Of Sad Sidewalks and Hellacious Handprints

The last time we were in California, the Dukes were wee, adorable little tikes, content to have their personal bankers/parents buy into the money-grabbing whore known as Disneyland, and its equally commercialized slutty siblings, the San Diego Zoo and Sea World.

Now 10 years older and infinitely wiser (and still adorable, said their non-biased mother), their roster of holiday activities must equal their refined palate of all things cool and au courant.

After arranging for a remortgaging of our home and the signing of a promisary note for highly-valued black market internal organs, we valet-parked our vehicle here:

and proceeded to the most important section of Hollywood's Walk of Fame:

Gah.

I'm not even sure if this is the correct Michael Jackson, but I certainly was not about to address this possibility to the avid zealots milling around. They looked reasonably tough (and more than a few could potentially have been armed). They're sensitive, not stupid.

After a perfunctory donning of our sparkle gloves and moonwalking, we continued on to Mann's Theatre, where we browsed around through the hand & footprints of the stars.

Some random observations:

. George Burn's cement square not only has his hand and foot prints, but also (what I'm hoping was) his cigar.
. The Star Trek square had all the TV show's stars - nothing creative, except of course for Leonard Nimoy's handprint - done as the Vulcan greeting - I love it when people think beyond the normal.
. John Wayne's footprints? Not so big. Surprising.
. Mel Gibson's footprints - huge. Disappointing.

And then?

I saw it.

The clouds parted; rays of sunshine were cast down upon one particular square; angels sang; Baronesses gasped.

"GET.THE. CAMERA!!!!!!!!!!!", I squawked.

This would be a photo op that would win me legions of bloggy fans - inspired by Nimoy, it was now me that was thinking out of the box. Ha hah!

I knelt. I put my hands down into his handprints, all ready to lower my quavering bosom into the impression that would lovingly cup my boobies like an expensive La Perla bra.

Did I mention that the afore-mentioned "parting of the clouds" is actually a hole in the ozone layer directly over Mann's Chinese Theatre, which turns a normal 95 degrees Farenheit day into about 3125 degrees?

"Holy shit! This is really, really hot!"

Said the ever-patient Baron, "Yes, dear (eyes rolling). We all know how you feel about Clooney..."

"No", I minced, "I mean - the pavement is really, really hot!"

Sighing. More eye-rolling. "So are we taking the boob shot or not?"

"I will singe my nurples right off if I go any lower - this is low as I can go"

"Fine. Whatever."

Click.

"Done. Let's go."

And off we tromped - we were due to pick up our car, as we had reached our 1 hour/4 kidney/2 liver limit.

George? Honey?

Sorry, baby. We'll just have to do this some other time.

If we wait another ten years, I won't even have to kneel anymore...