Why talk we of fathers when there is such a town as Orlando?

Some days I don't feel like a pro-fessor so much as a shamefully amateur fessor. But last weekend I had a marvellous extravaganza of professionalism. I saw papers on Jonson and space theory, made plans (while in a hot tub at 3:00 am) with a guy at Stanford to work with me on dredging up my editing project, and came home with lots of receipts and lots of e-mail addresses.

Without question, however, the highlight of the weekend was that the Group for Early Modern Cultural Studies shared a hotel with a celebrity impersonators convention. It was hilarious. I looked more like Ozzy Osbourne than that guy, or at least I would've in his wig and sunglasses. There's something that heightens even the absurd surreality of Disneyworld about being on a dance floor where Jack Nicholson is dancing with Carrie-Anne Moss to the tune of "Yoda," the Star Wars parody of "Lola," sung by the fattest Weird Al you're ever likely to see.