Alas. 'Twas not to be.
I came home from work to a series of messages from both the Mark Twain Boyhood Home and my Gram, aged 97, who volunteers at the Mark Twain Museum once a week.
Val Kilmer had to cancel. With no rescheduling.
Now, I'm crushed. CRUSHED. But this is for 'personal reasons,' which could mean any number of things, so we're not going to go all medieval on Val. Instead, I'm going to hope that everything's okay, have the scheduled dinner with my Gram, where she will fill any silent, self-pitying void with constant chatter that will distract me from missing my big, Val-based moment in the sun, and then come home and have copious amounts of sweet, consoling wine.
But there will be no photo, no autographed book, no Mad-Men-esque-sexy-mom dress. Just dinner with my Gram.