So Joanne and I are in Club 33, the quasi-secret, invitation-only restaurant in Disneyland, through an unmarked door in New Orleans Square and up a flight of stairs. We're with her co-workers for her firm's summer party, and we're sucking back lobster and prime rib and cheese cake, and we're being lavishly attended to, and we're gawking at the Victorian men's club atmosphere, and we're just generally having a hell of a time.

And the only reason I bring this up is that Claudia -- my Disney-freak friend -- has never been there. Ha. Ha ha. Ha.

So Frisbee ain't comin' back, I fear. Gone, gone.

On August 7th, 1994 -- the day after Jeff's bachelor party -- I dropped a plastic, Day-Glo orange fish into the US mail with the hope that he would travel to each state in the union, one per week, and return home in time for Jeff and Lil's one-year anniversary. Inside, I'd packed mailing labels, instructions and a sign-up sheet. When he came back, I wanted to make up the Frisbee Diaries: a map that showing where he'd been and how far he'd gone and a wedding picture and a thank you, and I would send a copy to each person that had helped him on his way. I wanted to mount the fish itself on a plaque for Jeff and Lil so that he could spend the rest of his days relaxing and reminiscing while sitting on a bookshelf with lots of small carved and stuffed llamas.

Oh, poor Frisbee.

It was my friend James who had named him "Frisbee." James was the first person who got the fish in the mail, in Washington, and he sent him off to Salt Lake City. From there, he went to Los Alamos. After that, who knows?

I like to think that Frisbee is still out there, struggling mightily to get home, like the family dog in a Disney movie. But deep down, I know he's trapped in a dead letter office somewhere, too weird to be discarded and too destitute -- the price of stamps went up -- to move on.

Poor, poor Frisbee.

I blame myself.

So I'm walking down Highland, past the chiropractor's office that has the giant spine segment (with the giant inflamed nerve) sitting out front, and this black, black El Camino drives by, it's stereo moving the sidewalk. In the back, somebody's sunk eye-hooks in the bed walls and strung a bungee-cord spider web from them. It bounces along with the music.

And two thoughts fight to the front of my mind:

"That is the single tackiest thing I've ever seen."

And:

"I want one."