not to mention my premature curmudgeonliness. (Okay, not so premature these days.)

However, it's hard to be cynical. To get an hour of entertainment, you may have to spend a further five walking, queuing, waiting, planning, snacking, etc. But the point is, it doesn't feel like five hours. You admire that. You admire the efficiency, the cast members' apparently genuine desire to please you, no matter how trivial their job. You admire the wit and creativity of the designers, the impossibility of finding any vantage point where Cinderella's castle doesn't look imposing (and I've tried). I admit I'd love to live in a town with storefronts like the art moderne fantasy facades of the Studios' Hollywood Boulevard. Okay, they're all shops. But so what if the whole enterprise seems to be a way to sell you crap, every ride designed to over-promote the latest Disney release? The commercialism is no less rampant and slightly more subtle than, oh, everything else in modern society. (And Toy Story 3 looks like it's going to be bloody good.)

We all loved Epcot's Soarin',  a gentle simulation of flying in a hang glider over well-chosen parts of California, although I wouldn't go so far as the lady I overheard exiting the ride, who claimed it was the best experience she'd ever had in her life. Hmmm. But that reminds me that while it's hard, as I said, to be totally cynical about an enterprise that really does try to give the punters a good time, it's almost too easy to get a laugh out of the guests. (Not that pervasive childhood obesity is funny.)

So I'll just end this entry with one overheard remark, as we were heading out of the park for the last time. A woman is inspecting the photographs on her digital camera. "My picture's blurry," she complains to an older companion, perhaps her mother. "Oh, it was blurry when I took it," the other woman reassures her.

Kingdom come.

The Magic Kingdom

Second visit to the Kingdom on this trip, and this time we attack it like pros. In through the gates at opening time, hurtle solo to Big Thunder Mountain Railroad in Frontierland to collect Fastpasses while kids are escorted in the opposite direction to Tomorrowland to get on line for the popular Buzz Lightyear's Space Ranger Spin. Tertius overjoyed when, scurrying along Main Street with his mother, his spare hand is grabbed by Chip, who walks with them a short way. Or was that five-foot rodent Dale? Alas, I'm the one with the camera, and by the time I join them, they've gone through Buzz twice and I've had an indifferent, lukewarm cappuccino from the pleasantly deserted Sleepy Hollow cafe in Liberty Square. But with the park still half-empty, there's no waiting for a turn on the classic Mad Hatter's Teacup ride. Two turns, if I forgo my photo-op with the cute blonde dressed as Alice.

And so it goes. From nine o'clock in the morning until three in the afternoon -- Buzz twice, Mad Hatter twice, Haunted Mansion, Peter Pan, Winnie the Pooh, It's a Small World (your brain on drugs), Big Thunder Mountain, Pirates of the Caribbean, Jungle Cruise, Aladdin's Flying Carpets, the Swiss Family Robinson Treehouse, Big Thunder Mountain again.

Total time in the park by this point: six hours. Total amount of this time actually spent being entertained on rides: 64 minutes (17.8%), not including the self-guided, cursory ascent of the treehouse. (Does anybody read The Swiss Family Robinson these days?) And this was a day when the lines were short and the planning paid off.

But then we take the motorized raft to the ultimately low-tech Tom Sawyer's Island, which is little more than a high-concept adventure playground. The boys had a blast, seeming to enjoy their own games of hide and seek around the fake fort and fiberglass escape tunnels, caves, and mines as much as any attraction they'd ridden on earlier that required an electrical supply. (And it awakens memories for me of a childhood dream of finding such a playset in our local park, the spark for a whole set of imaginary situations to place myself in during those long hours or seconds between bedtime and sleep.) After an hour or so, the only temptation we could offer them to move on was an immediate return to the hotel for a swim in the pool.

We may not be the right family for Disney.

Of what I sing?

Good start to the day. Tertius now in a sublime mood, shuts himself in the hotel room bathroom to have a poop while singing patriotic songs at the top of his voice. He exhausts "God Bless America" and then attempts "You're a Grand Old Flag." When he can't remember the words, he switches to reciting the Pledge of Allegiance instead.

To a mouse.

Children live alarmingly in the present. As we leave the animal park, Tertius is miffed about some omission -- it was either some stuffed beast we failed to buy him on the merest whim three seconds earlier or our extraordinarily successful diversionary tactics to keep him from riding the fearsome Expedition Everest roller coaster, which, despite his protestations, would have terrified him. Or, at least, his adult chaperon.

So he's so all-consumingly gloomy that it temporarily colors the whole day, and he adopts his grumpy, whiny persona. I'm quite used to this and weather it for a while, knowing that sooner or later I can make him laugh. Eventually, I murmur that if he's that unhappy, he might prefer to stay in the kennel with the family dog. And as I say this, I see a couple of passers-by smile to themselves.

At first, of course -- like the bird-flipping urchin of my previous post -- I'm convince they're enraptured by my acerbic insouciance and dry, low-key wit. But then it dawns that, in that split-second of judgment, I'm nothing more than a harassed father, driven to extreme threats by what must be an uncontrollable six-year-old brat. They see me as one of those parents.

Disney can do that to you.

That's Michael Mouse to you.

Animal Kingdom Wildlife Park

In the spirit of recycling for conservation, I often use odd snippets of conversation that I overhear. I keep a list of odd names that can be used for characters. But I long ago gave up collecting the stupid things people say or do while watching animals in zoos. It's too easy.

The breaking point for me was a visit many years ago to the Bronx Zoo (if I recall correctly, although it must have been before the Congo Gorilla Forest was opened). A ghastly boy of about ten had decided that the funniest thing he'd ever managed to do in his life was to sit in front of the glass frontage of the gorilla exhibit and give his not-so-distant cousins the finger for several minutes, looking around all the time with a rictus of self-satisfaction on his stupid, inbred face, clearly expecting as much delighted approval from the surrounding zoogoers as if he'd discovered cold fusion in his underwear. And the saddest thing of all is that, twenty-odd years later, that particular specimen of homo sapiens has probably yet to surpass that single act of wit.

So we were very happy to stop for a while and, quietly and in stillness, take in the dignity and beauty of a young silverback gorilla sitting thoughtfully beside a waterfall in Disney's African exhibit. As for the whoops, screams, and foolish comments of a minority of the passers-by -- well, I'll merely say that they're supplying more coffin-nails for the intelligent design heresy. Unless God is a gorilla.