Thursday, December 31, 2020

James Reed super mega warehouse hiring emporium, a singing cattle drive and a juvenile steals my motorcycle


Last things first. I was wandering around inside the largest super mega warehouse, when I ran into James Reed. He was going to tell me the name of some cool band, but as we wandered the empty chutes through which many thousands of prospective employees were soon to be herded, it was somehow eluding him. He kept coming up with half correct phrases and saying, "no, that's not it." 

It was imperative that I avoid security or I'd risk some kind of questioning, so when I saw a uniformed mall cop, I ran like my life depended on it. I pretty much had him beat, since I had a big head start, but you know those dream mall cops, always on your tail to the bitter end. I woke up, still unapprehended. 

Before that I was on a cattle drive with Joe Reemts. Of course, the topic of Shaunna came up. They were on the outs, just as in real life. For some reason on this cattle drive there was much more singing than there was cattle driving. 

We were all sitting in a giant outdoor cafeteria with folding tables, doing some musical numbers while a lumberjack style breakfast was being cooked. I spied Shaunna and sang directly at her moon face. I always thought she had a face that looked like Sarah Jessica Parker in profile, which reminds me of a yellowed crescent moon. 

And finally, or firstly, I had been riding my Honda CX 500, which I owned back in the '90s. I parked it momentarily across the street from a dentist office, where I was just popping in to use the restroom. I was only in there for a moment, so I didn't take the key out of the ignition. 

Bad move. When I went back out to the street my bike was gone. In its place was a tiny Vespa scooter, not even a full-sized one, but one for kids. I figured someone must have traded up, so I went knocking on a few doors to see if anyone had seen what happened. 

I encountered a young kid of maybe 9 or 10, who seemed suspicious enough. I laid into him with the questions. He got defensive and started swinging at me. I could hold him at bay with one arm. 

I contemplated pummeling him in retaliation, and also for interrogation purposes, but decided against it. He was a kind of frail little guy and I'm sure I'd have gotten in more trouble, possibly ruining my case with the motorcycle theft. 

I had to get up to pee anyway. Never have a dream where there is a bathroom scene without making sure there isn't a reason for it, I have found.

That's about it. I got goop eye again this morning. Stupid antibiotic ointment is slowing the stye down, but all this oily gel and the subsequent lid scrubbing is giving me some kind of pinkeye looking irritation. 

The last two nights, I've had a headache behind my right eye that was so bad I contemplated suicide. I settled for some cookies and ibuprofen. Suicide isn't off the table, though. It's just not the first course.

Wednesday, December 30, 2020

Coney Island showboat


I dreamed I was a guy named Kevin. He is a character on "This is Us." In the dream, Kevin was an alcoholic piano player known as "the Coney Island Showboat." Kevin had revenge issues and was down on his luck. He had to try to get his mojo back but was having difficulty. He was blocked musically and needed a drink. 

He took one shot of whiskey and immediately sat down at a raggedy old piano and started banging away like a man possessed. The piano was falling apart, but he could feel the mojo coming back. This was an odd dream, in that I saw myself as Kevin from a third person perspective. 

Then the phone rang in the other room, and I had to wake up before properly packing up the dream, which I am certain had more to it. It was a telemarketer. 

I decided to find out whether one of the many phone jacks in the spare bedroom was functional so I could avoid getting out of bed the next time the phone rang in the morning. I plugged in an old phone, and it worked. In the future, I can hang up on the telemarketers and get back to dreaming. One more improvement in this charmed life I live.

Tuesday, December 29, 2020

Restaurant accounts recievable FM broadcast recording band


I dreamed I was working for a restaurant in Paradise. One of the Cozy Diner franchise, but not exactly one I remembered precisely, but of that ilk. There were big Mexican mob bosses who raked in the money, but the day to day was left to a mix of immigrants and plain old white folks who performed the kitchen and accounts receivable functions. 

I started out as a very lowly trash boy, and was expected to provide my own makeshift uniform. I asked if my oil stained blue jeans would be ok, and if I should invest in a white button down shirt. They laughed at the idea of a trash boy needing to have a button down shirt and we settled on a clean white cotton t-shirt to complete my outfit. 

I got to work, following the staff around and keeping busy with learning whatever it was they were going to teach me. Soon I was doing a little accounts receivable, contacting customers who were overdue and threatening to cut off their credit or suspend services. 

I noticed that their records were documented in a terribly unorganized fashion. The ledger was a simple piece of old paper, folded and scribbled on in pencil with only the dates of the phone calls and no real information like, who, what or how much, the typical things that should be on a balance sheet. I made mention of that to Kay, the receptionist. 

The part of Kay was played by Kay Doering, an actual receptionist that I worked with at Hondo Die Supply, back in LA in the '80s. 

Fun fact, Kay actually found a way to embezzle a large sum of money from clients by eliciting cash payments from customers for a reduction in their total bill. She managed to net about $5000, so she must have had a pretty good technique. She didn't do a good enough job covering her tracks, though, and the discrepancy was caught by the office manager, who then took it to the owner of the company, John Hitzler. 

Instead of firing her, Mr. Hitzler (I just love saying that name) made a deal with her to have her work off her debt by garnishing her incredibly small paycheck, so she'd work for even less than her already unsatisfactory slave wages. 

She endured this way for the rest of the time I worked there, in a perpetual state of forced gratitude and sorrowful defeat. She was whipped and she knew it. She became an automaton, like post-lobotomy Murphy in "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest,"  or Winston in 1984, after his capture and re-education in the dreaded Room 104. 

Back to my dream. I was assisting Kay in trying to nail down some of the more delinquent clients and somehow I became aware of another system in place, one of recording phone calls. There was an extensive library of old cassettes, again, disorganized and disheveled. Some of the tapes were coming out of their cartridges, in a tangle of spagetti-like magnetic ribbon. 

I set about to fixing some with the good old "cut and splice" method, using scissors and scotch tape. I assured them that I was an expert at this, but that some of the recording would be lost. But prior to showing off my editing wizardry, I discovered that there was an FM transmitter linking the part of the restaurant dedicated to accounting to a breakroom/storage area in a building across the street. 

Someone had brought in some musical instruments and there was an impromptu kind of jam session, with myself on guitar, kind of hamming it up on the open mic. I was doing my Mark and Brian morning show impersonation, fueled by ego and caffeine. I was loving it. My guitar licks were awesome. 

Rick Johnson, my former Malicious Mischief bandmate was there. We were trying to work through "Grimsley's Theme," a song we composed using lyrics provided by the actual host of the show, Robert Foster, which I acquired as a member of the Grimsley fan club. (That part really happened. No lie. I have a tape from a party that we played in Garden Grove and it is actually not too.... well, I like it anyways.)

As we were "performing" this jam session over the transmitter for the entertainment of the accounts receivable staff across the street, it occurred to me that I should disclose this fact to my bandmates, who at this point were Rick Johnson, Jerry O'Connell and one of the Mexicans on the wait staff. 

They were ok with the idea, but quickly became more mindful of what we said over the intercom. No loose banter about the big bosses, since they might be listening in. I knew Kay would get a kick out of it, though, so we tried to keep it loose and not appear too stifled. 

 That's about it. I awoke to a bright patch of sunlight on the wall which nearly blinded me. I still had some antibiotic ointment on my eyes from a prescription for my stye. It made the sunlit patch very distorted, like looking at the sun from underwater. I wiped away some of the excess, enough to clear a patch to look through, and here I am. 

---

I put the brakes on the whole Lesa thing yesterday. Again. Things were progressing down a familiar path with her, to my dissatisfaction. I called her attention to the fact that she still had a boyfriend, to my knowledge, and that I wasn't going to be doing any more flirting with her as long as this was the case. 

As usual, it was me asking a direct question and her skirting the issue with a long, detailed story but no simple answers. I had to infer the relationship status from the lengthy narrative. 

There is no way to have a conversation with her, since when I ask a question, I get a text which took her 2 hours to compose, and which would require me to ask a follow up question for clarification. This is tedious and very frustrating. Like trying to pull teeth with tweezers, I just can't get a grip. She gets weary, and I get frustrated, and then no one's happy. I told her we can just be friends. It's for the best.

Monday, December 28, 2020

Twilight guy becomes my angry stalker over a piece of toast


I guess I was friends with some goth kinda guy, who reminded me of the guy from Twilight. A brooding, dark haired, sort of lithe, shirtless guy, pale complected and sinewy. He had me over to his garage, which had a kitchen set up in it. He was attempting to serve me tea and toast and honey on a cluttered makeshift table. While he was busy washing a dish, I went to to put some of the honey on my toast. 

He saw what I was doing and became enraged. I was told that I should never do that. He had a completely different plan in mind for how I was to eat the toast, and putting honey on it was the ultimate insult. He wanted to fight me over it, so I decided to go home. 

He summoned a dial a ride. Because he had called it, I was assuming he was going to get on it and follow me, so he could continue our confrontation about the toast. He didn't get on, so I did. But that made me more suspicious. He had wanted me to get on this convoluted bus ride so that he could jet over to my house in his Cabriolet and ransack the place, perhaps steal a teacup or two. I was onto him. 

I kept seeing him surreptitiously following me through an old familiar neighborhood in Santa Monica, always the threat of violence, should I actually confront him. I got out and walked back to his place. Sure enough, he wasn't there. 

I saw a cup which resembled a cup of mine. But it couldn't have been my cup, since I'd destroyed that cup in the microwave recently. In real life, I destroyed a Mr. Fax glass mug by trying to microwave some baker's chocolate in it. It was very similar, though I did notice some design differences, such as a second handle, which was positioned over the top of the mug like a basket. I decided not to take it, though I would've felt justified if I had.  

I left and went to a gas station. He was there, having calculated that I would be there. I told him I didn't want to fight him, but he was dead set on forcing me into some kind of physical conflict. I did some kung fu ju-jitsu moves to counter his attacks. We wound up in some isometric wrestling standoff, with neither one of us gaining the advantage. 

Some bystanders offered me some verbal support, but no one intervened, and the grudge match seemed like it was going to go on forever. I kept thinking, "So, this is what it's like to have Robert Pattinson mad at you." Not sure that's really the guy's name, but it kept repeating in my head, so that's who I'm going with. 

---

I woke up to the Christmas stye in my left eye, still present and still bugging me. I hate to have to call either the Walmart eye doctor or the eyelid surgeon over it, but I suspect I will need something to put on it besides apple cider vinegar, which stings and seems to be eroding the skin. It is white and is right on the margin of my lower lid. 

It broke open and drained several times, even bleeding a little once, but it always refills and seems like it gets only more stubbornly angry with my attempts to be quickly rid of it. Yikes. I've got a Robert Pattinson stalker stye. So annoying, yet terrifying.

Sunday, December 27, 2020

Mom and I eavesdrop at dear old Dad's house


Last night I dreamed I was somehow at my father's lavish digs (not his real ones, but a dream version). It was an executive, split level affair in a swanky condo complex. As usual, I felt out of place and a bit overwhelmed by the luxuriousness of it all. 

As I was trying to remain unseen, perhaps slip out the backdoor unnoticed, I heard him talking with his new girlfriend. I strained to hear, but could only catch the occasional word here or there. Of course, my name came up, so I perked up a little. I managed to sneak away right quick and bring back my mom, so she could listen in with me. 

At this point, though, we were discovered and we were forced to endure the awkwardness of his polite overtures as he graciously pretended to be unaware of our surreptitious surveillance. Everything was nice enough, but now both my mom and I were antsy to try to gracefully extricate ourselves from all this magnanimosity. 

That's about it. Sorry, no point to all this. Just the few details that I remember. 

 ---

I have been suffering from insomnia and a Christmas stye in my other eye. Have I mentioned that lately? 

And Lesa has been messaging me more, attempting to be "real" with me. I fear that it is time I have to have a "real" talk with her as well. One that addresses some of the things that are still stuck in my craw from nearly a year ago. 

I came to terms with the reality that there was no chance of us ever being together, but she has kept some of the language of our previous flirtationship alive, even mentioning the computer that I was going to buy for her last Christmas. She never would accept it at the time, but now she's hinting around that, hmm, well, it sounds nice and, gee, it would save her poor fingers when typing all these texts to me. 

I guess I'm petty, jealous or whatever, but I see it as something that I'd be crazy to do at this point. Unless I can come up with the complete generosity of a no strings attached charitable gift. Like my giving weed to homeless people. I would have given her a really bitchen device last year, but I had expectations that it would strengthen our relationship. 

The computer was a selfish, manipulative idea on my part. I would feel that she would be obligated to write more often, video chat more, etc. Like when grandma gives you a phone with prepaid minutes so you can call her and thank her for giving you such a lovely gift. 

I'm just not seeing that it would make me any more likely to receive more attention than grandma does 364 days a year. I'm thinking I'd be giving her this device and she'd be off flirting with Fucken Danny or whoever or whatever from the old punk days. Kinda like she did with the phone she got from her current boyfriend, which she uses to chat with me. 

I'd just be here as her old, back-up, back-up plan. Plan B, sub-plan A, Roman numeral X. Last man on earth, apocalypse type of guy. 

I don't hold many illusions anymore. Just the one that perhaps I'm the most hideous person on the planet. I know that title has to be held by someone more severely deformed, so I can't boast or claim that credit. But emotionally, I'm pretty fucked up. And my outsides are starting to match my insides.

Saturday, December 26, 2020

Death by a thousand carbs

 


My neighbor brought over a plate of Christmas food, more calories from carbs and fat than I consume in a week, normally. I ate it all without barely stopping to breathe. I was kinda in an anti-Christmas mood for the usual reasons: depression, loneliness, envy. No need to go into all that now.

I'd been looking forward to this food from the moment they told me they'd be bringing me something. So I didn't eat my afternoon snack; I starved myself instead. Then, when the food finally got here, I was hangry and frustrated with myself for failing to be adequately Christmas humble. I was just in a self-pitying mood.  

I opened a bottle of wine to go with my plate of food. I drank half of it and didn't flinch. Near the end I got a little bit ready to acknowledge that perhaps it wasn't the best way to deal with emotional problems. But those calories did their job on my neurotransmitter thingies. I'm in full-on addiction mode. 

Next, I capped it off with some weed. I was in semi-ok suspended animation for a minute before my calorie cravings kicked in again. So I heated up two microwave mini-pizzas. Now they are gone and I have already brought down the tin of cookies my other neighbor left for me. 

I tested my sugar once after 25 min and it was 184. Then again 40 min later, and it was 174. At least it was headed in the right direction before I went and ate the two pizzas. 

I ought to be taking a shower and hitting the sheets, since I should be done for. But I'm thinking about how to slip in those cookies. I have to use them as a reward for something. Maybe I will eat them and pass out in the bedroom. 

It will be the first time I've slept in the bedroom in three years. I need to be fucked up before I do that kind of thing. Maybe I won't shower, since I will be sleeping with the cats. First time for that in 3 years as well. I've avoided it because of my eye problems, some of which seem to be here in one form or another to this day. 

I've avoided talking to people today, with the exception of Martin and J. I got a message from Lesa, but I was in a bad frame of mind when I got the message. Now I'm too intoxicated and carbureted to communicate with her, and I don't know how to be, or how I want to be, with her. With J, I can be real, admit my condition and not be some fake version of myself.

Friday, December 25, 2020

Um, ok like...

 

Brainwash - Flipper 

1,2,3,4
 
Um...OK, like...
See, there was this...
And --wuh-- and then the...
Never mind. Forget it.
You wouldn't understand anyway.

Thursday, December 24, 2020

Sharon, briefly


I only remember a little from last night, and it was from my first dream cycle, before waking up and having to pee in the cold ass middle of the night. Sharon was still disabled, and I was still caring for her, but she was able to walk a short distance. 

As always, I was amazed to see her on her feet at all, and I told her. It was great to see her walking, even if it was from the couch to the bed. In the dream, she wasn't as far along in her disability, and certain milestones hadn't been hit, though that was about to change. She made it back to the bed, but collapsed on my side and couldn't get one leg up on the bed. I had to help her, and her leg was extremely heavy, like dead weight. 

"I'm going to have to stay here on your side," she told me. I was fine with that and began to get my things from the nightstand and switch them over to the other side of the bed.

"What about your computer monitor?" I asked. 

"I don't think I can use it anymore," she told me.

Now things were getting serious. This was a milestone that meant the end was certainly near. I got tearful and started thinking about saying my goodbyes. I felt I handled it better, more compassionately than I would have normally. In real life, I'd have protested and perhaps argued with her, getting angry even, because I hated the process. But instead, I made a point to keep things appropriate and was tender with her. 

I can't remember what I said, but I looked at her with love, though through tearful eyes. This was my wife, the mighty Sharon who never gave up. And here she was so weak and helpless, like a baby. All I could do was love her, though there was some pity and sorrow in there, for sure. 

---

That's it for dreamland. I woke up to an extremely sore hamstring, partly from the cold weather making everything more sensitive. My right eye is pretty much the same, though it always looks a little less swollen in the morning. The weather makes it feel wonky and weird, too. 

I'm holding on to things as they are, but my mind is fully becoming aware that they will eventually change, and most likely for the worse. I'm not getting younger, no matter how many supplements I take or positive affirmations I make. 

I constantly check in with myself, getting status reports from all sectors, eyes, guts, weight, muscles, energy, emotional status, etc. I give credit for things that aren't troubling me and rate the things that are. Some items are trending downward, while others are holding steady or even improving. 

For instance, I am able to feel emotions again, after a period of complete flatness. Sure, sadness is the primary one, but I look at it as an old friend, so I'm not at all disappointed to have it return. It is Christmas Eve, after all.

Tuesday, December 22, 2020

KIds in the Hall guy stealing my electricity, birds on the roof and those damned voices again

 

I heard the voices again last night, but first let me scribble down the dream bits, so I can recall them before they fade. My neighbors, the Ecks somehow had the Kids in the Hall guy, Bruce McCulloch, as part of their family unit and our properties shared some common electrical wiring. 

My fusebox was actually on their property. To access it one had to have a key to a locked gate, which no one seemed to have. No matter, Bruce McCulloch had a trick to pry open the lock using three keys, which he somehow used as a wedge. 

My lights were out and I saw Bruce casually eating one of my apples, so I got on him about that. He'd been taking them liberally and promising me an apple pie in return, which I'd never gotten. 

Somehow I equated that bit of a raw deal with my guinea hens, who would annoy me by scratching around on my roof and being a general nuisance, while I had to feed them chicken scratch every morning. Weren't they supposed to be eating bugs? That was the deal, and yet it was all me putting up with their nonsense and very little bug patrolling was going on. 

Oh, oh, oh...Sharon was in this dream, too. She was disabled, kinda. But there was something happening at night, like robbers or Bruce McCulloch doing his electrical prowling, which necessitated her getting up out of bed. It was a big deal because, you know, she was bedridden and all. 

She'd somehow gotten to her feet and was all the way out in the front road, when she collapsed and I had to help her get back up. I was quite ecstatic that she'd even made it that far, though concerned because we were in the midst of some kind of robbery. 

I found a gun that one of the robbers had dropped on the ground. I picked it up as he pulled another one. He fired first, and I shot him square in the chest. His bullet only grazed my wrist, and I barely felt it, but he was down for the count. 

That's when I spoke to the other robber and realized it was Bruce McCulloch, or one of the Eck kids, I'm not sure which. He reminded me of my nephew Morgan, for some reason. I became friendly with him because of that, and because, despite the apples and the electrical theft, he was willing to show me the lock trick and was going to help me by labeling the breakers which needed to be flipped on our shared electrical box. 

I guess that's all I remember, although it seems there was more to the story about Sharon and her mobility issues. It's just hard to pull it out now, since it was in the earlier part of the dream.

---

And now to those damned voices. This time I was sound asleep when they woke me up. I could hear them as loud as a loudspeaker, penetrating into my dreams, and suddenly I was wide awake and listening to them. 

It sounded like a man and a woman arguing this time. Or discussing something loudly, the man taking a pedantic, Johnny Rose tone and the woman protesting in a Moira Rose sounding voice. I don't think it was them exactly, but the dynamic was such. 

I still couldn't pull out exact words, but this time it sounded like English. Only it was still muffled, like it was was being run through a Charlie Brown adult translating device. It definitely sounded scripted and TV-like, rather than like two people actually in my house. 

This time I got up and went to investigate. Of course the voices stopped before I made it out of the guest room. But I had time to really analyze the sound quality as I was getting up and I made the determination that it was definitely coming through my home stereo speakers. The directionality, voice quality and volume just seemed to fit. 

I do leave the receiver on all the time and it is tuned to the 88.1 FM, an open frequency, which I transmit on and use to broadcast my music or TV from downstairs. The feeds are all turned off at night, so this leaves the channel open, but with a nice heavy FM signal squashing out anything, with the silence of dead air. 

The mixing board that feeds the transmitter is also on all the time, but the sliders for the TV were off. So was the TV. The computer sliders were on, but there was nothing open with a player that could account for the sudden, brief dialogue that had come through the speakers. Before I went downstairs to confirm all this, I approached the receiver in the living room. 

"What the fuck is going on out here?" I said in a grumpy voice. "I'm trying to get some sleep. This isn't cool, so knock it off." 

I then walked over to the receiver and turned it off. That would shut down their little open mic night. The cats were awake by now and looking at me for answers. I'm sure they weren't appreciating being awakened by booming voices at 3 AM either. 

I went downstairs and shut off the main volume output on the mixer, doubly assuring that this little karaoke party wouldn't start back up. 

Now I'm not so sure I did the right thing. Perhaps the communications were coming from the other side, like the aliens in that one space movie where the kids meet up with some ETs who speak to them in familiar TV soundbites. Clearly someone or something is using the open channel and flipping a switch somewhere to feed it the audio from which these voices originate. 

My TV is a "smart" TV. I don't actually use the smart features, which are actually annoying and don't work very well, because its internet connection is through my distant, slow ass wi-fi. But it is hooked up to the internet at all times and could presumably be listening to everything I say, awaiting my command to ask Alexa to buy something from Amazon. It also gets its own automatic updates, which it never informs me about. It just does it. 

So, there we have it. Perhaps there is some kind of government or extraterrestrial or spooky ghost phenomenon going on, but I can't figure out the exact mechanism that they are using. But I think by shutting down their open channel at the stereo receiver, I will be preventing them from just blasting me in the middle of the night with loud voices from God knows where. 

We'll see. I may just leave it on again and try to get up sooner and catch the audio a little closer to the source.

Monday, December 21, 2020

Why would anybody listen to my podcast?


Not that I actually have one, but say I did, what would make anybody actually want to to listen to a podcast that I would ever create? For one, podcasters have to really love the sound of their own voice. I don't. I don't even like my tone in typewritten mediums, though I seem compelled to keep typing regardless. 

But people who watch other people sitting in front of a camera spouting off about this or that, what is it that they find so compelling? I keep thinking, that's a lot of sitting through some boring-ass shit, waiting for the one or two nuggets of genius inspired wisdom to drop. It's like reality shows. Why bother, when there's reality? 

Those that know me, know that I've got nothing noteworthy to say, and if I ever did, I've said it a million times before, milking it for all it's worth. So, they'd be disappointed if they thought, "Well, if I stay tuned long enough, by God, he'll say something original or epiphonic." (Hey, isn't that a word?) More than likely, I'll drone on just like this, only with my bland mug and mumbly voice just making it that much more unpleasant. 

There must be a sick fascination with the drama of watching a person coming undone before a live studio audience. Ringside seats to "The Universe vs. Andrew," streamed for a small monetized stipend, of course. I don't know why they are selling Viagra on my sidebar. I had nothing to do with that. Really. 

Maybe I ought to do a FOIA request to pull my "big file," you know, the one they get the algorithm from. The CIA/FBI/NSA Google Facebook data that somehow has been mined from my online and other monitored activities. 

Ok, I get it. I'm not that important. I'm just a little goldfish cracker, there are more interesting individuals for them to target. But they cast a wide net, so I just want to know where I shake out. Sometimes YouTube seems almost psychic with their suggestions. And search bar predictions are downright spooky, with just how much they must know about what I'm thinking before I even type it.

I'm clearly not feeling inspired, so why am I bothering to write these thoughts down, exactly? Alive until dead, I guess. And that little part of me that is still alive and bitching probably wants to insure that his little bits will live on in the ether for just a little while after he's gone. 

I'd just like to feel good, but I had an argument with a friend earlier about, of all things, my not wanting to argue: about Covid, about Trump, about the state of the union, nothing. That, in itself is a position which requires defending. 

Can't I just give up? I'm not gonna solve the JFK assassination, chemtrails or PizzaGate. I'll probably just be herded along with the rest of the "sheep" and go quietly to the camps. At least they might be efficient at bringing about my demise. Can't be much worse than hanging around watching myself deteriorate for the next decade or two. 

I can see that hanging the Christmas lights didn't pull me far enough out of my depression to give me a holiday boost. Maybe I should just eat a bunch of cookies and be done with it.


Voices in my house

 

As I was drifting off to sleep last night, curled up in the cold sheets of my guest room bed, I was startled by some loud voices. I immediately woke up and strained my ears to try to make out what they were saying. It sounded like two females arguing a few rooms away. 

My immediate thought was that I'd left the TV on downstairs and that it was my FM transmitter blasting it through my upstairs speakers. I ruled that out for a number of reasons: One, I remembered actually turning the TV off. Two, it would have been blasting continuously and I would have never made it down the hall without realizing that I'd left it on. Three, it has to go through a mixing board to go to the transmitter, and on that I'd also turned down the volume much earlier, so as not to have to listen to the My Pillow guy at full volume. 

Anyway, I knew I was hearing voices, in my house, and they weren't from the TV. Next I thought it could be the cats, having a very loud fight. Sometimes they get pretty vocal. But these were actual words I was hearing, and the voices sounded very human, though I couldn't make out if it was English or some middle Eastern or European dialect. They were muffled by several walls, but still distinctly very present and distinguishable as human and female, arguing about something that I just couldn’t make out. 

I had the thought that perhaps I was being robbed or prowled upon. I kind of dismissed that idea, as it seemed unlikely that anyone doing that would be so obnoxiously loud about it. But I entertained the idea for a moment and considered going to the closet in the bedroom and fetching a rifle. I was just getting warm in the bed and figured it would be to much work, so I just lay there and considered what other possibilities might exist. 

Random RF signals from a competing transmitter, like a ham radio or trucker with a CB, possibly. Not even remotely a possibility. Nothing is going to get in between my transmitter and my receiver. The antenna is only feet away and the radio is tuned to an unused frequency. Even if the frequency was being used, my signal would cover it up. If my transmitter went offline, there would be dead air, or at best some faint signal, bleedover from another distant FM station. This did not seem likely, as my transmitter failing would be more likely to just allow a lot of static from the unused frequency to play over my receiver. 

My final option, and the one I have come to accept, was that I was having an auditory hallucination. It was either that or the cats had picked up a middle Eastern dialect that they’d been keeping from me. I couldn’t fathom why my brain would do such a thing, but, oh well, things have been failing on me for a while now. Maybe some wires were getting crossed up in my attic. They stopped talking eventually and I gave up trying to reason it out. Oh, and I dreamed something last night, but it was completely erased upon waking up this morning.

Sunday, December 20, 2020

Not quite Kenny Pearson and the Lake Isabella property


Kenny Pearson was a jovial, though somewhat obtuse fat man who was a service writer at Yuba City Honda when I first started working there. In my dream, a fellow who resembled him, but was decidedly not him, had bought or inherited the property owned by Bill and Grace Helton in Lake Isabella. I'll still refer to him as Kenny, since he's the closest person I can think of that he reminded me of. 

I was there on the property for some reason and kind of looking around noting the changes that had been made. I believe I was somewhat responsible for the property, and perhaps Kenny was mainly responsible for the property next door, where Ed Campos, the neighbor, had lived. In the dream, Ed was Kenny's father, which was how he inherited it. 

The fire marshal was doing inspections and handing out fines for non-compliance, so the whole town was doing its best to keep things tidy and clean up any infractions to the code. Kenny invited me over to see the unit his father had lived in, which was now being rented out. 

Before we went inside, a giant crop duster came barreling though the field across from the front of our properties. He was flying so low that he wasn't doing a great job of actually clearing the tops of the corn stalks. The landing gear kept thumping the corn as he made his passes. The wheels actually hit dirt and crushed a few stalks into the ground. 

Well, at least it wasn't the fire marshal plane doing inspections. He was also flying around, doing aerial inspections and sending reports to the team on the ground handing out citations. I pointed out some ungrazed pasture grass that the mowers had missed on Kenny's property. It was about 4 feet tall, just begging for a citation. 

Kenny really wanted to show me the inside of the dwelling while the renter was out, so he unlocked it, and we went inside to look at the renovations he'd made. There was a stained wood trim alongside the windows, running along the ceiling and on top of a sort of useless room divider that looked like an out of place nook. It certainly spruced the place up, though it wasn't the be all and end all of renovations. I wasn't overly impressed, but I told him something nice to shut him up. 

That's about it. It was more of a location centered dream with little content apart from the idea that we really had to keep the fire marshal from ticketng us for the untidy properties.

Saturday, December 19, 2020

All I got was this lousy bottle of vodka, not even Grey Goose

 

I remember little other than that I decided, on impulse, to veer into the alcohol section of Winco on the way out and purchase a bottle of vodka. I asked for Grey Goose, but the lady running the section said they didn't have any. I asked for the next best thing and she directed me to a bottle of Keitel One or something like that. It had the fancy Celtic writing on the bottle, which was supposed to guarantee it was going to be upscale. I took a swig right there in the store and noted that seemed smooth enough. 

Later on, I was on my way to visit my friend Martin at a honey factory, where he was rehabbing from some injury or another. I was told he wouldn't want to see anyone and was quite mad. He might get combative and take a swing at anyone who he came into contact with. 

Me and another person decided to chance it. I have no clue as to the identity of the other person, but sure enough, as soon as Martin was let out into a small holding area, he began to tussle with the other person, wrestling around on the ground and pummeling them. 

He had incredible upper body strength from whatever workouts he was getting in rehab. I was waiting for my turn to talk to him, watching him smile as he pounded the other guy. I never got the chance, as I woke up, my usual dream spoiler being that I had to pee. 

---

It's cold in my house and my vision still sucks in my right eye, though I swear the eyelid always looks better when I first get up and look at it. I see Facebook flashing a notification that Lesa has messaged me. I wonder whatever can it be. 

Did I mention that I'm feeling (that's an odd word to use these days, but I'll go ahead) pretty down these days? Holiday loneliness, existential hopelessness and of course, disturbed about my vision being crap. Nothing left to look forward to, might as well kill myself, kinda of a thing going on. Like, I'm just this collection of problems that nobody would want. I'll never experience love again, who would want this 124 lb bag of nothing? 

I'm staying alive because of a mixture of laziness, fear and obligation. I don't want to disappoint my few friends who I feel might be upset if I checked out of here prematurely. Like leaving the restaurant without paying the bill, I guess I just feel it wouldn't be an admirable thing to do. Like that matters, really. 

People who admire me don't really know me that well. They think they do, but it is my front, the Fakebook persona, that they think of. No one sees me, day in and day out. They don't see the wraith I've become, empty of emotion, except for the occasional sadness, or outburst of frustration when I'm picking up cat vomit. I can't even muster the right response to my cat being sick. 

I stick around for them, too. Who'd take care of them and give them the run of the house like me? They'd likely get adopted by Gina, my wife's hospice nurse. But at this age, they shouldn't have to compete with other cats, as new kids on the block, in some strange house. 

So, I'm here. I have a tin of cookies, left by my neighbors in my mailbox. No, I don't have neighbors living in the mailbox. I'm just too lazy to go back and edit the stupid sentence for correct language and usage. So, the tin of cookies is way off the list as far as my paleo diet is concerned. Or my diabetes, for that matter. But if I'm going to kill myself, why not binge on some sweets instead? It wouldn't kill me, and if I don't give a damn about myself or my health, why not prove it by eating the nice treats? 

I should go all out and have an indulgence-fest, replete with all my favorite naughty items. Booze, caffeine, cannabis, hey, maybe take a whole bunch of mushrooms. What's the worst that could happen? That I die? Maybe I'd have a psychotic break? Would that be so bad? I need a break from my psychosis. Perhaps a massive sugar rush or a bad psychedelic experience would jar me loose from the grip of this depression? What is not working is, everything that I'm doing so far. My routine. 

So, let's go see what Lesa has to say. I figured I'd get all this crap out of me, so I can clear my pallet. It is Saturday, and I should be excited for my weekly ritual of permitted caffeine and cannabis. I may even have a cookie.

Friday, December 18, 2020

YC Honda, probationary lube position, Reese Witherspoon receptionist, Art drives a steamroller


 

I was, ugh, again working for Yuba City Honda in a diminished capacity, as a lube tech. Reiner was still boss, and I was there on probie status doing oil changes and lightweight work. I was actually even lower than the lube techs, and was relegated to jobs like fetching things from parts or cleaning up the parking lots.

I was returning from the parts department with a headlight bulb for a used car, when I noticed that we were starting to get really busy. It was going to be an "all hands on deck" situation, and I might have to get down and dirty and help out with the oil changes. Under supervision, of course. I saw that Manny Salazar was there and said hi to him as I passed him in the hallway. He barely acknowledged me. 

I noticed that my former stall in the shop where I had previously worked doing smogs was now a makeshift library. The roll-up doors were adorned with bookshelves and appeared to not have been rolled up in a while. But as the oil changes stacked up, someone yelled, "We're FUCKED!" signifying the start of the morning rush. 

Coffee and conversations all were dropped as motorhomes and cars of all sorts filled the drive. The roll-up doors even got rolled up, the books magically staying affixed to them while being raised. I walked around the parking lot still searching for the used car upon which to install the headlight bulb. I tried the car's remote waiting for a honking or beeping sound by which to locate the vehicle. 

I encountered Art Mele, the usually absentee owner, in the parking lot. Wind was blowing leaves around, and Art was driving a steamroller among the leaves and parked cars, looking like some kind of Hawaiian shirt wearing pirate on a bender. He was singing Steamroller Blues, and we sang a verse together. He laughed but then chastised me for goofing off. 

"Back to work," he said, and that was that.


I never found my car with the burned out light, so I next went into a tiny office, where the order desk for the service appointments was located. Reese Witherspoon was taking the calls and entering the repair order appointments into the computer. The tiny office was about the size of my guest bedroom and was furnished similarly, but had a tiny counter with a phone and a hidden computer somewhere inside it. I watched as she took a couple of calls and generated the paperwork, after which she got called away. 

"OK, you can take it from here," she said, handing me the phone. 

I took down the customer's information but had to do it by hand, since I couldn't figure out where the computer was or how to input anything into it. It was really not looking good for my first day back. 

I was shivering from having lost a blanket during the night, so I woke up soon thereafter. But somehow I retained all this glorious detail about a subject that has dogging me in my dreams for the last 3 years, namely, the nagging idea that I have unfinished business with Yuba City Honda, or that I should somehow be going back to work. Ugh.

Thursday, December 17, 2020

Dinner theater and a transmission reissue event, oh, and a snuggle with a skunk before bed


I remembered the skunk part later, but it actually happened before I fell asleep. Kind of a preview channel dream, or a trailer for a dream that never made it into theaters. It was simply this: 

I was in the house and went out to look outside for some reason. It was daytime. I saw a park bench with a blanket or tarp covering a lump which looked to be about the size of a sleeping dog. Some straw protruded out from the tarp, indicating to me that an animal had made its nest here. I had a brief moment of trepidation, or common sense, which I promptly ignored as I lifted up one edge of the tarp to get a look at what was sleeping underneath. 

In an instant I was blasted in the face by a skunk, whose rear end must have been poised for just such an event. Another skunk leapt from the bench and latched himself onto my neck, crawling inside my hoodie and generally terrorizing me. I kept thinking, "Nice skunky. You aren't going to bite me, are you?" 

I believe he did bite me, but the bites were superficial. I woke up from that minor kerfluffle and settled back into my nightly sleep, in which I had the next dream.

I was working, or being a part of an event for Honda, kind of in a semi-retirement capacity. I was helping to set up for a dinner theater event, honoring the commemorative rollout of a reissue of the 2000 Civic's automatic transmission. A few of us were portaging it around like pallbearers, bringing it to a special place at a showcase type of dining room/living room in a furniture store, also owned by Honda. 

All items were to be sold and were in mint condition, having just had the plastic removed for the event. We were about to place the transmission, a beautifully restored remanufactured original model transmission, on the dinner table to be admired as a centerpiece. 

We were in the process of having to clear a space for it, so someone suggested setting it down on the floor next to the couch, which was a brand new high end piece of furniture, also being showcased for the event. As soon as the transmission was set on the pristine taupe carpet, it tipped over, spilling its cranberry sauce colored fluid all over the carpet and couch. 

Jose Heredia, aka Car Washee, was appalled. Heads were going to roll over this one. I had the brilliant idea of using a carton of baby  wipes that just happened to be sitting on the table, to attempt to mitigate the staining. 

"Quick, before the stain sets in!" I shouted and led the cleanup brigade. 

Sopping up and cleaning vast swaths of the red stain from the porous couch, I could see that the results were going to come out rather well, and we might just pull off the greatest coverup since Watergate. We all kept going, gladdened by the progress. 

"Good thing this was a floral print couch," I said, noting the easy way that any transmission fluid stains would have blended into the pinkish flowers. 

Soon all the stains lifted and we were good to go. But now we had new orders. The transmission was to be carried to a mountaintop theater/temple, high in the Tibetan Alps. On we marched, up a winding staircase to finally arrive at the theater. 

At this point I was given new instructions. I was to deliver a line in the play, so I separated from the transmission party and was to look for a person in the audience, who was to also deliver a line at a predesignated time in the play. I wasn't given much more than the seat number and name of the person, both of which I promptly forgot. I also never got the actual instructions for what my line was.

No matter, I scanned the aisles and quickly found the person in question. It was Surrinder Singh, another of YC Honda's car washers, affectionately known as "Sir." He told me not to worry, my line wasn't coming up until much later in the third act, so I had plenty of time to look around the grounds of the temple. I took him at his word and exited back through the front of the giant stone temple, admiring the view and the architecture on the way out. 

I stood under the massive arches, looking right and left down the two paths which had led up to the mountaintop edifice. One side was a dirt road, presumably used by ancient heroic oxcart drivers. They'd have had to have been insane or possessed superpowers to make it up the nearly vertical incline. I figured if I went down that way it would be a quick trip, since I'd be sliding on my butt at nearly terminal velocity. The other side, which was the way we came up was tamer, having been paved with Machu Pichu type stairs. 

I was about to choose that route, when I realized that I hadn't taken any pictures. I got out my phone and tried to take a selfie, but, wouldn't you know, I couldn't get the angle right. I had to settle for the stock postcard view, looking out of the teardrop shaped arches down into the Tibetan grasslands below. I was still mulling over my upcoming performance, so I was a bit preoccupied. I awoke soon thereafter.

Meanwhile, in the real world, I went to the eye doctor yesterday for a consult about my eyelid. I've been experiencing blurry vision in my right eye. After 2 months of suffering with a stye or chalazione on my eyelid, things seemed to be just getting worse. The doctor, a surgeon, recommended a steroid injection into the eyelid. 

"How's that sound?" He asked me, as if he were offering me a menu choice at a buffet. 

I told him that it sounded scary, but that I'd do it. He numbed the area and told me it would pinch a little, but that it should be helpful in reducing the swelling in the chalazion, and it might have a chance to heal on its own after a week. I clenched my buttcheeks, gritted my teeth and breathed in and out like a person on life support, while he inserted the syringe into one of my most sensitive areas. 

Yeah, I'm a big sissy. I wanted to scream and run, but I sat there for what seemed like an eternity. It was probably closer to twenty seconds, but you can't measure those seconds in the currency of everyday time. This was nightmare, worst-fear-in-the-world-being-experienced time, which is exponentially longer to the perception. 

After it was over, he told me I was a good patient for not causing a scene and clearing out the waiting room, as previous patients had done. Later, alone in my car, after driving down the road a bit, I let out a scream and pounded the steering wheel with both hands. This whole experience will live on in my memory as one of my greatest accomplishments: facing something of which I was extremely fearful and simply enduring it. 

Today, the swelling has reduced significantly. I will continue my regimen of warm compresses, hopeful that the growth will drain and continue to reduce. My vision is still subpar, but the doctor told me not to bother with a new prescription until after this had resolved. I may have to go back for a second injection, though he said he'd rather not see me again--because of the long drive I would have to make, not because I was that difficult of a patient. 

I wasn't difficult, was I? I don't think so. Just a cowardly 55-year-old with extreme anxiety. But I'm pretty happy with the results so far, and not wishing to see him again either. The poster he had in his office illustrating cataract surgery was terrifying in and of itself.

Wednesday, December 16, 2020

Bike ride in the dusty wasteland


All I can gather, since I woke up without properly packing up first, was this brief tip of the iceberg:

I was riding my bike on a two lane highway with green, overgrown grass on one side and a scraped bare, dusty moonscape of red dirt on the other. I noticed that Diane was riding her bike on the dusty trails and decided to switch sides, even though it was not easier to ride on the off-road bike trails which had rocks and potholes. I crossed the highway and caught up to her. 

"Why not?" I thought to myself, "I have the bike for it." I was riding my green Specialized Stump Jumper with full suspension. 

She wasn't ecstatic to have me join her. I think she was wanting some solitude, which I'm sure the barren landscape would have offered her, had I not been there. She rode along with me for a while before finally declaring that she was going to stop for a while and study. I took the hint and kept going. 

After we parted ways, I decided to double back and fetch a cooler full of fireworks to go light off in the desert. Ever concerned with fire danger, I also dragged an incredibly long garden hose, which offered increasing resistance the farther I got down the road. I was having to drag it around corners, which made matters worse. I encountered some people who were squatting in a warehouse through which the hose was being dragged. 

They announced that they were shutting the doors to the general public, so I gathered up the hose and backtracked with it to the place where it entered the building to proceed around it, again through the dusty landscape. Soon a windstorm came up, making the whole trip seem pointless. I couldn't see more than a few feet ahead of me, and there would be no lighting of fireworks. 

So why was I still carrying the ice chest and still dragging this incredibly long garden hose? I never resolved that, since I woke up before making my notes of things I wanted to remember from the dream. If I don't follow a proper procedure for waking myself up, I won't remember most of the dream, but only the last few things that happened. 

For instance, I know there was another segment of bike riding, before the Diane encounter, that served as a stitch to some earlier dream segment which completely eludes me now. In it, I was racing down a man made single track, which was actually four parallel paths dug into the same red type of dirt one finds at a track meet. It was carved down about as deep as a bobsled track and loosely followed the oval of the track, with a few twists and turns added for difficulty. I remember thinking that this was quite fun, since I've never actually ridden on a single track, real or imaginary. 

Tuesday, December 15, 2020

Dream Date at the Courtyard by Marriott


In last night's dream, I was in a dating situation. The situation was a pre-arranged, sleepover date at the Courtyard, a hotel chain with lots of fancy side businesses going on. One of them was a dating service, which had paired me with a single mother of two. The kids weren't disclosed in our original setup, but she'd smuggled them inside an oversized diaper bag, disguised as a large purse. I wasn't too put off, although I did wonder how she'd managed to slip a six year old in there. The other child was an infant, which she managed to keep hidden in there until the date had progressed further down the road. 

I spent much time fiddling with an antique film camera, loading an old style roll of film onto the rollers and winding the film to get the camera to a place where it would function to take a picture of the two of us. I found her attractive, and perhaps she found me that way as well, but we were going to have to get through a ton of preliminaries. 

There was plenty of awkwardness, tiptoeing around and getting the basic questions answered. Neither of us wanted to let our guard down, so as to not reveal our most basic flaws. Me, I was worried about her finding out I'm missing a tooth. With her, the cat was out of the bag, so to speak, with the children. 

We ordered room service, not sure what it included, but after all the camera fiddling and a lot of strained conversation we found it was nearing check-out time, the next day. Apparently, we'd been comfortable enough to nod off to sleep, and although it was in the same bed, nothing happened but the sleep. 

One of the hotel's side businesses was that they were a tequila distributor. As a part of their promotion, each guest was to select a grocery bag with six assorted bottles of their liquor. Some were fancier than others, so the guests were scrambling to put together the most expensive choices.  I snatched up one with a jeweled double bottle, split down the middle, so it looked like bookends that fit together in a perfect bottle shape. 

I forgot to mention that another thing she'd failed to disclose was that she had an ex-boyfriend, or another suitor, who was violent. He'd shown up on the first day, bashing in the door and punching holes in the TVs, before finally leaving, his display of petulant love being unrequited. As checkout time neared, we decided there was enough interest to go ahead and book another night. We were about to do that, but we got separated. 

I went to get something to eat and found myself quite lost. I wound up eating my tray of food in a small entryway to the bathroom. A lot of the hotel's personnel radio equipment was stored there, so I grabbed one and flipped through the channels, listening in on what sounded like government agencies secret communications. I felt that this was going to get me in trouble, so I unplugged the radio and took it with me, while I wandered around trying to get back to my date. 

I never did get reunited with her, and felt I should probably return the radio equipment. Unburdening myself of it became the next primary focus of my dream. When I finally did, I was still of the frame of mind that there was a possibility of salvaging my date, if I could just find her. The Courtyard proved to be too big, however, and I woke up before I got the chance.

Meanwhile, the Courtyard by Marriott keeps calling me daily with scam promotions using the same non-responsive robocall program. I'm going to go to war with someone over this, I just don't know who it is yet.

Monday, December 14, 2020

Airplane engine repair class at the beach with Jay Herbert, Andy Griffith and Bongo Murry

I was attending a small refresher course in general mechanical repairs, some of it geared toward airplane repair. There was a table at the beach and some notebooks and components to be tested were on it, along with a multi-meter for performing the electrical testing. I was seated between Andy Griffith and Bongo Murry, aka my friend Brian, and Jay Herbert. Jay arrived later, but was the odds on favorite for head of the class, since he was the only one with actual electronic experience. 

We set about to testing the our sample components. Of course there was the book method, to obtain the desired troubleshooting results, and then there was outright cheating, which most had opted for. The notebooks contained scribbled notes from past students and the components themselves had markings left behind pointing to the various answers. Their covers had all been taken off, and more notes were inside. 

I found my problem easily enough using the eyeball method and didn't need to use the multi-meter. It was a cut diode, very obviously snipped, causing the open circuit. 

It was too easy, so I set about to trying to pick a combination lock which was supposed to prevent people from doing the kind of cheating that we were doing. Everyone else had pretty much bypassed the lock using the notes, but I wanted to get the combo using some lock picking tricks I had learned from YouTube videos. It looked like it was going to be successful, although entirely unnecessary. 

I noticed the table filling up with other students, like Jude Law and Adele. It was time to take lunch, so I left them the table and took a walk up the beach. I went to some apartments for a minute as a group of people were leaving it, headed down to the beach. I attached myself to that group of people, some guys and some girls, as they set up on the beach for some lounging. 

We spent some time figuring out who was gonna pair with who but never really figured it out. I was after Adele, but so was some other guy. It looked like she was only the slightest bit interested in either of us, but might go ahead and choose both. 

Meanwhile, up in the sky a formation of military aircraft did a flyby. Somewhat noisy and intrusive, like a show of force designed to frighten us in to compliance with something, they flashed their lights, and buzzed us. There were helicopters, jets, drones and the like, all in tight little groups, making noise and generating angry reactions from the group. Something was going to have to be done about it, but it probably wouldn't wouldn't be that day. 

I settled for some fist shaking and tagging of vehicles with marking pen. Jay Herbert was not happy with my tagging of a family vehicle's camper shell rear window. I defaced some decals, changing their happy message with a Bart Simpson like crude editing job, marking over its text with my own. We had to be getting back to the tables, but were being slow about it. It was the beach, so we felt like lounging a bit more. 

That's about it. I have really bad dry eye in my right eye. Presumably, it got exacerbated by my putting coconut oil on the eyelid, and accidentally touching the eyeball with a Q-tip. I have been blinking since last night. The coconut oil, a cannabis infused concentrate, was supposed to be helping the stye, but not be directly put in the eye. Damnable oopsie. Now I have blurry vision, dry eye and a stye. Fuck!

Sunday, December 13, 2020

It's kicking in

 

I ate a 1/2 tsp of cannabis infused coconut oil. I experimented with .5 ml the other day, and it had zero effect, so I deemed it safe to experiment with this 3X larger dose. 

I was on the weekly video chat with the family. Things were going along in the normal fashion, and everyone was talking or not talking their usual amounts. Somewhere in the meeting, however, I felt the sensation that I was talking slower. That's because I was. But I felt compelled to keep going, since I'd already opened my mouth to speak. 

I'm still thinking a bit cloudy, but in a good way. Like a mellow version of yesterday, since I had only 1/3 cup of coffee this morning. 

Yesterday, I smoked my one toke dose. Today, I consumed it in oil. As far as using it daily, or as a medication to remedy a condition, I've found the therapeutic benefits decrease as the tolerance increases. So, larger amounts are needed and, at some point, one just doesn't feel the effects as much. 

Anyway, I'm feeling mildly impaired and am probably performing every task I do in an impaired manner. Not sure if I can recommend it for daily use. Too much collateral damage. Not as bad as alcohol, though. And eating it is better for you than smoking it. But I'm feeling a real slowdown of time. That is, in itself worth the price of admission.

Saturday, December 12, 2020

You're in DEEP SHIT, sucker!

 Ha! How's that for a grabby header. It was just a weird, paranoid thought that crept into my head as I thought, "Maybe I've had too much weed."


Q: What to do when you have completely lost your train of thought?

A: Try to find it, of course!



I had a thought about thoughts. 

The thought was this: I get all sorts of thoughts throughout the day. Some types of thoughts more than others. Some could be viewed as primarily pessimistic projections, worries and fears about specific things like, "I'm worried about that zit on my eyelid" or I worry about going to the dentist and experiencing all that beloved pain. Or just a general "death by debilitating illness" of which I am just at that moment seeing the first symptoms. Other types of thoughts might be illuminating ideas about one thing or another. One sentence statements that start threads that lead to the French Revolution. 

One started today with me deciding to look up the lyrics to David Bowie's "Candidate." I saw the words Les Tricoteuse and was compelled to go look that up. "I ain't gonna be singin' no song wherein I don't know what the fuck I'm singin' about." I'm quoting myself on that one. 

So, it turns out that Les Tricoteuse were some women in the forefront of the French Revolutionary movement. They were the pissed off market women who didn't like the price of bread. They were famous for knitting while the guillotining was going on, only pausing to look up as a head was about to roll, then going back to their knitting. 

I started thinking, "How familiar. We are in perilously similar times. Who knows who is who in this upcoming clash, who is "The Regime" and who are the oppressed. Politics being what they are, I can see liberals and Trump supporters both vying for the title of the majority and true voice of the American citizenry.

 But...wait...what is going on here?

I see what's happening. My thought train is getting hijacked. Derailed or diverted onto another track. So, let's flip this motherfucker in reverse-----skreee---eee-eee-aaaa-aaa-lllllll. Brakes on and holding. 

"That's a lot of fat to be moving around," as I always say to Patsy any time I see her doing anything the least be physical or active. 

The fact is, I am documenting my ADD vs OCD right now. I'm seeing where my brain is at in relation to things. Like typing. Seems to be sufficient to keep up with my slow thought process. Just about right, in fact. 

I can think of things to write about as fast as my slow-ass auto pilot of a brain/hand interface thingy can bang them out. About as much lag time as a first generation computer, where the word is typed but takes a second to appear on the screen. Perhaps in slow motion even. Or like the lag time you get when your computer is loaded down with processes, perhaps keyloggers even, and what you type goes into a seeming endless void for a moment or two, reappearing miraculously all at once. Or spilling out character by character, deliberately. 

"Man, how fucked up IDGE YOU?" I'm quoting Eminem on that one. 

 Do I, or should I provide a list of references? Seems a little pedantic, like I don't think anyone who might ever read something I wrote would know the reference. Like, they ain't hip like me, ya dig? 

Should I just define and explain all terms as I use them, so that people will know where I am coming from when I allude to certain things? Let everyone in on what is an inside joke known only to me? 

The world according to Andrew. Not Garp. And certainly not Gorp. My perspective, my world, my definitions. You want to look around, be my guest. Get a lay of the land. I'll point out the major points of interest, as I see them. 

Let's make this a collaborative affair, shall we? You be a good little reader and take part. "Give me an 'F'!!!!" No, seriously. Give me one. I'm out of "Fs" right now. I need one. Just one, to get the ball rollin'. I'll pick up another one or two along the way. 

It's funny how I can be both lucid and incoherent at the same time. Or vise-versa. Or I can convince myself that I'm being witty, when in fact I am babbling, rambling and caraveening ----

oh my god, I just spent the last 10 minutes looking up the word "caraveening." It isn't in any dictionary, even the paper one, I looked! But I know it exists. It means to veer off course. Right? Am I right, or did the world abandon me to some parallel dimension where it does not exist or mean what I think it does? Go ahead and google it yourself. I swear, it's like the Mandela Effect kicking in here. The fucking references have been scrubbed. 

Uhh..Hold on a minute. I think it was just me inventing a word. Yep. That's what it is. I mangled the word "careened," which is what I really meant to say. Uh, duh. That was a half hour at least wasted. 

Meanwhile, it's 1:24pm and I'm only halfway thru breakfast. Coffee is still warm. Amp is still on. Food definitely cold. Perhaps a warm up in the microwave. Hmmm.

This one hit of weed is affecting me pretty strongly, coupled with all my useless supplements and this kick-ass cup of cordyceps infused esspresso/coffee blend. Mmmm, baby. One drug in one hand and one in the other. The effect is I become super focused on whatever it is I am doing, and also, simultaneously, easily led astray to new things upon which I will focus intently, only to be led astray from those by a new discovery in some other location of the house. 

The wandering minstrel of "What the fuck can I get into next?" 

Well, this stream of consciousness thing is ok, but you should see what happens when I try to tell Siri about it. All I get from her is, "I don't hear what your saying, but here's what I think you were saying, so I'll just fix it for you." 

And of course she gets it all wrong, right down to the basic level of comprehension. Like, Siri, seriously. English, Motherfucker. Do you speak it?



When I noticed my food was cold I went upstairs to microwave it. Then, for some unknown reason I decided to go over to the mixing board and turn it on, making the mic hot for the two giant speaker cabinets that I have it hooked up to. 

It was set up for acoustic guitar, but the dynamic mike wasn't picking it up very well. Attempts to correct for it by turning it "all the way up" resulted in a loud squeal of ringing feedback that is designed to crack skulls by exploding the brain from within. 

I then went downstairs to fetch a near field mic, used for miking small amps. This is probably not the mic of choice either, having no preamp in front of it. But I will give it a whirl anyway. Back in a few.

Ok. Great. That works out. The one mic is for the singing and the other will suffice for the guitar. Better if I had direct input from a pickup on the guitar, but no matter. This will do to encourage me to experiment with miking myself as an acoustic performer. Like in some cheap coffee shop, with a lame setup, similar or worse than mine. Just kidding, it couldn't be worse and exist in a public venue. 

There's a hole in my man cave where that boom mic was residing and taking up real estate. Now upstairs, it has displaced the vacuum cleaner, which can live in the closet for all I care. This is much more interesting to look at and I won't stumble around it. 

I managed to heat my food 3 times in the last 1/2 hour, indicating that my ADD is in full swing. Back and forth like a squirrel, undecided about which way to run to avoid the oncoming car. 

Now I've gotten it into my head that, yes, I ought to record this for posterity. Just after I finish eating and peeing and doing whatever else comes in between me and the next thing I want to do.


I will say this: during the time when I'm most spun out in 2 to 3 different directions, I don't tend to notice things like my eyelid or right eye's poorer vision. Or I just don't give them a conscious thought. 

No interminable self check-ins. How's it doing now? What about now? Better now? Did this make it better or worse? Will it be worse tomorrow? What about in 5 minutes? I'd better check. What can I do about it? What are my options? Let's go over them again, shall we? A million more times. Run a few more scenarios out in my head, wherein I become this monstrosity, unlookable upon. 

 -- Unlookuponable? Neither? Fuck you! It's one of them. Whichever one I say, bitch! You got it? Yeah, you. You know who I'm talkin' to, internal grammar police nazi fuck. Bam! Smack a bitch's what I'll do. Functuated that wrong, too? That's fun + punctuated for all you illiterate in Andrewspeak. My head, my dialect. Go fuck yourselves.

Where is all this hostility coming from? You are only talking to yourself, friend. See how it is? You've gone mad. And no one has deigned to tell you. None of their business anyway. I'll be as crazy as I want to be. Get naked in my living room crazy, yeah. Curtains open, music blasting. Tell me anything, I dare you. 

Time to play "Lord, Send Me an Angel."

Well, that was productive. And Lesa just wrote me. How can I write about it without seeming to be, like, a judge or critic? It was one of her best, clearest efforts to give me her thought process and how it relates to her frame of mind, re: COVID, depression and frustration. 

I'm a sucker for when people go deep. It's not really something you get a lot of these days. Most people are like I was in my last message to her, all facts and reporting, without the analytics, the internal motivations. Just, bam, I went to the store. Then, bam, I ran into so and so. Or we went to Disneyland and had a good time. Big clunky facts with just the skimpiest of details about the feeling or sense of the event. Like, "Here's a picture, you caption it." 

Meanwhile, some, like my usual self, are long on the "and it made me feel, etc. metaphor, hyperbole, blah blah blah" and many other such trees as to give an inadequate view of the forest. The need is for a balanced approach, one not too vague or general, but not caught up in minutia either, without even making a point. 

She did a good job of weaving together the narrative into a cohesive product, which I was able to get a real sense of "how ya doin'?" and really, not figuratively, off in some land of undecipherable imagery, but a construct that could be read and figured out by anyone who read it. 

I got the message. It was clear. I'm impressed and am envious of that, or proud of her ability or whatever without sounding too condescending, like I know what the fuck I'm talking about. 

I liked it. Ok? That's all I'm trying to say. It had substance. Not too thick, not too thin. Volume, treble, bass all set to perfect room dynamics. None of that endless feedback or unclear, muffled mess. Articulate, well-crafted--geez, am I writing a review or what? I better shut my pompous ass up for a minute and get the mail.

---

So, I took the rest of the day off of this "live" blow by blow of my Saturday weedcation. Now, I'm going to take a shower and go to bed. I'll read this later. Maybe.




Friday, December 11, 2020

Text editor versions of excuses as to my inability to tell my story


I am becoming a person of non-interest. I’m losing my ability to tell myself a story that is believable.  

What if our stories are the only things that make us who we are? A story has to be more than just a collection of facts. A story needs perspective. There needs to be a point to it, a conclusion to be arrived at. There needs to be something personal, unique or individual about it. Otherwise, what you have is just an encyclopedia. So, what's your story?

I know what you want from me. You want to look through my peephole, don’t you? You’ve grown listless and bored looking out your own peepholes. You want some entertainment, right? Calgon take me away! It’s not enough, though, that I just string some sentences together; there must be a sense of purpose. But how do I go about finding that? I have to come up with a narrative that I can believe, or at least create some interesting fiction. 

Right now, I am just existing like a lump of unformed clay, a gelatinous blob of undifferentiated nothingness. There are 1 million facts I could offer up, but what makes it a story is what I decide to focus on and what I decide to leave out. A picture only tells the story of a two dimensional, framed space in one moment of time. But what has been cropped out of the photo? What happened two seconds before the photo was taken? Or after? In other words, if I tell you about my day, what should I include? 

That is the trouble I am having. I’m losing my frame of reference. My lens is becoming too wide. I am not picking a side and sticking with it. I need to get my story straight. Who am I? What do I care about? What words do I choose to describe what is happening with me? What’s my angle? 

I am becoming so broad-minded that I don’t even know what I’m talking about. I see truth and untruth as equal partners in crime. I have no personal way of verifying or fact checking very much of anything in this world. So rather than using my own little peephole as the rule of law, I rely on others for some kind of consensus. 

More on this later. I like how to spell checker almost called me a moron.


Lugubrious

 

That's not the subject of my dream, but it's just a word that I kept repeating to myself all throughout my dream, like a mantra. 

The dream mainly focused on the resurrection of Malicious Mischief, a band that I was in in the '80s. We hadn't played for a while, but we'd found some nasty old warehouse space in which to play, and Jeff Gross was hyping up a party where we were to be the entertainment. 

The lineup was all different, but I was still playing guitar. From what I could piece together, Hank Ramos from Hondo Die Supply, a place where I worked in the '80s, was playing bass. He still had his metal band hair and spunky, spark plug demeanor. 

Jerry Seinfeld was the main frontman, but he was actually more concerned with organizing all of our equipment, which consisted mainly of brick and board shelves, containing reel to reel tapes and cassettes, stacked like dominoes in a floor to ceiling Jenga configuration. 

True to form, I knocked the entire thing over by pulling out a single cassette. This caused Jerry to get very perturbed, and I feared I would be kicked out over it. Freddy Mercury was rumored to be ready to stand in for Jerry, should he decide he'd had enough. 

I busied myself with practicing, since we'd not had a formal practice in a year. When I mentioned this, it went unnoticed by the promoters, or promoter, Jeff, who was hell-bent on getting the party started. 

I primped in the mirror and noticed I had a (mostly) full head of brown hair, slicked back from a widow's peak, and covering a substantial bald spot. From one angle it looked like a mob boss, but if the wind blew, the jig was up, and I'd be sporting nothing more than a poorly concealed combover. I applied hair product and hoped for the best. 

Not much ever really happened, aside from a lot of preparation and gathering up of the cassettes and shelving which I had knocked over. That and my constant repetition of the word "lugubrious," which I woke up still repeating in my mind.

Thursday, December 10, 2020

Nice!


Last night I dreamed I was with Diane. Not "with" in the complete sense, but pretty close. We were at a social event, not even sure the type, a birthday party, perhaps. It was irrelevant, I was focused on the fact that there was Diane, and she was talking to me in person, not on Facebook, or some online platform, as is so common right now, but face to face. She told me she had a secret she wanted to tell me and she whispered in my ear. But rather than her words, what I remember was that she kissed my ear, or teased it with her tongue rather. 

Don't go sayin' it, "Ew!" Right? I know. But it was my dream, my ear and it felt nice. Tickled me all over. Then she looked me in the face and planted one right on the kisser. It was a nice, soft little kiss, but it promised more. It was one of those moments that determines how the rest of the dream will go. And so far, it was going decidedly well. 

Next, we were somewhere else. Again, I don't know where, but perhaps it felt like a theater or a play, perhaps, I don't know. There were other people there but it was dark. Again she leaned into me and gave me the longest, most sincere kiss I have experienced in ages, dreamworld or otherwise. 

I wanted to preserve the moment, so I didn't rush it or try to move things along. I just stayed there in that kiss for a good long time. I felt my lungs swelling up with breathless excitement, my whole body tingling with anticipation. But again, not wanting to push it forward, I was just experiencing that perfect feeling, in that timeless moment. It was ecstasy. 

Next we were driving to a getaway destination. She had a few days off of work, and I had my parents house in Phoenix that was unoccupied at the moment. We were driving in her little sports car, a Honda S2000. You know, the little 2 seater convertible type. 

I was navigating, making conversation and trying my best not to blow it by being to forward about anything. The "deal" was not yet firmed up. We were both there on pretenses that could be construed as innocent at that point. She had to go to that destination anyway, and I was just facilitating things. But if I played my cards right, well, you know. 

The topic of weed came up, and I told her I'd forgotten to bring any. She was glad, she said, because she was driving for a living these days, and that was prohibited. I got the impression she'd have liked to have been able to do it, but I was just as glad that it wasn't going to be part of the equation. I wanted to experience everything clearly, with full awareness.

We arrived there and the place was empty, as promised. I was showing her around, room by room, making note of the quality of the beds in each one. I wasn't expecting her to sleep with me or anything, so I was offering her the bed or room of her choice solely based on the comfort she'd have. 

She seemed to have picked a mid level room, which was tidily made up for a guest. I told her that that was my room, but no bother, I could sleep in the lower level guest room, which had basically just a thin, roll out mattress on the floor. 

We were discussing the beds, when I spied a lump on the mattress about the size of large cat. I lifted the mattress, and out pops a feral bobcat. He wasn't too thrilled to see us or be rousted, so he hissed and gave us his sabre tooth tiger snarl before bolting into the bathroom, where he escaped out of a ceiling vent. 

We debated on how he might have gotten in to the house, and I thought it was probably through the same vent. Diane had the idea that it might be from a trap door under the bed, which she somehow knew about. I peeled back the mattress and, sure enough, there was a trap door there. 

No matter, I didn't think the cat would be coming back with us there. I sniffed around, and it didn't appear that he marked up the place, so that was good.

I showed her door number three, the master bedroom. I wasn't trying to sell her on it too much, but it did have a king-sized bed and a view of, well, downtown Phoenix. 

The house was built oddly. One wall was a banister, dividing this upstairs bedroom from an open ceiling area overlooking the rest of the house. From this height you could see down into the living room, dining room and way across to the other side of the house, where there was a similar banister and presumably more rooms. 

It was semi-private, but obviously, the sounds would carry from this room in the event that the couple in the master bedroom were to become noisily amorous. I mentioned this factoid, only slightly hinting that this might be a problem. But it wouldn't be, since we were the only ones there, and besides, it wasn't a forgone conclusion that there would be any of that going on. 

She leaned back on the bed and I got a glimpse of her long, sturdy and shapely legs as she attempted an awkward type of backwards somersault, which ultimately failed, but did not fail to give me a thrill. Things were going nicely, and I hadn't screwed things up yet, but there was still plenty of time for me to do that, so I was being extra gentlemanly and not presumptuous. 

Right about this time, guess what? You got it. I was awakened by guinea hens doing sprints on my roof, their bony claws raking across the shingles, a sound which is sure to drag my consciousness from whatever nice dream I was having and bring me back to the real world. Plus, I had to pee. 

Damn. Double damn. But still, it was a nice dream. I hope to continue it on another occasion.