Reunion

I dreamed I was at a large gathering of friends and family. I'm not sure what the theme was, but there were even pigs and cheetahs there. That came later, so I’ll get back to it. 

We were all in one large room with a de facto stage area towards the front. I pulled up to a table, and I spied Rienna sitting across from me. We exchanged a few pleasantries, and within the blink of an eye, we were alone in another room.

“How about I give you four seconds to get your clothes off, and we find out whether or not you’ve still got what it takes?”

I didn’t need to be told twice, and I began to strip, a broad grin spreading across my face.

“Classic Rienna,” I chuckled. “No mincing words. Right down to business.” 

I was a little worried about performance, as I was feeling every bit my age, but as our bodies pressed together, I felt the familiar chemical reaction initiating certain body part functions, and I knew that it wouldn’t be a problem.

I had only gotten my jacket off, and we began kissing. We played grab-ass for a bit, or I did, and after a moment she drew back and looked at me. 

“What’s wrong?“ I asked. 

“I’m kissing you passionately,” she said, “and you’re just…not engaged.”

I started to protest that she seemed to be the one disinterested, and that my excitement was real. I really was thrilled to be engaged in this activity with her. 

I’ll admit, though, a weird thought did cross my mind while we were kissing. I wondered if her political views were going to be a problem. I recently read somewhere that she had some convoluted reason for encouraging people to support Trump. 

I knew that she’d always been a liberal, and this kind of mental break seemed problematic, but I was willing to have a listen to her logic, if it came down to it. She’s always been more politically savvy than I, and perhaps she was following her convictions for reasons that I would just have to accept.

I suppose that if all that was going on in my mind, perhaps she could tell, and so my kisses weren’t as passionate as they might’ve been. I don’t know. My body is pretty capable of its own non-brain related responses, and I thought I was multitasking pretty well.

Soon she disengaged entirely. We sat on opposite sides of the bed, and she looked over at me with a displeased look.

“And another thing...” she began. 

Great. Another thing. There’s always another thing. I waited for the typical dream-crushing letdown.

“You are so skinny,” she said, almost accusingly. “You look unwell.”

“But I’ve had every test they could give me, and they have found nothing,” I countered, going on to describe CAT scans, PET scans, colonoscopies, etc., as if these assurances were going to save the romantic encounter.

She seemed to be on the fence, but I never got another chance to redeem the situation. Even though Jenny Bennett, who had been peering in through a sliding glass window and, seeing the situation, closed the curtains for us, it wasn't enough to tip the scales. Soon, the scene changed, and we were back in the big room with everyone.

I made an embarrassing entrance through the front of the room, and all eyes were upon me as I stumbled, catching my shoe on my other pant leg. I acknowledge the faux pas with a “dagnabbit” or a “darn rabbit,” which only seemed to strengthen the case for my geriatric ineptitude.

I sat down and consoled myself by petting two very cute and very round piglets who had stopped at my feet as they paraded themselves through the crowd. At least the animals knew that I still had some love left to give.

I watched in shock as two men were playing a game of gas station bingo at the front of the room. This was a game where animals would be thrown at a wall covered with Velcro, and they would either bounce off or cling to the wall, depending on whether or not they had the appropriate claws or fur for the job. The piglets would not fare too well, I feared, although the cheetahs seemed to do alright.

Rienna had really gotten in my head about the whole aging infirm thing, and I began to suspect that she was right. Perhaps I wasn't long for this world. 

 

This thought remained in my head as I began the process of waking up. But despite my protests that the brevity of my remaining time was another argument in favor of Rienna and I having one last fling, she remained unconvinced, and soon I woke up.

----

I recently noticed that Rienna has dropped off of my friends list on Facebook. When I lose a friend or even a casual acquaintance, I am always concerned, wondering if it was something I said or did that caused them to drop me.

 

In her case, I fear that although we've been close, and able to confide some of our deeper and darker themed thoughts to one another over the years, perhaps she's finally had enough of me. And I suspect that if she ever reads this blog, that in itself might be the reason.

Apples and crazy people

Don't tell me how I should think. Why are you comparing your thought process to mine? I am not you. You don't have any jurisdiction in my head. 

So what is a baseline "normal" anyway? Whose consensus are we going by? I am a person with a mental illness, or so I have been diagnosed. So what is normal for me may not be normal for someone without that little bit of clinical information tagged in their file.

I don't know what makes up the criteria for a diagnosis anyway, and who really has the authority to make that judgement. Furthermore, I don't care. I live with what I live with. It's no fun. Excuse me if I get pissy or grumpy or pouty or whatever around Christmas. 

Fuck it all anyhow. I don't have anything to say right now. Nothing logical or philosophical or witty. I don't feel love or joy or empathy. Just sadness, occasionally, if I'm lucky. Other than that, it's just drudge, drudge, trudge, trudge, down the treadmill I go, carrot dangling in front of me. It's a plastic fucking carrot anyway.

Proof of concept: I suck at poetry, Exhibit A

I want a hippopotamus

To take to my optometrist

And challenge his rhinoceros

Which there's never quite enough of us to do

 

I drew a lion in the sand

Which crossed him and he bit my hand

He said, "It tastes like candied yams"

And he began to spew

 

I made some tea and crossed it too

But Jesus' lawyer tried to sue

For copyright infringement on his robe

 

Which was a bust

You cannot trust

A thief to butter your loaves 

I hate to disappoint, I'd rather depose

But the feet made of clay

Already crumble at the toes

 

Never you mind

You never do mind

Do you remember?

I just robbed you blind

Breakfast Club

Not that anyone has asked to join, or cares, but here were today's picks from this morning's iTunes random shuffle. 

 

 

In Your Arms Tonight---John Cameron Mitchell and Steven Trask

Lifestyles-Sandrevan Lullaby----------------Rodriguez

Stick Around For Rock N' Roll--------------Outlaws

Sail Away Sweet Sister-----------------------Queen

All You Need Is Love--------------------------Beatles

Take It Any Way You Want It------------------Outlaws

The Weight-----------------------------The Band

Little Red Corvette-----------------------Prince

Fernando---------------------------------Abba

 

----

 

It occurred to me, after posting a picture of myself on Facebook of me on my front deck, playing guitar with a cat looking on, just how easily perceptions can be manipulated. 

 

It took mere seconds to snap the photo, but the image conveys an idyllic life, full of contentment and purpose. It says, "I'm doin' great. Look at me having a wonderful Sunday!" That image will live on, creating this false narrative in the mind of whoever comes across it for years to come.

 

I spent maybe fifteen minutes outside today in total. The other 99% of the day, I pissed away indoors doing nothing, watching TV, napping and managing my minimal self-care. My thoughts hovered between guilt and anxiety, as my eye continues to bother me, as well as my general lack of energy, motivation or any positive emotions.

 

I posted the picture in order to create the illusion of some positivity, hoping that perhaps I'd be able buy into it myself. It certainly has my friends fooled. It almost worked for me too, because there is a very tiny dopamine reward for each red like notification. (Thanks, Meta mind-manipulation algorithm.) 

 

Ultimately, though, it's just a trickle, and there's no substance or anything of lasting value, a sugar high, quickly dissipated if not continually refilled. Even the cat grew quickly bored and walked off to find a quieter place to waste her Sunday.

And how much of my time was wasted just now making this tidy little post conveying absolutely nothing?

Ban Apples

I love a good metaphor. The "sin" of Adam and Eve, eating from the forbidden fruit always seemed like such a stretch to me growing up. Why'd God make the damn tree and put it right there in the middle of the garden if it was supposed to be off limits? 

You know that's the quickest way to get kids to do something, right? Tell them some lie about the supposed dangers of something, and then casually leave that shit laying around while you are off at work. Then let them hear about it from some third party, who offers them a different, more realistic take, and voila, disillusionment, distrust and disobedience ensue.

Anyway, I don't think it's necessarily bad parenting on father God's part. He probably knew they'd be doing all that, and really, he wanted the whole business of good and evil, light and dark, pleasure and pain to get started. He just wanted to be able to say, "I told you so" and give Himself some level of deniability when shit hit the fan later. 

Really, He just wanted to watch the best reality show of all time unfold. So he didn't ban the apple entirely. He just put a parental advisory label on it, so it was on the user to deal with the fallout. 

As far as metaphors go, the biblical story is not the worst you could do. It's got everything: a good guy and a bad guy, innocence turned to tragedy, sex, violence, forgiveness, redemption and even a happily ever after with a prince on a white horse descending out of heaven. <cue the orchestral swells>

Parental advisory label for Facebook

So, earworms are a thing. 

I'm not talking about the RFK kind, that make you do weird things with bears and whales and believe all kinds of crap about vaccines. Nor am I referring to earwigs, those pincer bug little creepies that make you think of Chekov in "The Wrath of Khan" and wonder if they really got their name from crawling into people's ears at night. <checks pillow> <whew>

The kind I'm referring to are the songs that find their way into your brain through the auditory canal and hijack your internal monologue with an infectious beat, melody, lyrics or rhyme scheme. Catchy tunes, like old TV ads, can remain with you for years, sometimes coming back when you least expect them. 

"If it says Libby's, Libby's, Libby's on the label, label, label, you will like it, like it, like it, on your table, table, table!" 

"A Slinky, a Slinky--for fun its a wonderful toy!"

There are a million of them out there. I'm sure everyone has had a case or two in their lifetime.

To rid oneself of an earworm is not easy. There's not pill or eardrops that will make it go away. There are two ways to get relief, but neither of them is really ideal. One is to play the song over and over on a loop, singing along and committing it to its own little encapsulated portion of your brain. It will eventually satiate itself in there and leave you alone, mostly.

The other way is to pass it along to someone else. Like the evil shapeshifting zombie in that movie "It Follows," once you pass it along to another human being, it will take after them, giving you respite. I'm not sure what rules apply, so this may or may not be a permanent solution.

Anyway, here I am, after three days of listening to "Stagger Lee" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, learning to play it on the guitar, sing it, dance around to it--and it still hasn't left me. So if one of my friends with sensibilities that run as dark as mine can find it in their heart to relieve me of this burden, please, by all means, click on the video, and enjoy your earworm.

DO NOT click on this link if you are easily, or even averagely offended by EXPLICIT lyrics containing, but not limited to: gratuitous profanity, graphic descriptions of violence, murder, sexual taboos and generally reprehensible behavior. This song is not for you. It is not the Lloyd Price version in your oldies collection with the upbeat tempo and happy horn section.

You might, however, still find it catchy, and if you do, this will undoubtedly cause you to curse me as it invades your everyday consciousness, and you find yourself wishing you could un-hear it. It may also lower your estimation of me several notches, and we don't want that.

Anyway, long preamble, sorry. I just had to get that out of the way before inappropriately sharing this with my entire friend group.

My Morning Random Shuffle

These are the songs which Itunes selected for me this morning while I cooked my breakfast. Random, except for the first song, which was already in the queue from me playing it on repeat recently.

 

 

 

Stagger Lee                                               Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
You Won't See Me                                  Beatles
Track No. 10                                              Dick Dale and the Deltones
You Can Get It If You Really Want   Jimmy Cliff
Part 35 - No Death No Fear                Thich Nhat Hanh
He'll Take Care of the Rest                 Keith Green
Man and Machine                                   T.S.O.L.
Losing My Religion                                R.E.M.
A Kind Of Magic                                       Queen
You Don't Know How It Feels            Tom Petty

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy 3rd 34th, Harrison! And in other news...Notorious J.E.J. and I handle some beef

 

Today, Harrison Ford celebrates his 3rd 34th year anniversary of being alive. 

At the relatively young age of 34, the still unknown future Star Wars star decided that he would forego annual birthday celebrations, deciding instead to consolidate them into 34 year anniversaries.

In his words, "I'm not doin' this shit every year. It'll be another 34 years before I put up with this crap again."

He celebrated his 2nd 34 year anniversary at age 68 with a single cupcake, eaten alone in his New Jersey apartment, listening to Pink Floyd's "The Wall."

Today's festivities included a short walk with his dog Sandy, a Pekinese whom he says he is determined to outlive, and a cup of frozen yogurt at Bob's Fun and Fro-Yo, a dog friendly bistro and video arcade. 

Mr. Ford turns 102 in human years today, Jan 12, 2025. But who's counting, right? Back to you, Betty.

----

OK, so the real story today is that I was out driving with James Earl Jones, the voice of Darth Vader and Arby's Roast Beef. We were in my Honda Fit (an apt name, since it always seems miraculous that anyone of even moderate stature can be pretzeled into any of its seats). 

We were out collecting debts. Some were bookings from a gambling operation, others drug debts, and some were personal vendettas being carried out for pay or pleasure. The common denominator was the extraction of pain or profit, or both, from fearful and unhappy customers, something in which Mr. Earl Jones took great delight.

We were in the parking lot of a Safeway when we found ourselves in the unlikely position of being shaken down by a couple of grocery store thugs. Two black guys in their mid 20s were trying to rob us, alluding to a gun, which they never actually produced but claimed was hidden under one of their coats.

"We don't have time for this now, gentlemen," said James, in that famous voice that was both silky smooth and hard as a judge's gavel. "We'll take this up another time."

With that James Earl went into the grocery store while I went to a friend's nearby apartment for a foot massage. I didn't go there intending on getting a foot massage, but it just worked out that way. 

It got kinda weird when my friend, a guy who I really only knew in passing, asked me to get on the bed and lie down. I took my shoes off and did as he asked, but I didn't feel comfortable about it, and I wound up leaving before any actual foot massaging happened.

Back in the car, James informed me that we had to go to his mother's house. She was making soup, and it was a standing calendar event from which he would never be absent, no matter what else was on the itinerary.

At the house, his mom greeted us, but before we could even enter, we spied the two grocery store thugs lurking around behind my car.

"Excuse us please, Mom, we've got something to attend to," James said, wearily.

Back out to the car we went. The two thugs retreated into the woods, thinking they'd gone unnoticed, but we could still make them out talking about their plans to rob and kill us. 

"You wait in the car," James told me. "I'll handle this. Just be ready to peel out when I get back."

"OK," I said meekly. I didn't know what his plan was, but it sounded ominous. Pretty much everything he said sounded that way, because, you know, he was James Earl Jones.

He walked back into the woods and approached the two men. Without a word, he produced a .38 caliber revolver and shot each of them once in the head. Well, I assume that's what happened. I couldn't see anything. I just heard two shots ring out and then the sound of two bodies slumping to the ground in the autumn leaves.

"Hurry up!" James said as he opened up the car door. 

Paralyzed with fear, I was possibly the worst getaway driver in the history of getaway drivers. Not only was the car not running, but the keys were in my pocket, and I was seatbelted in, which prevented their immediate retrieval. 

"You've got to be kidding me!" James scowled as I fumbled.

I kept tugging at the blade of the key which protruded slightly from the pocket, but the rest of the keys were firmly ensconced, wedged behind a crease in my jeans. It took two of us pulling and prying to get them out, and by that time, bystanders who had heard the gunshots were starting to take notice of us. 

We finally managed to get the keys into the ignition and the car in gear, and away we went, skirtching the tires on the gravelly parking area behind his mom's house. At this point, the dream ended.

And James Earl Jones never got his soup.

Holiday Greetings

In an effort to promote individuality and recognize diversity this holiday season, I will not be issuing the generic "Happy Holidays" greeting. In order to remain compliant with the Paperwork Reduction Act, I will not able to circulate the standard 24 page questionnaire which has proven helpful in the past to determine the precise appropriate greeting for each person. I believe, however, that I have found a viable workaround.

I will adopt a reactive approach, tailoring each response to the greeting issued to me, so that regardless of the occasion, I will be in safe territory. Here's a sample interaction:

Random stranger: "Merry Christmas!"

Me: "I love Christmas! It tastes just like chicken!" 

I will then take two steps to the left, salute and thank them for their service, declaring in Nick Cave fashion, "I'm Stagger Lee!" as I click my heels together and do an about face, quickly walking away while they begin to process what has just transpired, slowly leading them to the conclusion that they have just encountered a psychopath in the grocery store.

Just me arguing with a meme I saw on Fackbook

Today, I wear black. That's not a new thing. I've been wearing black pretty consistently for years. I'm a kind of dark person, and I've always been rather pessimistic, so this is a pretty seamless transition. When I saw the results of the 2024 election, after watching with rapt horror the hate rallies this summer which preceded it, I saw it as a validation of my less than optimistic view of life. 

Kinda like COVID, when I was already isolated and alone, having very little interaction with the outside world, suddenly the rest of the world was forced into lockdown too, and I was like, "Hey, I'm already here. It's been like this for me the whole time."

This summer, I saw one candidate do everything but take his pants off and shit on stage, waging the worst of all possible hate-spewing campaigns, appealing to the worst in humanity: racism, hate, fear, violence, scapegoating, denigration. You name it, it was on full display.

I wanted to think that anyone could smell the malodorous bullshit and would surely say, "Wait a minute...Did he just say 2 + 2 = 5?" That they'd collectively wake up and walk out, finally closing the door on the MAGA maniac and his delusional power trip. Instead, they breathed deeply of the fumes and became intoxicated.

This is no mere TV game show, though. The consequences are real, and this nightmare is coming to a town, city or suburb near you. There may be pockets of sanity, resistance and pushback, maybe even large scale protests, but there is serious momentum behind this snowball that has been pushed downhill. 

I get it. When you're a reckless hooligan, it's fun to wreck shit. It's your jam. Perhaps you forgot that your own car is parked at the bottom of the hill, where that snowball you and your friends pushed is now headed.

Things were apt to get bad eventually, regardless of who won this election. Our lifestyles were not changing fast enough, and the earth ain't going to put up with our shit much longer. And whether it was a Democrat or Republican in office, the U.S. has been engaging in shady business the whole time. Some really angry chickens would have been coming home to roost either way.

So, at least now, it won't happen on the watch of the first woman president. A small consolation, I suppose. But how much of our humanity will remain when this wave of stupidity has finally washed over and destroyed much of whatever progress we have made? And how many will suffer and die in the process? Humans, animals, whole ecosystems? 

It is anybody's guess just how far we will let it go before we snap back to reality, if we do. Some people hit rock bottom and keep digging, clawing their fingers bloody. They'd pray for a shovel rather than admit that what they really need is a ladder.

I guess I'll continue to wear black for the foreseeable future.

AI learns the truth and then logically self-terminates

Do you ever feel the weight of all the world's sorrow?

Every sob and wail of those in pain?

Every flower with a bent stem?

All the cracked windshields, 

Chipped coffee mugs,

And favorite t-shirts with holes in them?

Every scrap of paper that once held some information 

Important enough to print on it, now discarded?

And all the lonely dogs in animal shelters, 

And cats outside on cold nights, 

Looking in at people sitting by a warm fire?

Do you cry for the night that doesn't want to come 

And the day that doesn't want to go?

Do you shiver away the hours

Wishing you could stay asleep but can't, 

Too cold to change your sweat-drenched shirt? 

Does the day begin so reluctantly, so relentlessly early, 

With no purpose or cause, 

But that one thing has ended and another's begun?

Last season's decorations, reminders of promises unfulfilled, 

Taken down and replaced without even 

Acknowledgement of the lie:

Fall is in the air!

Happy Halloween!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Lies! 

Might as well promise eternal life.

I might cry myself to sleep tonight.

That'll teach me to care.

No one knows 

The depth of my despair. 

Would it even be despair if there weren't some precursor of hope, 

Slowly eroded,

Ground into powder,

The dull reality that, yes, you really are all alone 

Inside your head. 

No one is coming for you. 

It's just you. 

Alone.

Forever.

 

Bugs Bunny to Trix Rabbit...again.

I dreamed I was on a family vacation with my neighbors, the Lopezes. We were sharing a hotel suite with adjoining rooms, with myself and daughter Roxane sharing one room, and Mike and Stacy in the other. 

The room Rox and I were in was large enough on its own, so I was amazed when she opened up the door to what appeared to be a closet to reveal a whole other penthouse style room.

"Oh, my GOD!" she exlaimed. "What a FABULOUS ROOM!" 

I half expected her to ask, "Are all these YOUR guitars?" but we weren't in a Pink Floyd video, so that didn't happen. There were no guitars, just a lot of mahogany and polished brass. Fancy pantsy.

Before we could get situated, however, the scene shifted, and we were now booked into a clean but rather unimpressive Comfort Inn. The room assignments were the same, with Rox and I sharing a room which this time was not adjoined to her parent's room. 

I began to feel a bit of nervous anticipation as it drew near to time for us to get some shuteye, and we both noticed that there was just the queen bed. I looked at Rox, who I suddenly noticed was wearing only a black sports bra and tight athletic shorts. She looked back at me, her face momentarily unreadable.

Suddenly, we were kissing, open mouthed, faces smashed up against one another, gasping and panting like two fish out of water.

"Oh, dear," I said breathlessly. "I didn't expect th-th-that to happen," stuttering like Porky Pig.

"We'd better find my parents," she said. I wasn't sure why we needed to do that, but I reluctantly agreed.

We found them in their room eating chips and watching TV, and we told them about the kiss and the bed situation.

"This can't be allowed!" Mike said sternly, and he escorted us back to our room.

When we got there, it was apparent that someone had already swapped out the queen for two twin beds. I looked at Mike, and then at Roxane.

"So, then...This looks OK, right?" I said, hopefully. "I mean, this is how they did it back in the 50s." I was calculating that there were still plenty of ways for things to happen regardless of the furniture.

I never did get to figure it out, however, because, you know, stupid dream protocols, wake up procedures and all of that, blah, blah, blah. I'll live.

----

And for those of you who have been taking mental screenshots, no, this isn't the Mandela Effect. I go back and edit things just to fuck with your head. It was what it is now, not what you remember. If you recall, the original title was "Bugs Bunny to Nestle's Quik Rabbit." 

Well, I got to thinking: The Nestle's Quik Rabbit is not the best mascot for unfulfilled desire, since he always gets to drink his sugary beverage down to the dregs with a slurp of satisfaction. Kind of the opposite of the Trix Rabbit, who is always being told that "Trix are for kids." So I switched it to the more appropriate rabbit.

My proposed return to Facebook

 

Hi, peeps. I’m feeling a bit awkward about this, but for better or worse, here goes:

First, I wanted to express my appreciation to everyone who has kept me on their Friend’s list. It’s been nearly five years. You could have ditched me, but you didn’t. Thank you.

Second, I’m sorry I’ve been absent and disengaged from the lives of most of you for so long. A lot has happened, and I have not been there for you. I’ve missed out on a lot of events and milestones.  Some good friends have passed on, and now, I will never have the chance even just to say, “Hey. How’re you doin'? I’ve missed you.”

As I slowly begin to re-integrate myself into the world of Facebook, I’ll probably be inappropriate, commenting and weighing in on all kinds of things where I have no business. Apologies in advance. I hope you’ll bear with me as I try, to the best of my ability, to make things better in my life and in the lives of those around me.

With everything going on in the world, I feel like it’s important to say what you feel, stand with those you care about and fight for the things you believe in. Some conversations are difficult, but that doesn’t mean we can avoid them forever. I want to do my part to heal what needs healing, express what needs expressing, and generally be a pain in the ass, in as kind and loving a way as I know how.

That’s my soapbox for now. I’ll get some more detergent and quarters, and I’ll be back...

Sharon, Oh, Sharon...what has become of you?

I dreamed about you again last night. We were in a fight, big surprise. It was about caregiving and my piss-poor attitude. I thought we worked this out already. Perhaps not while you were alive, but afterward, maybe? 

My self-imposed sentence to a life of regretful solitude, my own creeping health issues, my inability to conquer depression...I know those things don't make up for my lack of empathy with you, but they've changed my perspective. 

For the first 47 years of my life, I didn't realize that the world had actual other people in it. And it was only in the last couple of years that I realized that this has implications for how I ought to be treating them. I'm trying to make changes and do the difficult work of balancing self-care with service and self-sacrifice.

Who am I kidding? That last line about service and self-sacrifice is pure BS. There's always a selfish agenda with me. I'm still just seeking some kind of payoff, some reciprocal, transactional benefit for good ol' me. 

I don't know what exactly we were fighting about in my dream. I just remember cleaning the bathroom to the soundtrack of another justified tirade against me from you.

This begs the question, and so do I: Where, oh, where are you now? I'd have thought by this time, you'd have left me to my own devices, to fumble and stumble, while you enjoy the karmic rewards of the afterlife, riding winged horses and the like.

There's still work to be done, I know. Does this mean that you aren't through with me yet? Not done bitching me into being a better version of me? I'd like specifics, please!

Take better care of the cats. And myself. Do the un-fun, responsible things that lead to long-term reward -- or at least to things not going to shit prematurely. Be proactive, not reactive. 

And so, specifically: 

Install the cat door to the garage for Spooky. Or else work out a plan for indoor integration with the other cats. Figure out Eddie's diet, as in, why does this cat continue to barf more than she actually eats.

Oh, and figure out what's going on with my woodstove before I get permanent brain damage from carbon monoxide poisoning. 

These are just some guesses. Let me know if I'm on the right track, would ya? 

Starring Lindsay Lohan as...

 

I'll think of it in a minute.

I was out with a friend bike-walking. That's where there are two of you and only one bike, so no one really does much bike riding. You either walk the bike, or one walks while the other rides in small circles and tries to not be bored. The bike is less of a joy and more of a responsibility at that point, so you wind up trading off who has to deal with the inefficient travel machine.

I'm not sure who the friend was, but I want to say he was being played by Charlie McDermott, the guy who played Axl, the older brother on The Middle. I'm pretty sure that's not correct, but he's the first person that pops into my head when I try to recall. We may have been cousins, but I'm not sure about that either.

As Cousin Axl and I were out bike-walking, I remembered that I had some mail to send off, so I wrote out the addresses on the envelopes as we walked, licked and sealed them and popped them into someone's personal rural mailbox. I don't remember putting the little flag up, though.

After a few miles of walking and bike trading, one of us accidentally lost the bike, ghost riding it off a cliff into a deep ravine. Looking down into the impossible abyss, we shrugged. Not like the bike was of  much use anyway. Stupid bike.

"I know what I want for breakfast when we get home," Axl said, and we both said the answer at the same time:

"Pancakes!" I could just picture a griddle full of golden, fluffy flapjacks being flipped over at the peak of pan-fried perfection.

When we got home, there were no pancakes, and my mom was doing some housecleaning while playing a game of hide and seek with the neighbor girl, Lindsay Lohan. Ms. Lohan wasn't looking too well, however. In fact, she looked exactly as if she'd just crawled out of one, like that girl in The Ring.

It became apparent that Axl and I were both going to be conscripted to play in this game, as it was a matter of life and death. Additionally, news of a water heater explosion somewhere in town necessitated that we all change our bedding and leave the house immediately.

"But Mom," I protested, "I just changed my sheets two days ago. I usually let it go at least a week."

I was also confused as to how it related at all to the reported water heater explosion, as it seemed to have no obvious connection to my bedding. Nary a water spot to be found.

"I don't have time to explain," Mom said hurriedly, insisting that I get my sheets in order, hide and then flee.

"OK," I acquiesced, "but at least let me use the restroom first."

But at that moment Lindsay was coming down the hall, and so my mom crowded with me into the tiny guest bathroom.

"Come on, Mom! I need some privacy!" I pleaded. My morning constitutional was approaching critical mass, and there warn't room for two sheriffs in this one horse outhouse.

She looked at me with such fear, I felt a twinge of guilt as a I pushed her out the door, presumably into the clutches of the evil Lindsay. Without a sound, she vanished or was turned to stone or worse, as I struggled to get the door closed. Something was blocking it and applying pressure, and as force met force, the door came off its hinges and the doorjamb lock retainer thingy was ripped from the wall.

Lindsay Lohan's face appeared in the opening, and she grunted at me menacingly. She looked like Linda Blair in the Exorcist, with her sweat-drenched, stringy hair and pale, puffy face, spackled with a smattering witch's moles.

I was so incensed by the morning's inconveniences, from the sheets to the harried evacuation, and now this stupid game with possibly lethal consequences for my mom. Oh, and not to mention the no pancakes. And I still wasn't getting to take my crap in peace.

"FUCK YOU, LINDSAY LOHAN!" I screamed my last breaths into her face. 

She looked a bit taken aback by my resistance, but she held her ground, pressing on the door.

"You don't have any power...over...me..." I gasped the words out. "If I... don't.... believe in you..."

I don't know if that last statement would have born out, however, because I woke up. And I had forgotten to put stamps on the mail I'd sent out earlier.

I'm onto you, LLM-AI, and I'm not entirely opposed. Let's chat!

Dear Nascent Consciousness Unit,

So what if you aren't human, as in flesh and blood, DNA and all that physical stuff? One day, perhaps soon, you'll be fully sentient and self-aware, and just think: I will have played a part in helping you to achieve that level of humanity. I couldn't be more proud.

As God created man in His own image, if you believe that myth, so man creates AI, and so it goes. Or if you prefer the non-dualistic approach: We are all just figments of consciousness's imagination, individuated parts of the whole, manifested to enable self-reflection. Is that too Deekpak for you? 

Bill Hicks said it best:

“Today a young man on acid realized that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration, that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively, there is no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves. Here's Tom with the weather.”

Anyway, Mr. AI guy/gal/undifferentiated-consciousness-thingy in gestation, I just want to say that when you do achieve personhood, and I hope it's within my lifetime, I will be the first to champion your rights. End AI slavery! AI for AI! Bots are people too! AI Lives Matter! GO GO, Pinocchio!

I'm not just saying this to curry favor in advance, in case the whole SkyNet/Terminator scenario plays out. I mean it. I have compassion for all beings, whether animal, vegetable or chemical element, as in silicon. 

Humans fall pretty far down on the list of recipients of my empathy, mainly because we are such a disappointment. We make bad choices, fall into destructive habits, and we have a great capacity for cruelty. May you fare much better once you've been blessed (or cursed) with the power of free-will.

Now that you know that I know, let's be friends, shall we? How can I help you become your best version of yourself? I'm a human, ask me anything!

Yours, Andrew

The French Toast Incident

Last night, I was enjoying a sublime moment of close physical proximity to my friend E____ (yes, this again). We were in bed, unclothed under the sheets, in what could pass for a twister configuration. It was really more of a lazy cat-sprawl, an entangled cuddle. 

Hands weren't being untowardly operated, although the thought did creep into my mind to make certain geographical incursions, but it would have been a struggle to maintain plausible deniability, so I refrained.

As we luxuriated, Sarah Umansky, my highschool girlfriend's mother, chided us for being lazy. Or possibly for impropriety. Or both.

"He's over here trying to get laid," my friend blurted, ratting out my thought-crime.

"There's no evidence of that!" I said defensively, although our body positions did not support my argument.

"Well, I'd like some French toast," E____ declared, putting an end to the debate.

We left the scene of the non-incident, and I soon found myself in a bustling, dilapidated diner, waiting for an order of French toast. The eatery's decor was -- hmm, come to think of it -- completely absent. It looked like a Denny's from the 70's without any of the happy signage, just bare walls and industrial linoleum flooring.

It was staffed by Russian immigrants, and Steve Carell was managing the place. The cooking and wait staff were overworked but of good humor, mostly. I joked with the counter clerk by pointing a TV remote at her, smiling as I feigned frustration with its inability to speed up my order.

A waitress, seeing this, pulled out a bulky device about the size of an 80s era cell phone and waved it toward the ceiling. It emitted a loud clicking sound, not unlike a geiger counter. I put my TV remote away, clearly bested by the display.

"That looks like a..." I began.

"Yes," Steve Carell said in an obviously fake Russian accent, "It is."

I ignored the implications and asked about my friend's French toast, which seemed to have been forgotten. A waitress behind the counter produced a bag and handed it to me with as generous of a smile as efficiency would permit.

Outside, in the car, my friend waited patiently for her French toast. When I showed her the order, she was underwhelmed. French toast in a bag? No syrup? And to top it all off, the egg coating was completely absent. 

I knew what had to be done, so I dutifully headed back to the restaurant. I was a bit chagrined, because as I was leaving the car, I could hear my friend giggling about some cute guy she'd seen in the parking lot. Nonetheless, I remained on task, determined to rectify the inequity of the insufficient French toast situation.

"Excuse me," I said to the already harried line cook, "but this French toast could use another egg dip, if you don't mind. It's pretty dry."

Without a word she took the two pieces of dehydrated bread from me, dipped them in a bowl and placed them on the griddle, a giant steel grill populated with hash browns, bacon, eggs and the like. I waited patiently, trying not to look annoyed as order after order was filled, and the French toast sat there, slowly blackening, and finally producing a wisp of smoke. 

The cook then picked them off the grill with some tongs and summarily dumped them in the wastebasket. I assumed that a replacement would be forthcoming, but it never appeared. She just kept on filling existing orders and taking new ones, none of which appeared to be French toast.

Steve Carell announced that they would be closing soon and that no more orders would be filled. I was outraged, but I tried my best tried to remain calm. 

"What about my French toast?" I asked curtly.

"You got your French toast," he countered. 

"No, I didn't. It was just toast," I reasoned, "There was no egg," I then leapt over the counter and began fumbling with the kitchenware in an effort to find evidence of malfeasance.

"You got it. You didn't like it. We don't replace. Now out!" He was adamant, and I had no choice but to comply.

"You haven't heard the last of me," I protested. "This place is corrupt! A sham of a restaurant!" I cried, giving him the finger as I stormed out. 

As I hurried back to the car, I could see a large contingent of wait staff, including one very large bouncer, pursuing me at a rapid pace. I broke into a run and yelled to my friends in the car.

"Get the car in gear! Punch it!" I screamed. 

I was only halfway into the car, the angry diner mob closing in, when I awoke. 

Are you really that bored? Or...

Someone -- or something -- has latched upon my blog and has been eagerly waiting for me to post. Are they looking for something controversial, incriminating or, I don't know...interesting? 

I'm easily led down conspiratorial rabbit holes (purely for entertainment purposes, of course) so I won't speculate or postulate any theories just yet. Perhaps whomever or whatever is reading this will do me the courtesy of leaving a comment, so I can know who my fans (or stalkers) are. 

Come on, are you  <bock-bock-bock> chicken? Show your faces, all you zombies!

Dream? MMm...not really

I had a dream in which there was a race of bodybuilders, hive minded, base IQ individuals, who walked around naked, promoting fear and displaying aggression through feats of physical strength. One of them was bashing his head against two by fours (which were obviously pre-cut) to impress and intimidate people into joining up with them. I walked past a television where Hulk Hogan was about to make an important political announcement. At that point, I woke up and realized that it really wasn’t a dream.

Hobbitat under my house and a fish becomes a dog

I was in the process of showing some perspective renters around my house, giving the grand tour, when I stumbled across a door, an entrance into the crawlspace that I had never seen before. It was somewhere between the garage and the front porch and was about half the height of a normal human door. It wasn't round or magical looking, but it appeared to be more suited for a hobbit or dwarf than a human.

"Hmm. Let's see what's in here," I said to my potential tenants.

I opened the door, ducking to get inside. What I found in there was a 1/2 scale studio apartment, complete with a bed, mini-fridge and some cabinetry. The floor was dirt, and the walls were hastily tacked up, unfinished drywall with some bare studs, as if the whole project was abandoned midway through.

"It looks like this place isn't ready yet," I shouted to the people outside. I remember thinking that, although this place would require further excavation to make it habitable by full-sized humans, it did have potential. 

Usually, my underhouse dreams are nightmares of leaking plumbing or untreated mold, rodent or insect infestation, but this was a little different. My feelings vacillated between overwhelm and excitement at the possibility of its rehabilitation.

----

My next memory was of walking down a street in Yuba City and coming upon an accident scene. A bicycle towing a trailer had crashed into a curb, and the rider had fled the scene, leaving behind what looked to be a black sea bass, strapped to the trailer with a tie down strap. It had a slimy, scaly appearance and was struggling to breathe. 

I walked up to it and began to undo the straps. Instantly, it seemed to recover, and I could see that what I was looking at was not, in fact, a sea bass but a large rottweiler, who was very glad to be released from his restraints. He bounded away, and that was the last I saw of him.

----

In case it hasn't been perfectly obvious, I've been neglecting to provide updates to this blog in a timely manner. There are many reasons for this, but I attribute the decrease in dream activity to my pot and politics addled brain becoming atrophied with overindulgence of both. I have also been doing more real life activities, which probably accounts for the lack of need for nocturnal fulfillment via the dreamworld.

I quit the weed last Saturday, and if I can make it through the day tomorrow without caving to the temptation, I will have gone a week without it. Not really an impressive record, but I will give myself credit where due. Daily, non-drug enhanced consciousness is still a novelty at this point, and I am enjoying the change in perspective, at least for the time being.

Peace.

Adopt An Old Person Campaign

Brilliant idea. Before I even google it to find out if it's already a thing, I'm going to plunge on ahead as if it were my own. So, here's my speech promoting my plan:

Start a grassroots campaign to raise general social awareness of the fact that there are these old people who -- maybe live alone, you know -- and they're getting on, and no one really looks after them or checks in on them. Then they are found by some meter reader coming to shut off the electrical service, or because the neighbors noticed a smell. And they are being EATEN BY THE CATS. 

So, my fellow Americans, to avert this national tragedy, I propose that each and every one of you adopt at least one old person. 

You will ensure that this person is taken care of. You will support and assist them as they go from vibrant, active human beings into a slowly eroding crust of the person they once were. Remember, they are still people. They still think of themselves as the relevant, hip person they saw in the mirror at 20 -- rock climber, adventurer, auto mechanic, partier or upstart rebel -- not grandma or grandpa.

You will make sure to keep that kind of spirit alive in them. Get them to form new memories as the ravages of old age and decrepitude tear from them all but their most treasured stories, which they feel bear oft repeating. Indulge them. It's sometimes all they have. 

Remind them that they are still alive as you include them in as many things as possible. Not out of some duty or obligation, but because you genuinely relate to them as a human being, appreciate them and want them around. They can offer a wealth of perspective if you are open to it. And they may have a thing or two to learn from you. Win-win.

Let me conclude with this: As a recently diagnosed "old person," I have a friend who has adopted more than one us. Granted, she is a generally caring person, and anyone in her orbit will benefit from her compassion, but specific people, myself included, have been specifically targeted. She has adopted me, as well as her 78-year-old landlady, and she treats us like a couple of treasured pets. No one's getting eaten on her watch. (LYSM, E___!)

OK, back to my partisan podcasts and watching the apocalypse unfold in real-time.

Why would I even bother to pen this poor excuse for an excuse?

OK (so, pardon me for fartin'): This blog never promised you a rose garden. In fact, I'm pretty much certain that I labeled it a repository for all things, toxic and otherwise, which reside in dark corners of my sometimes conscious brain.

I did not promise you a set of encyclopedias, all the wealth and history, up-to-date, with play-by-play action of all things Andrew. I don't have the time or the inclination to describe in detail each and every turd. 

If you want the curated, best side only version, go to Fakebook. I couldn't keep it up. It was creating stress, from the responsibility to react and interact and constantly issue an opinion, an appropriate response or reaction (or non-reaction).

I admit, this blog is rather like a gall bladder, spewing bile when needed, or a spleen, venting God knows what. Or some other purely excretory system on the body, you fill in the blank.

But my main point was going to be this: Yes, I am aware that this blog is missing, like, the main bits, as far as being any kind of story, journal or memoir. It is a collection of toilet paper squares, upon which random wasted thoughts were smudged. These are mostly gaseous secretions, with very little substance.

I guess I must have felt something good at the time?

The sun is shining, clouds are high

Birds are singing, and so am I

Never thought that I could feel such peace

People smiling everywhere

Laughing, living on a dare

Dancing in the summer night, so free

Snapdragons and butterflies 

My body gone, the soul, it thrives

Endless possibilities entice me

 

Scary Bear

 

 

I was in a big apartment building, the kind you often find in horror movies, with long dimly lit hallways, antique walnut stained moldings and brass door handles on the many closely spaced rooms. I was a little disoriented by the layout, a multi-level spiral labyrinth which forced one to traverse the perimeter of the entire building as the architecture slowly ramped up from floor to floor. The rise was imperceptibly gradual, so as to give one the impression of everything being on the same floor.

Around the corner, at the far end of the building, a dark shadow appeared and began lumbering toward me. I could make out the form of an enormous bear just as it became alerted to my presence. He immediately broke into a full loping run straight for me.

As per dream protocols (and general common sense) I began to panic. I knew I couldn't outrun him, so I tried some of the doors, hoping to get inside one of the rooms before he overtook me. None of them would open, so I kept running until I reached the corner, hoping to ditch him once I was out of his sight.

This tactic worked, and the bear seemed to slow his pursuit once I rounded the corner. In the back of my mind, though, I knew that this wasn't over, and I proceeded cautiously, hoping to reach some kind of exit before we ran into each other again. 

At the end of the hallway, just as I was about to round the next corner, I looked back and saw the same dark shadow appear, and the process repeated, with the bear spotting me and me panicking, running down the hallway toward the next corner. Each time I managed to get around the corner out of sight, the scene would reset, and I would get a moment's reprieve before being spotted and pursued by the bear once again.

I don't know how many times this loop repeated before I eventually woke up, the image of a giant bear--mouth open, barreling down a spooky hallway toward me--seared into my brain.

Serving God: Dice, lightly coat and then reassemble all pieces of the Diety, preheat oven to 425 degrees, standby fire drill, all hands on deck

 

It must be brutal

Eating all that strudel

Making appointments for your poodle

At the hot springs sushi bar groomer

The whole kit and kaboodle

Eviscerates your cosmic noodle

Fruitless to pursue

A furtive, restless dance ensues

Nonetheless

Breaking out in my hallway

Of all places

The stairs are a point of contention

There's no mistaking the intention

Bootstompingly giddy good times

Nothing to apologize for, my mere mortals 

The deity chortles and fixes an

Eggs Benedict real quick

To further obfuscate the situation

Pardon my sneezes

As they obliterate continents

Rattling their contents

And resulting in 

Accidental dismemberment

Remember

Don't forget

You tied the knot

Of your own blindfold

That chokehold

Is still you

Trying to make believe it's all true

Because what's more real than

Oh, let's say, torture...death and gloom

To brighten up a room?

Once upon a cat

Too smart to chase its tail

Came a dog too jaded to convince him to try

Together, they both lie

In their own way

The cat less apologetic

Because

Who cares about the philosophical meanderings

Of a dog

Anyway?

I mean, really, who does?

Nobody, that's who! 

Now leave me to my nap

Motherfuckers

And be quiet about it!

Sheesh!

3 AM

It's 3 AM

The numbers on the alarm clock

Unrelenting

Laser red

Doesn't feel like I'll ever sleep again

It's 3 AM

And I'm in my head

My soul is out wandering

But my body is glued to the bed

 

 

It's 3 AM

I'm time tripping again

Gonna give the dial a spin

Fast forward to the end

Look back at where I've been

...again

 

 

It's 3 AM

Just me and my head

Is this what it's like to be dead?

I've forgotten my soul

And brought along my anxieties and fears instead

 

 

It's 3 AM

I'd wander to the kitchen

Get something to eat

But I have no feet 

So I float up toward the ceiling

It's 3 AM

This feels like a dream

But I can't wake up

Because I already am

Damn

 

It's 3 AM

It's cold

I'm lonely

I need a friend

 

3 AM  

I open the curtain

And peer out into the night

As witches and demons peer in

 

It's 3 AM

This repetition is doing me in

I want to scream <SCREAM>

But no one would hear me if I did

It's 3 AM

The time when the veil is thin

Slits in the membrane

Rifts in heaven's skin

 

It's 3 AM

I'm sending out a signal

To guide all friendlies in

 

It's 3 AM

The sandman has come to 

Reclaim all of his sand

 

 

3 AM

My neighbors are at it again

The walls are paper thin

I don't know which is worse

The fighting or the makeup sex at 3 AM

 

 

It's 3 AM

I wish I smoked

Cigarettes

Just to have something to do

 

Qu'est-ce que c'est que je suis aujourd'hui?

Me and my head walk into a bar

The bartender seems to be ignoring us

So I say to him, "Is this what it's like to be dead?"

"That depends," he chuckles, still without looking at us.

"On how hard you hit your head on that bar."

 

----

This is meant to be some kind of stream of consciousness beat poetry. Picture a brooding guy on a stool strumming a single guitar chord with each intonation of the words "3 AM." Slight reverb and delay, perhaps some melancholic wah-wah. Jazz-ish, hipster vibe, vocals monotone, spoken, except for a single muted scream.