Alftred HItchcock presents....Alfred Hitchcock

 

I'm sure I dreamed a lot of different things last night, but unfortunately only one image survived, burned in my mind through many fitful awakenings. It was Alfred Hitchcock, laying naked in all his flabby glory on a couch. 

To make matters worse, he was trying to hit on me. 

I don't know how you tell someone as famous as that, in a polite, appropriate manner that, although you're flattered (I guess), your primary reaction is "Ick!"

"Sir, while I appreciate the offer, even if I was attracted to you, which I'm not--you are simply too fat." 

I felt bad for him, a fat old hedonist just trying to get his scam on. And yet his Jabba-like flesh rolls were just not doin' it for me. I suppose his nudity wasn't even technically indecent, as his belly fat covered up his privates like a flesh apron.

I had other thoughts late in the evening brought about my insomnia and late night Facebook reading. I was pondering a reply to a couple of posts that my new friend _______ had put up, but I'm going to have to provide a little more context. I'll have to backtrack in order to synchronize my Facebook personal life with this blog, which functions as an adjunct to my social activities. 

Facebook houses my more publicly visible social side, while this blog is kind of a darkened broom closet, an after hours club inhabited by dreams, thoughts and confessions which need to find a home somewhere outside of my head but aren't ready for prime time.

Oh, and my LED, my Sharon communication device has been trying to get my attention since last evening. I don't know what she is trying to tell me this time. It came on yesterday, as I was thinking that I wasn't so crazy for connecting the synchronistic LED illumination and a particularly poignant episode of The Andy Griffith show, the one with Sharon, Andy's long lost love. Just as I had that thought, it popped back on. It was too perfect. 

Sure, it is schizophrenics who typically think that secret personal messages are being beamed to them via television programs and other electronic devices. But who's to say that they don't have the inside scoop on such things? Who can say whether or not their hallucinations and delusions are actually glimpses at other dimensions and realities, no less real than ours?

So, what are you trying to tell me, dear? Are you warning me I'm in danger of making an ass out of myself? Well, that ship has sailed, darling. But if you're just showing up to watch and cheer me on from the sidelines, I appreciate that, too. 

Perhaps in the afterlife there's no good drama, and spirits are forced to watch the reality TV of our daily lives for entertainment. If that's the case, sorry for all those boring hours where nothing happens. It's hard getting the script writers and actors off their asses. Something about benefits and working conditions, I dunno. 

I guess if all the world's a stage, I'd better get out there. Even if I belly flop, I suppose at least it'll be good for a laugh. Even if it goes over like Alfred Hitchcock's naked couch proposal, it's still entertainment.

Stay tuned.