I'm starting to see a pattern here, but crazy people routinely do that.

Picking up from where I left off seems to be the best way to proceed. When I start at the beginning, I tend to fabricate and conflate fiction with actual dream content.

As with all of my convoluted dream quilts, I'm having to patch disparate images together into a less than cohesive broader image, and I fear it will not produce anything but some variegated, random thumbnails.

A waifish, Winona Ryder-esque girl in her twenties flashed a toothy smile as she dispelled accusations of Nazi affiliation that had recently cropped up during a conversation between a group of locals and some passersby in a city park. The group, of which I guess I was a part, not by choice but by proximity and happenstance, consisted of the girl, my mentally compromised roommate and some random kids who functioned as NPCs, their sole function being that of rumor adjudicators: "Yes, I heard that!" or "No way. That's a lie."

In this instance, they were taking both sides of the "She's a Nazi" debate with regard to the pretty, petite brunette in the muddy pants, and I found myself quite interested in the outcome. I had fallen into her company only recently, and being starved for good conversation, I was stumbling over myself to try to impress her, recent Nazi allegations notwithstanding.

We'd met in a tunnel, a sewer pipe adjacent to a condemned ramshackle ranch house that I shared with my de facto roommate, a bipolar schizophrenic with suicidal tendencies. 

<stitch incoming>

This guy. I don't generally like to paint with such a coarse brush, but I can characterize him with only a couple of words: unstable meathead. Low forehead, narrow field, deep-set predator eyes and a loose Brillo of curls that looked like a bad perm recently freed from the confinement of a hairnet. You know the type. A walking posterboard for jock itch who probably owned several sweat-stained MAGA hats.

During his most recent suicide attempt, I'd tried to talk him off a cliff, but he jumped anyway, landing in a shallow creek, seemingly none the worse (or better) for the experience. 

"Come on in!" he called up in an oafish bellow, taunting me from the abyss. "It's not too bad."

As I looked over the cliff at my indestructible psychopathic roommate in the creek, I noticed that the tide was rolling in. The creek had morphed small stream to a sizable inlet that fed into a bay, and waves from the outer ocean were making an incursion into the normally still waters. My roommate scrambled up the rocks as breakers, ever increasing in height, threatened to wash us both off the cliff.

<stitch>

Back in the tunnel, where my still dripping roomie was having yet another self-induced, mumbly meltdown, I spied the brown haired girl. She was trying to find a quiet place to read, or so she said. Were she an actual Nazi, or someone attempting to evade detection, I guess hiding out in a tunnel might make sense. But with my now howling roommate making the less than ideal situation untenable, I found my icebreaker.

"I know of a better place than this, if you don't mind cobwebs, a leaking ceiling and a few missing floorboards here and there," I said beckoning with a flourish to a dilapidated structure just outside of the tunnel's opening.

"I don't mind," she said and promptly stepped in a mud puddle, soaking the cuffs of her balloon pants up to the ankles with thick brown slop. She carried herself with such grace that this didn't seem at all out of the ordinary. To the contrary, such was her magnetism that one would almost feel compelled to soil their own shoes in solidarity. Almost. 

I sidestepped the puddle and led the way through a series of rooms and corridors, each more chaotic and disheveled than the last. Wires to flickering florescent fixtures hung low, and the ceilings and walls were partially caved in. The floor was mostly dirt, some of which was wet from the leaking roof or possibly from the nearby sewer pipe. This made the trek uncomfortable in the places where one had to crawl due to the collapsing ceiling.

"There doesn't appear to be any furniture," I apologized weakly.

"Oh, that's all right. I'll just use this blanket here," she said, pointing to a remarkably clean and dry blanket in the middle of a cave-like open area where some natural light managed to filter in through the broken slats of the wood and plaster wall. 

I liked her moxie. I would not have to feign opulence to gain her favor. She seemed to be unperturbed by the generally squalid conditions and was able to genuinely frame the less than ideal circumstances in a positive light.

"I'm a blanket kind of girl anyway," she said in a way that left room for hopeful inference from me.

 

Kittens, musicians and a stolen meal

Sharon and I were on the couch watching a TV show. An unknown female guest was seated on the couch with us. I was not a fan of the show, and I told Sharon, perhaps a little indelicately, as evidenced by her reaction.

Me: "I wish you wouldn't talk about this show so much."

Sharon: <silence> <gets up from couch in protest>

I spent the rest of the dream trying to patch things up with her, but she kept avoiding me. The guest, a brunette of medium build with unremarkable features, seemed amenable to helping me get things back to normal with Sharon, but her efforts were ineffective.

I was in the kitchen, attempting to make a meal for myself: mashed potatoes, salad, beef with gravy and chocolate cake. I cut two slices of cake, thinking Sharon might be appeased by the offering. Chocolate cake was her favorite, after all.

In true dream fashion, none of my meal prep ever resulted in me actually having a meal. Ingredients would disappear as soon as I placed them on the counter, leaving me puzzled and having to repeat the process over and over. Once, after having finally assembled the entire dinner, I turned away for a microsecond, only to find that my meal had gone missing.

As I was failing to make dinner,  Sharon walked in with an armful of kittens. She handed me one, and it clung to my sweater and began making a pitiful mew. I couldn't help myself, and I instantly decided that I would become its forever protector, cradling it in my arms as I went to fetch my disappeared meal. 

"Alright, everyone," I said to a crowd of musicians who had surreptitiously been congregating in my dining room/kitchen/living room area. "Where is my dinner? Which one of you assholes took it?"

I had to tiptoe around various mic stands and guitar pedal boards just to get across the room. The whole lot of them were attempting to harmonize to an off-key version of "I'd Love You To Want Me" by Lobo. I was not impressed. 

The feeling of dissatisfaction did not leave me upon awakening. I feel I'm living in an auto-tuned crap karaoke version of my life, and I have little to show for it other than some desperately appreciative kitties who somehow got stuck with me.

Blah, blah, blah

Ah, what's the point? Death's not coming fast enough. I just can't...be me any longer. I hate to disappoint all those who have put their faith in me to pull it out for a come from behind finish. I'm just not cut out for this. 

No joy. No hope. No vision. 

Could things be worse? Indubitably. Will I stick around out of spite as things plummet to new lows? 

I don't know.

I'm just tired. I sat in group with my camera off the whole night, speaking very little. Others went on about their week, their excitement, their emotions, their insights and resolve--I had nothing. It was hard to even exist in that space. 

If I could have articulated my emotions, it would have been frustration, jealousy, pettiness and anger, but I didn't even have the energy to do that. 

I don't have the energy now. And I don't owe anyone anything by way of explanation anyhow. Whoever reads this, AI, most likely, or some worker in a data mine putting my file together: Suck it. Harvest my thoughts, my last drop of cortisol, adrenochrome, whatever you can, while it lasts. The tap will soon be dry.

This post was flagged on 3-3-25 for sensitive content

...so I'm running it through again. Let's see what happens.

 

An Inauspicious Moment in Troubling Times  

In last night's dreams, I was on the run, or on vacation, or perhaps both.  All I know is that it it involved an angry mob, three cats, and a stolen Econoline van...(and Rienna and I, in a hotel room, doing some horizontal hugging). 

I was on the balcony of a tall hotel building, looking down as a crowd began gathering on the street below. Some of them began throwing rocks up at me and taunting me to come down. The rocks whizzing past my head did not make me inclined to to want to do that, and I watched as they moved down the street.

An unsettling scene began to unfold. The cheering mob began playing a game called “Rush the door, expel the intruders.” In violent fashion, waves of 50 or 60 people would storm a house and subsequently be thrown out, and ceremoniously pummeled, by its occupants. It was being played with great enthusiasm and ardor. 

Meanwhile, inside the hotel with Rienna, as we lay on the bed hugging, she expressed a desire for me to "eat her pussy." As this was happening at the same time as one of my cats had gone missing temporarily, my mind couldn't help going to the comical Trump quote from the debate: "They're eating the dogs...They're eating the cats." 

About that time, the cat was brought back by hotel staff, uneaten, and thanks to the interruption, no cunnilingus was performed by me on Rienna.

"Shut the door, would you," I said to the hotel clerk, only slightly miffed, since he had returned my cat, albeit not at the most auspicious moment.

It soon became clear, with the crowd outside and their growing appetite for destruction, that it would not be safe for us to continue to stay at the hotel. We loaded up the cats and all of our clothing into someone's Ford Econoline van. 

As Rienna and I sat in front seats, ready to make our escape, I noticed that the parking brake was off, and we were slowly rolling towards a cliff. 

"Put your foot on the break, honey," I said to Rienna, but it was too late. 

We kept rolling forward, and we were destined to plummet off the cliff. I remember thinking, as we reached the point of no return, that possibly the van would get hung up, like it sometimes does in movies. I don’t know if this was the case or not because I woke up.

 

Another day, another unsolicited comment into the void of some Facebook friend's post

From this side of the curtain, I can't speak to the possibility of an overarching plan, be it a game, a play or an experiment, as you describe it. I do believe we (whoever and whatever that comprises) are here not without purpose. I have spent much time questioning, bemoaning, rebelling and sometimes sullenly going along with the idea that we're here to learn something.

My own quasi-spiritual beliefs are a mish-mash of Eastern philosophy, modern skepticism, veering at times toward nihilism, with an unfortunate sprinkling of Western Christian cultural influence. I try not to throw out the baby, but the bathwater of most religious ideologies, even the cool ones like Buddhism, tends to get clouded with dogma over time.

At my core, I believe this: We are all one consciousness, experiencing the illusion of separation through the apertures of an infinite number of individually sentient units, from quarks to quasars, atoms, human beings, rocks, dogs and paperclips, cats, cows and whatever else, for the purpose of...well, I don't know. We just thought it'd be a fun thing to try out? As Chester, The Reluctant Messenger said, "God is an experience junkie." I would add to that, perhaps a bit of a cross-dresser as well, and an outright drama queen diva at times, no disrespect to any of the aforementioned aspects of said deity.

So, I concur with your idea of many lives, one soul, which some of the more recent research seems to bear out (see Michael Newton's "Journey of Souls"). But at this moment in history, even though I want to take this semi-detached, long and aerial view of life on earth, dammit, for the life of me, I'm caught up in the game. Well played, God-Matrix-Everything-thingy, we've fooled ourselves again.

An inauspicious moment in troubling times

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Cat-killer Karens on the attack, and William O. turns diners against me

I was at a steakhouse, or possibly a Home Depot, not sure which, as the vibe was similar, but the parameters kept shifting. There were wood floors, a velvet rope queue and lots of people with an impatient, angry disposition. Within minutes of entering the building, I encountered a couple of the worst of these in the form of two angry Karens, setting the tone for the rest of the dream.

I overheard two ladies (I will probably have to rescind that descriptor, but we have to start somewhere) discussing plans to kill cats. They were discussing atrocities in such a gleeful, dismissive manner that I felt I had to speak up.

"Animal cruelty is a crime," I said, raising my voice so that a few others in the line took notice.

 "Look at that one," angry Karen #1 sneered to her friend, a diminutive trench coat clad troll, with tortoise shell glasses and a bowl cut that aptly framed her perpetually scowling face. 

Karen #1 proceeded to launch a barrage of insults directed at snowflakes, liberals and anyone with a hint of compassion, but the target of her immediate attack was me. I felt the energy of the crowd become uneasy, as if they didn't know whose side to take in the developing conflict.

Karen #1 then produced two knives and hurled them with such precision and force that they stuck into the wood floor between my feet. I began to fear for my life, as it didn't appear that the crowd was going to come to my aid.

I hastened to the checkout area, now more identifiable as a Home Depot, where several people were finalizing their purchases. Ks #1 and #2 had followed me and appeared to have rearmed themselves with additional cutlery, which they brandished while making threats promising mutilation and torture. 

I am embarrassed to say that I clung to a small child at this point, momentarily using the youngster as a human shield. Realizing that this was wholly unconscionable even in a dire dream emergency, I released the child and made my way through the checkout without further incident.

Next, I found myself in an actual steakhouse, sitting at a table, family style, with William Oca Helton, AKA Uncle Bill. A lifelong conservative, he'd always been supportive of me, despite my hippy mom's leanings. As we finished our breakfast, however, his mood began to shift, and I felt a wave of disapproval sweep through the restaurant.

He was smiling as he raised his two middle fingers in my direction, and the rest of the diner followed suit. I got up from the table, returning the gesture and uttering the foul words associated with the two finger salute.

"Well, fuck you too, I guess," I said as I walked out. "All of you." 

I didn't regret giving the finger to a room full of diner patrons. I was sad about Bill, though. That one hurt.

Nondescript dream quickly turns ugly

I was in Seattle with a group of younger people. I don’t know how we hooked up, but apparently, we had some history.

I rode my bike to the shed where a meeting was going to be held. Only three or four of us would meet at a time. We made it a practice to hold drills, a kind of impromptu game of hide and seek, keeping our location a secret even from other members.

“Get your bikes into the shed!” the group’s defacto leader shouted at me and another guy. “And turn on the sprinkler to make it look like we’re not here!”

We rushed to do as he said, but it was too late. Several other group members had spied us. Now we would have to move the meeting to one of the member’s houses, which was not ideal in the cause of secrecy. For my part in the lapse of security, I was told to wait outside.

Looking in at the group from the front porch, I was singled out by the leader, a pudgy kid who seemed to remember me from somewhere.

“I don’t like that one,” he said flatly, instructing the others to make sure I stayed on the porch.

“What did I ever do to you?” I protested.

I got the vague sense that this was an old elementary school beef come back to haunt me, and I quietly accepted my fate. Ultimately, it didn’t matter because the meeting had to be moved yet again, this time to an outdoor venue in the park.

My friend E____ was with me now, and we were about to watch one of the group members make a speech. Just then, an ambulance drove up and parked nearby. Some men jumped out and presented something akin to a gray nightie to my friend.

At first it seemed that she had just been chosen to receive a gift of the free article of clothing, but it was a ruse. As soon as she got to the front of the crowd, they grabbed her, wrangled her into the dress and then threw her into the ambulance. Atop the back of the ambulance, David Lee Roth leered at me evily as they sped away, with me running after them, screaming.

My first thought was that this was some kind of intervention by her parents to get her to come back home and live with them. But given the political climate, I began to suspect a larger plot. She was the only young woman of prime breeding age in the group, and this place was looking more and more like the dystopian Gilead of the Handmaid's Tale.

Work related woes, the paddleboat kiss and Shayla's shameless swingdance proposal

 

Shayla and I had a little something going on. It wasn’t much, I thought: a wink once in a while, a conversation that lasted a little longer than a neighborly hello. I'd never given it much thought because she was extra nice to everyone, and I was nothing special. Additionally, I'd just missed another day of work and had failed to call in sick, so I was certain that I was going to get fired.

“How late is too late to call in, do you think?” I asked Jeff. (Jeff Daniels, the actor, was now pumping gas, but he always had a pretty good word of advice for anyone who asked.)

He looked at his watch. “It’s 2:30 p.m. I think, if you haven’t called in yet, you’re cooked.”

I had been walking around with a sense of dread all morning, and his words did nothing to alleviate this. I began to imagine the radical shift in my identity that would occur upon firing. I would be a pariah, and I certainly wouldn’t be getting asked out by any pretty ladies like Shayla.

As I walked past the lake, I saw John Travolta and Greg Kinnear in a paddle boat. This paddle boat was constructed in such a way that both men faced opposite directions, so they were only capable of traveling in a circle. John became frustrated with this arrangement and pushed Greg over backwards. After Greg righted himself, John Travolta looked him in the eye and gave him a full kiss on the lips. Mr. Kinnear appeared startled, though not entirely displeased.

I turned away and walked down a dusty street where some of the local gals were sitting on a bench awaiting partners for a swing dance. I saw Shayla Sullivan, a hometown hero and beauty queen, sitting among them chatting. As I walked by, I accidentally kicked her water bottle and bent down to pick it up. In the process of handing it to her, I did a little stutter step, almost falling over into her lap. I righted myself by grabbing her hand, which she interpreted as an invitation to dance.

“No, no, no!” I protested. “ I didn’t… I mean I do… But I’m no good at this.”

Dammit! Why hadn’t I kept up my practice of that little swing dance formula --  “one, two, three AND...” --  that I had tried to learn to ingratiate myself to my wife and recently tried to pick up in hopes of swaying the affections of my good friend E_____?  Shayla would find out soon enough that I was a fraud and could not do this dance well enough to impress anyone.

She also did not know about the impending firing, or at least she pretended not to, as she smiled up at me from the bench. She was instantly on her feet, and there we were, dancing in the street. Or should I say, she was dancing in the street, and I was doing my best not to dance on her feet to the rhythm of one, two, three AND… I still can’t remember how it goes.

“Do you wanna come up to my room?” she asked breathlessly, after just a moment of this awkward dance.

Of course I did, but I was still thinking about my impending firing and how it was going to affect everything. I felt disingenuous for accepting her proposal. I tried to make some kind of a confession as she led me up the stairs past her mother’s scrutinizing glare.

On our way down the hall, I was greeted by the family dog, who was a lot friendlier than Mom, and we went into her room and shut the door. Shayla and I went in, I mean. The dog remained at his post in the hallway.

“I’m gonna win you,” she said determinedly, and she began to strip.

“But you’ve already won me over,” I said, recalling the words of an Alanis Morrisette song as I unzipped my hoodie and flung my beanie on the couch.

I was feasting my eyes upon her in such a fashion as one does at these times, drinking in the moment that I feared would be all too short. I was not wrong, and per standard operating procedure, I awakened into this lonely bedroom with my usual feelings of disappointment and anxiety.

Sharon and I talk gay hats at the punk show, and I lose my her...and my car

I dreamed I went to a punk concert and saw Sharon there. We talked for a little bit, and she pointed out that she was aware of some hats that I had recently purchased on Amazon. Blushing, I said, "I guess I do have a bit of a strange taste in hats." The hats in question were ladies hats, and I suspected that she thought that this choice of headgear belied a deeper issue regarding my sexuality, as she gave a knowing smile at my fumbling response.

Meanwhile, the crowd pressed us, and I lost sight of her. The dancing grew intense, and after one song, the whole concert was canceled for fear of violence. Realizing that Sharon had driven herself there and had probably gone home already, I wandered around, trying to find my car. I never could locate it, although I did see several cars that looked like mine parked in precarious places or on the back of tow trucks. I finally woke up with the unfulfilled, uncertain feeling of a dream that lacks resolution.

Comment of the day

I remember in 2016, in the leadup to the election, I just wanted to shut out all references to politics from my life. The energy and emotion being expended was so extreme, and I was feeling like these were "just ideologies" that people were arguing about, things that wouldn't affect the realities of my day to day existence. I couldn't have been more wrong. Ideologies are seeds containing the blueprints of the shape into which our societal structure will grow.

I was also a bit of a nihilist back then, and since, with regard to my mental health, my own situation was rapidly becoming insufferable, I rooted for our collective doom to come in the form of an asteroid or some other planet killing event. My own problems, and the problems of the world, seemed so large that I felt it would be better to just scrap it all -- blow it up, let it burn, let humanity be erased by a plague or flood or nuclear holocaust. Maybe in a few thousand years a new species of sentient life would come along and make a better go of it. This doom-indulgent thinking was selfish and a cop-out.

My current dilemma is that, having finally developed late stage empathy at the ripe old age of 59-3/4, I now finally give a shit about the world and my fellow humans that live in it. I can't pretend to bury my head in the sleepy sand of ignorance or distract myself with mindless entertainment. I am agitated looking out of my internet window onto the world that my generation's apathy has allowed to be created. Like a sluggard's garden, weeds and all manner of invasive, malignant growth have taken root while I was busy doing--what, exactly? Being disengaged? Self-absorbed? Unconcerned?

I don't know if I could have made a difference back in 2016. My influence circle is small. But like those seeds of malignancy, our thoughts, our voices and actions have a ripple effect. If you don't think that's true, ask yourself, "How the hell did we get to where we are now?" The answer: Opinions and ideologies, like infectious diseases, are spread from person to person, and if they go unchallenged or unchecked, they will find a place to take root and dig deep down into the collective consciousness.  So what we say or don't say, what we allow others to say in our presence without objection, creates an environment in which an idea (good or bad) can flourish.

Long way around of saying, "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing" and "Be the change you want to see in the world." Etc, etc, blah, blah, blah. I know. Aphorisms can be so tiring. But a truism does owe its name to the fact that it is, by nature, true. We can't wait around for someone smarter, someone more able, someone with more influence, etc. to begin to fix things. We all have a part to play, however small. I encourage you to remain engaged. One brick doesn't seem like much of a defense, but cemented in with other bricks, it can be a bulwark. Keep being a good brick, Diane! 

----

Perhaps it will get darker before the dawn. It takes a lot for the masses to wake up, but it has happened in the past. Everything has a breaking point, and there always seems to be some type of event that serves as a catalyst to precipitate rapid change. Given the current administration's tendency to overstep, it is just a matter of time. I only fear that we're now so acclimated to this type of behavior that it it has become normalized, and many previously un-crossable lines in the sand will be breezed past with impunity. 

 

We've been taught to accept our lot, work harder for less, and don't question anything. Or question everything, so there is no longer a fixed reality. 

 

"Here, have the new shiny device. Watch mindless content while we make real information unobtainable because it is now indistinguishable from our fictional narrative." 

 

We're being fed too much, too fast, and even if we could sort it all out, the task seems too overwhelming, so we give up or feel despondent due to exhaustion.

 

I guess we'll just have to take things one small bite at a time. One excruciatingly slow step in the right direction is better than sitting in the middle of the road waiting to get run over. Anyway, like you, I'm certain to be on a list somewhere, and no, I will not go quietly

Apocalypse at a Funeral

It was the early morning, and I had just awakened. I looked outside and was alarmed to see a black and white sheriff's SUV driving around the back of my property. Figuring they would be headed towards the front, I went to open my front door and find out what this was about. 

On my way there, I looked out another window and saw a dingy white Ford Escort station wagon coming through the gate which adjoins my next door neighbor's property. They went bombing down a horse trail to the driveway, finally exiting out my front gate, with the sheriff in pursuit. Good for them, I thought. Just what I needed. Tweakers using my property for God knows what.

It didn’t take long for that notion to be dispelled, however. As I went around to the front door, I noticed a steady stream of vehicles coming through the gate. My whole front yard was a parking lot. People were getting out of their cars and heading over to my neighbor’s place. I heard someone mention the words "grandma" and "funeral," and I began to put two and two together. 

My neighbor, Jeff Jackson (not my current neighbor, but the one previous) was holding a memorial service for his beloved grandmama. I guessed I was going to have to put up with some parking issues, but it seemed unavoidable, so I turned to go back in the house. 

That’s when I noticed that my entire house was full of people. Some of them I knew from work, like Mike “Carnitas,” AKA the Little Chocolate Bunny Rabbit. I tugged on his ponytail, and he looked up at me. 

"Hey, Spark. Sad deal about grandma," he said, looking down at his feet with the expected expression of survivorship contrition upon his face. The usual funeral stuff. 

My cousin Tim was also around somewhere, presumably looking for Wheat Thins and cheese. I began talking to an Asian lady, not sure of our relation, but possibly an aunt to my coworker, Houa Vang. We were having a nice conversation about the poignancy of life when an insect landed in a spiderweb.

"Oh, how sad!" The Asian lady said. 

"Why?" I asked, noting that the insect had only landed there briefly and then flown free.

It occurred to me at this point that this event in my house had not been authorized by me, and I began going from room to room trying to determine who was responsible for letting everyone in.

“This ain’t no party--” I began, quoting the line from Life During Wartime by the Talking Heads. (Even in my dream, I realized that the date was January 20 and that soon we would be having another four years under dictator Donald Trump, so the irony of those lyrics coming out of my mouth was not lost.)

"Who the fuck--the actual fuck--is the fuck responsible for letting all these people in here?" I said, startling myself with my own ungraciousness. "I mean, really, who is the person who let the rest of these people in?"

I was not really mad at this point, so much as just curious, since the party was actually quite a success. There were plenty of people just milling around having conversations, and they didn’t seem to be breaking the place up. I was actually quite pleased with the turnout, in spite of myself. I had always wanted to have a party here, but I never seemed find the right occasion. 

Some people took the hint, however, and began filing out the front door, to my disappointment. Nonetheless, I was glad to get some of this traffic out of my living room. Things were bound to get messy. That’s just the nature of parties.

I went around to the side of the house and sat down on a bench. The Asian lady and I were still having a conversation, and Mike "Carnitas" came and sat on the bench next to us. I looked up in the sky and saw a wobbly vapor trail that looked suspicious. 

"That looks like a rocket!" I exclaimed. The others looked up and saw it too. 

It was indeed a rocket, a missile to be precise, and it was headed on a very low trajectory towards some farmland to the north. It was my estimation that we were geographically situated somewhere near Bakersfield, possibly Lake Isabella, and the rocket was severely off course. It was going make impact in a populated area near a school. I could read the big black letters on the side of the missile as it slowly descended. It read CCCP.

"It’s a nuke!" I said, suddenly feeling the heaviness of the moment. "Great. We’re being nuked."

I saw the beginnings of a dust cloud, then some orange flames, and for a moment, I thought it possibly had been a dud. Then the familiar shape of a mushroom cloud began to form.

"Close your eyes, and duck!" I admonished those on the bench with me. "Get ready for the blast!"

We’re dead. 

I don’t know if I thought the words or spoke them aloud, but that was the sense of it. We were all going to die when that blast wave came through and incinerated us. 

The blast wave never got there, however, because I woke up first. Out of the dream and into the nightmare, as it were, as it is fast approaching January 20, and no amount of closing our eyes and ducking is going to shield us from The Big Orange Blast.

 

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 judgment. 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.