The Acura

 

I was once again in some state of probationary remedial employment with YC Honda. I was not quite ready to really work on cars, so I was consigned to the parking lot. 

There is a class of customer who cannot afford to bring their cars to the dealership, so they go sniffing around the periphery, looking for off-duty mechanics that will do side work for bargain rates. One of these less than desirables, found me in the parking lot and showed me to his partially disassembled Acura TL 3.2 V6. The intake was removed clear down to the cylinder head (not just the plenum, but the risers as well). 

This was not a great state of affairs, and they had given up at this point trying to reassemble it. They'd purchased all the gaskets to complete the job, and all the bolts were in boxes, though not quite in perfect arrangement for quick reassembly. I keep wanting to refer to the customer as Leo, since he reminded me of an ex-employee who I didn't like. 

I was reluctant to take on the job, for fear of screwing it up. I made the excuse that the management might not like me doing side work right there in the parking lot, but David Chanh assured me it was ok. 

I turned around, and there was an auditorium filled with all the employees that had ever worked there and then some, including people like Crystal, a person I knew from the cult. I made a remark to the effect that "it might be in their best interest to let me do the job, since I would at least be doing something, and I might actually learn how to work on cars at the same time." 

The crowd erupted in laughter and faint applause. I cringed in embarrassment. It was true, they were paying me just to stand around, and it would give them great pleasure to either see me struggle or succeed at anything, rather than do nothing. 

David Chanh went out of his way to put a lot of the pieces back together for me, leaving only the last few bolts, as way of baby-stepping me into doing the job. I guess I consented at this point, although I don't remember getting the car actually running. 

More occurred after this golden nugget of a lesson, but I don't remember it. I had to wake up because it's Sunday, and I was about to oversleep again. Hi dee ho.

What do trees think about when they die?

I don't suppose they enjoy the process any more than we do. When they get older and first start losing their leaves and having bare branches, do they sigh and wearily accept their fate? Do they contemplate their existence at all? 

"It's ending, Frank. It's all ending. I can feel it in my roots. My branches are withering and dying. I'm dying, Frank." 

"No, it's not ending. Just beginning in another dimension. That is all. From dream to dream, wakefulness to sleep, spring to winter, life to death over and over. When you watch TV, there's 24 hour programming. You stop watching sometimes and go to sleep or get something to eat or go for a walk.

"Well, not if you're a tree, I guess. You have to just sit there and take it. Day in and day out. Whatever goes on around you, you can't just up and leave. You have a commitment to this patch of land. As the land goes, so goes the tree. And vice versa, too. You know, a good tree can really set off a landscape. Posing there all majestic and shit." 

Frank rambled on.  Frank was always full of comforting words. He always had so much to say on any given topic. He was a giant oak. He'd been around. He'd seen a lot of shit. Seen a lot of other trees go down. 

Hell, he'd choked out quite a few himself, with his massive, light hogging canopy. No regrets, as far as any of that goes. He was a monarch. Overlord of the landscape, he was a perpetual presence throughout many generations, and so had time to wax philosophical. 

I've always been more of a pessimist. And a real coward. I'm afraid of the wind. Afraid of fires, but afraid of too much rain since it makes my roots tend to loosen up too much in the soil. That's a real falling risk at my age, for a tree of my particular development and stature. 

I don't like it too dry either, of course. That's a given, as a tree. Many trees do not get to become trees because they don't have the opportunities that I had, coming up. Those were the good years. Always enough water, it seemed to be there with punctuality in an endless, bountiful amount. 

I'd hate to be a fresh acorn right about now. Even the little bushes had better watch their back. One little fire and "Poof" you are gone, buddy. I'm gonna write a book one day. Teach you little acorns how to survive. Someone's gotta say what needs to be said, so that at least the younger generation doesn't repeat our same mistakes. Mainly, not living up to our potential. That's one of the main regrets of any sort of being, trees no less. 

We care too much. That's why we are sensitive to things going on in our nearby environment. This can extend out quite a bit. When something affects one of us nearby, it also effects us, since we transmit that shit through the airwaves. 

You should see the rumors that get started, one tree to another. Pretty soon the whole valley is affected or the next ridge. I'd say the whole Sierra Nevada Mountains have all fallen under the spell of this one fear-mongering death cultist. Unnamed and unknown as he is, he is still doing immeasurable damage. 

A lot of trees nowadays are simply opting out of life itself because it just seems so futile, refusing to come back in the spring, ceasing leaf production, in a kind of seasonal suicide. Everything dies, even the perennial oak. 

Anyway, suicide is a reasonable thought which lots of trees entertain these days. It gets too hot in the summer and cold in the winter. Why are we putting ourselves through this year after year? So that a few humans can comment every decade or so, "Oh, what a wonderful tree." 

Please. I mean, the birds, yes. Sure, they need us. I mean, the bushes, how're they even gonna come close to what we do for the birds, all close to the ground and shit. Not even conducive to bird survival. Good way to get eaten by a cat, living down there in the bushes. Fuckin' bushes, anyhow.

Oh, and another thing about trees. We're extremely wordy at times. I mean, for God's sake don't get one started or they will never shut up. The places they've been (nowhere) and the people they've seen (ok, not that many lately, but over the years...) 

Well, I can tell you, we keep track. We aren't going to be caught unaware of anything going on around us. You can't sneak up on a tree, no siree. I'm tellin' ya. And that's why we won't shut up once we get to talkin'. The places we been...

Oh, did I mention that although we remember like, a million things, still we forget that we've told that story, also a million times. Poor conversationalists, us trees. It's all rather one sided. It's easy to see why trees are so narrow-minded. Lacking mobility, we have a fixed perspective. And you know how it is having to get all of your information about the world by word of branch.

End of the world meteor shower and the runaway toolbox

I was in a Nevada City type of artisan town with lots of street vendors having an outdoor crafts fair. Some of ex-Remnant folks were there like Diane, Nancy, Tina Hansell, Martin Leon and Paul Estrada. The area was getting super trendy and overrun with an infestation of wannabe poser punks. There were a lot of bondage pants and screenprinted day-glo t-shirts being worn by a new latte-sipping generation on the slum, looking for bargains in this overpriced little town. 

The ex-Remnant folks were cashing in by selling homemade goodies, and everyone had their little yardsale tables all in a row. Lawn chairs were set up and there folks were enjoying the outdoor social time. 

Someone read an article in the local newspaper which mentioned that Bob Hansell had just died that day. I was shocked to hear that being read out loud, thinking it somewhat rude, as Tina was sitting within earshot. They read a short obituary which contained his horoscope for that day. Even tackier, I thought, since he did just die that day. I mean, how great could his horoscope have been, really? 

As we were all sitting in our lawn chairs, giving words of comfort to Tina, I happened to look up and noticed a beautiful meteor that lingered as it shot across the sky. It was extra bright and I could actually see pieces of it breaking apart as it entered the atmosphere. 

I uttered a Steve Jobs type of "Oh, Wow!" statement of incredulity and looked around to see if anyone else had seen it. Diane and Martin had, and they chimed in that it wasn't over. I looked back up and saw that the whole sky was being painted by elongated raindrop shaped meteors which washed the sky from south to north in a smeary Van Gogh style.

"This is it guys," I said and started bracing myself for impact. 

It seemed like there would have to be some fallout from an event this massive. Someone asked me how I felt about dying, since I no longer had the assurance of salvation that I was afforded by my old cult beliefs. I replied that I didn't know, but I was going to find out one way or the other. 

A few moments of this passed with no apocalyptic impact to speak of. We were, however, on a hill and Diane's arts and crafts toolbox, an antique given to her by her mother, got loose and started rolling down the grass. 

The toolbox appeared made of wood and metal, but, on close examination, I later found it was mostly wood. I attempted to secure it by grabbing its handle as it started, first rolling and then sliding on its back, down a very long grassy hill. 

Of course, this was unfruitful and I found myself getting towed, water-ski style down the hill. It was quite the rush, moving over the grass at near terminal velocity. It leveled out at the bottom, and the toolbox and I skied over a puddle which slowed our transit just enough to keep us from impacting a parked car down at the bottom of the hill. We just kind of nudged it. 

I examined the toolbox. Not too bad, just a few scuffs and one chipped corner. I thought about playing it off as "pre-existing damage," but I knew Diane wouldn't fall for that. The next best thing was to try to mend it, so I set about to pounding back in a few nails that had gotten a bit loose. That's when the real damage occurred. 

Apparently, older style wooden toolboxes don't take well to hammering, and I created a giant smashed in area right in the center of the box. Someone had the bright idea of drilling out a cone shaped bevel, which looked really out of place, but would have made a nice accommodation for a speaker to be installed. 

I thought about how to possibly cover this up and and decided to smear some crafts dye powder into the cavity to kind of antique the finish. At least it would blend in a little, I thought. I needed to be getting the toolbox back up the hill and so I had to go through several houses to get there. 

I found myself in Emily's house, someone who was a member of the DBSA support group that I attend. I had to ask her for directions since my travel had been so extensive on my downhill skiing trip. I went through a closet and out of the building, around some corners and eventually had my sights on the place where we'd been posted up. 

I don't recall what happened next, or whether or not Diane was sympathetic to my story about how her mom's toolbox escaped and got this inferior makeover. I thought that in light of the fact that we'd all just survived an end of the world level meteor shower that she might just let it slide. Ha. Like, literally. 

Sometime before that, I now recall, I was working on a car resembling my 1986 red Toyota Corolla SR5 2 door hatchback. It was a zippy car in its day, but now it was stalling out when I took it on its maiden test drive. I only got to the bottom of the driveway and I almost wore the battery out restarting it over and over, as it would turn over, catch and then die. 

All the lights on the dash were on and I was settling in to the idea that I'd need to pull some codes to figure out what was wrong. Never mind that this was a very early model in the computerized era of automobiles. It still had a carburetor for crying out loud. Anyway, I don't recall how this segment ended, only that it preceded the end of the world toolbox ski trip at the crafts fair. 

Now we're all caught up and it's still early on Saturday morning. Time for a stretch and some light exercise while watching cartoons. And then on to my caffeine and cannabis-fueled musical breakfast mayhem. God bless Saturdays.

Shopping trip turns ugly after honest mistake

 

It all went downhill after I realized my error and tried to correct it. I was in Winco shopping and had managed to get all my groceries bagged and into the cart when I realized that I had forgotten to pay. The cashier was done with their shift and had gone home, and the store was closed and dark. 

I should have just took the windfall and pushed my shopping cart to my car, but I was afraid they'd review the security footage and discover the error in the morning. I thought I'd better go wake up the checker at home and get her up out of bed to come back down and correct the mistake before they or I got into trouble. 

It wasn't my favorite checker Ele, as I had thought, but Arvada King, my former supervisor at Esplanade Manor. Arvada "Ice Queen." The skin picker, who sat for hours with tweezers, plucking eczema scabs from her arms without looking up. <shudder>

There would have been no love lost, should she have gotten in trouble, but still my conscience bothered me. So there I was, knocking at her bedroom door, which was conveniently located somewhere in the store, but strangely resembled one of the doors in my own house. 

Back down to the grocery store floor we went, and the unbagging and rescanning began, ever so slowly. To top of the sense of urgency, I had some family members, who had driven me to the store, that were now waiting on me to complete this process. 

The more hurried I felt, the slower I went, which is typical of my work ethic in general. People were getting pissed as I inexplicably began screwing around with light fixtures by taking the lightbulbs out and messing with the sockets. 

It wasn't my fault that they had loose electrical connections. It was a safety hazard which I felt compelled to correct, although I was a little worried while working on the live circuits. The fixtures would hum loudly as I attempted to tighten them up at the base. 

Eventually, I got all my groceries bagged and paid for and left the fixtures as they were, in somewhat better condition than I had found them. Now I had to find my people and get home. 

I didn't see them right away, but I did run into Chris Christie, who was wearing the blue plaid shirt that I bought at Walmart two years ago, and which has been hanging in the bathroom, on the shower robe door hook ever since.  He wasn't doing the shirt any favors, as it fit him like a sausage skin, stretching its buttons to their limits. 

"Hey, how'd you get my shirt?" I yelled at him, but he kept walking. 

Next, I saw Dennis Terpelle, a salesman for YC Honda who always reminded me of Eb from Green Acres, also wearing the same shirt. I looked around the store and noticed that quite a few other people were all wearing short sleeve blue plaid shirts exactly like mine. 

Ok, this was getting surreal and conspiratorial, but at least it wasn't theft. I made a joke to Dennis about starting a singing group, like a barber shop quartet or maybe a be-bop group. 

"Doo-wop," he corrected me and I laughed. 

Things were beyond ridiculous, so I guess that was a fitting enough place to end the dream, awakening to the scratching and scuttling of guineas on my roof. 

"Get off my roof, you assholes!" I screamed at them futilely, as I finally committed to getting out of bed to start my day.

Snake season and Sal is on the prowl

I had night sweats again last night. Ugh. I had to get up and change my shirt and underwear at 3:54 am. I managed to settle back in to sleep afterward, but I had to use the heating pad to prevent myself from getting the chills and starting the cycle all over again. My body isn't adapting well to the change in seasons and is having trouble thermo-regulating. I blame that and the springtime hormonal response my body goes through, unbidden, for my thinly veiled, semi-erotic dream last night. 

My former co-worker, Sal Mendez, an automotive prodigy of the highest order was in rare form attempting to mentor me as I made my way through some situation which required his expertise. There is an underlying prison-style male homosexual dominance thing that goes on in the testosterone-driven automotive world, and Sal was a charming bastard with Socratic seduction techniques. It didn't help that he was good looking, genuinely helpful and an actual nice guy. I felt myself responding to his non-overt overtures because of his sheer magnetism.

In this dream, I was walking somewhere and needing some kind of assistance. Sal appeared out of nowhere offering help, like the devil usually does in these situations. I was in no position to be picky and gladly let him walk beside me and we discussed whatever my trouble was, something automotive-related, I'm assuming, but I can't be sure because I was soon distracted by a lot of random snakes that kept appearing in our path. 

As in all things, Sal had a wealth of knowledge of snakes, and he expounded on the various types of snakes and their activities as we encountered them. I pointed out a pair of king snakes that looked like they were about to become amorous, as they were intertwined in a rather suggestive posture. 

Sure, I can spot a metaphor a mile a way, as could he, and he just laughed as we continued to discuss my problem and snakes in a very general and non-sexual way. But I knew and he knew that he was a master at playing the long game, so he was in no hurry to make some kind of crude reference which might have spooked me. Damn his subtle ways, anyhow.

The next thing I knew he was taking my car out for a test drive, the problem having been fixed, the car perfectly restored and then some. It was a vintage S2000 that had a rare rear seating area in place of the convertible top. It was painted a sickly chartreuse color that was reminiscent of a 20s era Bentley and had era appropriate fender flares and chrome trim, which it somehow pulled off despite not really fitting the modern sports car motif. 

I jumped in the back just as he was pulling away. I wasn't quite sure if he was trying to jack my car or if he was just taking an innocent test drive, but I wasn't taking any chances. He seemed gentlemanly enough, driving the car at respectable speeds and not doing anything the least bit out of line, so I once again felt myself falling under his easy spell. I never felt the least bit uncomfortable, a fact with which I am a bit uncomfortable and, frankly, reluctant to report. 

As per dream protocols, nothing actually "happened," but all the cues were in place and I have to be honest, there was a level of arousal despite my homophobic societal conditioning. Anyways, sometimes snakes are just snakes, but Sal being on the prowl, well, that is just a force of nature.

9 year old Sharon in a paper party dress

I just remember having seen Sharon appear in my kitchen wearing a white paper party dress. She was cute as a button, looking to be about 9 years old. And not a behemoth 9 year old Amazon, but a regular sized, little dainty one. I complimented her on how pretty she looked. 

Meanwhile, she and Jenny Bennett, or whatever her new name is now, were going to stay for dinner. I had to ask my mom if it was ok for Jenny to stay too, since my mom was ordering pizza and I wanted to make sure there would be enough. You know how that goes. 

I was playing around with an ancient computer console from the 60's at the time. I believe it belonged to Walter F. Bennett, Jenny's dad. He didn't look like the real version, at least from pictures I've seen on the internet, but looked suspiciously like Ken Vigen from Hondo Die Supply, a place I worked in the '80s. 

The computer looked like the kind of ancient device that could be used to start a nuclear war and Walter/Ken was a little perturbed that I'd been entering data on it while he wasn't around. I assured him that it was just a little harmless data entry and not any kind of missile launch programming, but he was not going to let it go unchecked, so he went through the data logs line by line to make sure. 

Although I was still sleeping, I kept having to rehearse my speech to the vet for why I wouldn't be able to bring my cat in today. She's been experiencing anal gland leakage, and I had an early morning appointment. It looked pretty bad a day or two ago, but it has dried up and now looks less like an infection or something that they will be able to treat. 

I may be stuck with poopy cat butt cleanup from time to time, but I don't want to traumatize her (or myself) with an early morning appointment today. Maybe I'll just reschedule if it gets bad again. I'd like to go back to sleep, since it's still dark out, and I could really use to get some more sleep. 

Oh, and Lesa has been emailing me, now that I'm off of Facebook. More on this later.

Dear Lesa

 

Dear Lesa,

 

Thank you for always saying the nicest things.

I’ve probably just turned into more of a grump in the past few weeks, with no social reins to keep me in check. I’ve abandoned all but the most basic self-care and am in, no doubt, less than prime-time, to say the least. After a 5 week long break from Facebook, I thought I’d go back on today and see how long I could go before I got triggered. I didn’t get too far, since Valentine’s Day was just last weekend and folks were still posting their happy-ass stuff. See what I mean about the grump? Anyway, I don’t want to begrudge anyone their happiness, or you specifically, since you were also there for me at a pivotal time.

I’m glad I could help you along, however I may have done so. Feeling a re-connection with one’s past is always great, but when someone else shares your same memories and feelings, that is special. I felt we had a moment, maybe two, when that re-connection was as alive and promising as spring. Unfortunately, our spring started late and the seeds never even had a chance to open before fall and winter came around, freezing them out. Simply a matter of timing, nature doing what nature does, not always with kindness. 2020 was like an exceedingly long winter, one from which I’ve never really awakened.

I guess to love you gotta risk heartbreak. No two ways about it. I’ve experienced enough heartbreak in the last decade or so to feel I’ve had enough. I have shut down the openings through which those kinds of feelings can get in, and I’ve closed the curtains. I’ll be taking a long nap. OK, that sounds dramatic and vaguely threatening of self-harm, so I’ll have to make the disclaimer that, no, I am not at this or any other time actively contemplating suicide. I may have thoughts about it from time to time, but hey, I’m sure it crosses everyone’s mind. My crossing needs its own sign, since it is heavily foot-trafficked by random negative thoughts of all sorts. A psychological parade of distortions and misperceptions about the world, myself, other people, etc. going across my field of view at any given time. When I get like this, I need a time out. I need to not infect others with the foulness that lurks in my “hole.” I’m laying down in my hole, but apparently refusing to die.

Not much else to report, really. I have a pretty active dream life, which makes sleeping my favorite (non-) activity right now. I keep a detailed journal of these nightly programs, which come on seemingly just for my entertainment, or for some sub-conscious psycho mumbo-jumbo reason, I dunno. I go for walks still. Still have my Saturday morning sessions on the guitar, yippie skippy.

I’m just kinda bored with my life right now. Bored is better than actively experiencing pain, though, so I guess I should feel that life is going easy on me, right? I’m not going to bust out that old “G-word,” you know what it is, but let’s call it “appreciation for the things that don’t suck” or “things that suck significantly less than other things.” Like the man with no feet thing, etc. Doesn’t make me feel any better, or the guy with no feet for that matter, to know that there is always some other poor schmuck a few rungs down from you on the ladder of suckiness. I hope I’ve not infected you with my stale grump-ism too much in this letter. I’m really not an active proponent of people relating to this kind of thing. I’d rather have people not being in my particular bucket, since it’s not the most pleasant of buckets to be in. Sometimes, not sharing is caring.

Anyway, you said lots of nice things in your letter, so I’m way off base being super-dark. I could at least go for partly cloudy, since there are a few bright spots here or there. The nice things you said in your message could be considered one of those bright spots, I suppose. So, thank you. I’ve gotta go thank Mark, too for saying that nice thing about me on Facebook when I was gone. Isn’t that what everyone wants, to have people talking nice shit about them behind their back?

I’m not sure I’ll be on Facebook much. I have my reasons, which go beyond just my little pouting phase. Nothing conspiratorial, just a wellness kind of thing with me. If something gives you more pain than joy (I seldom experience the latter ever, really) then why keep exposing yourself to it over and over, right? I still want to have friends, but I’m not able to be on stage at the moment. I’ll talk to the few friends that will talk to me still, backstage, in the little small room. Private chat or email, phone calls, that sort of thing. I hope I stay connected with you. I guess I don’t mind hearing nice things said to me, who doesn’t? I’ll try to return the favor, or leastways, to say the fewest un-nice things as possible. Better to just be a clam than to be a sea anemone that squirts out toxic stuff, or a sea cucumber, with prickly thorns that everyone can step on

 

Hang in there, sweetie. Keep in touch, my lovely friend. Love, A

 

 

----

**It is currently Aug 6, 2021. This letter was inserted into my timeline after I recently came across it while browsing through the folders on my desktop.  Many things have changed since I wrote this, some have not. But it belongs to this date Sat, Feb 20, 2021, as it provides a snapshot of my state of mind and relationship with Lesa (and the world in general) at the time.

Just like the good old days

I dreamed I was taking care of Sharon again. This time we were in a cabin in the desert. It was a desert with tidal influences, so things were alternately sandy and dry and sandy and wet from the tide which would roll in and soak everything. This made keeping Sharon clean difficult. I kept running out of dry washcloths. Besides using them to soak up urine and do the usual cleanup, they would get wet from the atmospherics. I was cleaning her up and at one point ran out of them in the middle of the job, frustrating me to the point of yelling. Hey, just like old times. I justified myself up and down, making more of an ass of myself in the process. 

I went on a long trek out into the desert to find more washcloths but in the process found a couple of pairs of shoes which I appropriated for myself after checking the size. 9-1/2. Not too worn. Perfect. Someone would be missing these. They were not exactly abandoned, but stashed in a wood crate on top of some other items which I didn't find particularly useful. I had a bit of remorse, thinking of the poor shoeless person that I'd be robbing. Oh, well, if I encountered them out there, I could always give them back. 

I ran into the lady who owned the cabin when I got back. She offered me a half-eaten apple, which I took gladly. It was enormous and she was very proud to give it to me, even as a hand-me-down leftover. I took a bite and took it in the house to share with Sharon, who was under-impressed at getting sloppy thirds. 

I rooted around in the drawers to try to find more washcloths and found them full of water. Damn that tidal influence anyhow. They were mostly empty, except for a couple of drawers which contained silverware and collectable silver. Jackpot! I was in a scavenging state of mind, so everything was fair game if it didn't have someone's name carved in it. Dammit! That's exactly what this old biddy had done. The silverware had wooden handles with "Margie" carved into them in crude but unmistakable letters. I guess I'd be leaving them be. 

I resigned myself to confining my search to the washcloths, though I was really coveting some of the silver currency. And what was this? Some paper money lying among the coins? Haha! Finders keepers, right? But upon closer inspection, what looked at first to be dollar bills was actually some rare paper coins, perhaps Japanese or Chinese in origin. Very decorative and very unspendable. 

Before Sharon and I wound up in the sandy cabin, I was back in my old Paradise neighborhood. It was kinda run down but not as bad, I guess, as what the fire did to it in real life. It had become a seedy section of town, inhabited by hippies and bearded folk. In other words, just like old times. 

But there was a distinct flavor of reality which crept in, in that people were expected to be wearing masks, as in PPE for the pandemic. This was largely ignored, a fact that I became aware of when I went to a house party and no one was wearing them. Alcohol flowed and joints were being shared freely and people were shoulder to shoulder inside the tiny space. 

I wasn't in there for that, however, I had some other business to attend to which eludes me at the moment. I was beholden to some Mexican guy for something, which also eludes me, but seemed very important at the time that I find it for him and return it to him. I had encroached on some property of his and needed to make restitution, I think. But I'm grasping at this point, since this all occurred in my first dream cycle and it faded rapidly.

That's about it. I wasn't thinking I'd be dreaming at all, as I woke up at 5:30 soaked in sweat and needing to change my thermal top and my hoodie. Usually the more awake I get on a nighttime excursion, the less likely I am to enter the dream world, especially if it is almost daybreak. But I needed the extra couple of hours, so I crawled back into bed and things got underway quite quickly in this case. 

And now it is another lovely Saturday. Skies of blue, clouds of white and the LED has remained on throughout the day and night. I get emotional when it blinks off anymore, but I really keep an eye on it and beg Sharon to stick around whenever it does, so it seems to stay on despite my frustrated ranty behavior of late. She has gotten more patient with me than when she was alive. 

Perhaps she has learned to just turn the light on and then go elsewhere, leaving me with an electronic pacifier. Yeah, she's smart like that. I'd be just as glad to know that she's not observing every incident of me yelling "motherfucker!" at a small piece of food that lands on the floor when I'm cooking breakfast. I'm not a very dignified recluse, and my antics are not really quality reality show material. They aren't family friendly, to say the least.

Stuck in traffic behind the Queen of the Strip, Rienna doesn't recognize me and I can't change a flat

I was stuck in traffic at the intersection right next to Ellis Lake in Marysville. The cause of the obstruction was none other than Marg Helgenberger, onetime star of CSI and the Queen of the Strip, as she had come to be known in my dream. 

Her title was bestowed on her due to the fact that whenever she wanted, she would simply park her car in traffic and her entourage would declare the entire street a party zone. Pretty much everyone else on the road at the time became her subjects and were forced to pay her tribute by pretending to have a good time. If and when she deigned to start up her car again and move, the rest of the world could finish their commute and resume their lives. 

On this occasion, though, she had a flat tire and I was somehow saddled with the job of fixing it. People were breaking out their lawn chairs and ice chests in anticipation of the long wait. Meanwhile, Marg was getting impatient. Not that she didn't enjoy the attention or give a damn about the people whose lives she was impacting, but a flat tire...how droll! I was under the gun and things weren't looking good as far as getting her rolling again. 

No, matter, however, as the scene shifted and her car was suddenly in a shop situation and up on a drive-on automotive lift. This might sound like a better situation, but for me it wasn't. I was still charged with changing the tire and now her boyfriend, played by Bobby Cannavale, from the series Vinyl and elsewhere, was cracking the whip for me to get the job finished. They had purchased four tires, although I hadn't shown the least bit of proficiency in changing even one. 

The problem was that the rack, being a drive-on rack, didn't provide any space for me to put the jack to get the tire off. I finagled it in between the rack and the car somehow and managed to get the wheel aloft only to find that the suspension was in the way. I had to remove several nuts and bolts to allow the wheel to be removed. In addition to losing track of what went where, the whole car was in a precarious position since the rack was on an incline. 

I had RJ Leon (or a reasonable facsimile) put boards under the bumper, which wound up getting stuck, requiring extrication of their own. The car would also need an alignment after all was said and done, not just because that is a good idea when putting on new tires, but because I had bent the power steering rack and my re-installation of the components I had removed was questionable at best. 

I guess I'd finished with one tire, because eventually they decided I was done, or the scene shifted again, I'm not sure which. I definitely told them that the other 3 tires were gonna need a rain check.

Meanwhile at the chiropractor's office, I ran into Rienna. She looked about 40 years younger and had a young daughter of about 3 or 4 in tow. I almost didn't recognize her, but when I did, I kind of kept it to myself. I was looking about 40 years older than my current age, which already has me prematurely white-bearded and balding. I was embarrassed by my appearance. Still a spark of recognition would be nice. She got up and started to try to enlist recruits for some political mission that she was on. 

I followed her around for a little bit, still hoping we'd meet and share a moment, but the most attention I got was from a stray dog who took a liking to me. It was a border collie with a voracious appetite, which it demonstrated by devouring a bowl of dog food that was set out for someone's teacup little pug type of dog. It nearly devoured the other little dog as it inhaled the food with a snarl. Other than that, it was an affectionate beast and we bonded quite nicely. 

I guess the dog made up for Rienna's lack of recognition of me, and somehow the dream lost steam after that. I woke up several times and tried to re-insert myself anywhere, just to get more out my night's entertainment, but alas, it was not to be.

A property manager's pigstye, a day at the lake nearly turns tragic

I was living with Sharon in an apartment again. This one was the "manager's special." It came with no cleaning deposit and low enough rent to be enticing. It was also a dump. The previous tenants were the property owners and they had abdicated all their manager's responsibilities, leaving the whole place in anarchy. Trash was being left near the dumpster area by surrounding neighbors and businesses with impunity. 

The car, which I guess came with the place, was a nice Subaru Outback that someone had attempted to repair with silicone ducting which wasn't up to the task of routing evaporative emissions vapors back into the tank. It was turning into jelly. Worse yet, it was routed into the passenger compartment in a very conspicuous way which would never pass smog, let alone function. 

I'm not one to cast racial aspersions, but this was the kind of Mexican automotive re-engineering from which stereotypes are born. The previous owners were, in fact, Guatamalan. 

The inside of the apartment was full of all kinds of half-finished projects, rat poop and boxes. They'd been living this way a long time, but it looked as if they thought it would only be temporary. 

I found some closet shelving that was a nice unfinished hardwood, which was being protected from the rat poop and paint can drippings by a second layer of particle board, giving the shelves the appearance of being crap themselves. I took off one of the boards and was amazed at the quality of wood that was being hidden away underneath. 

Outside the master bedroom was a balcony looking out over a small private yard. The entire yard was a giant pot garden, though it had fallen into decay like the rest of the place. Bob Orrick was to supposed to come by later to visit, or perhaps offer advice on the property, and I didn't want him to see this. 

At one point in my life, I'd have been proud of such an operation, but now I just wanted to get rid of it. It was a vestige of my former life, and frankly, more trouble than it was worth. 

When I was out dropping off some crap in the dumpster, I noticed a trashcan full of corn and other industrial waste. I asked Daniel Kellitt about it, since he was also out there dumping his unauthorized garbage, mostly beer bottles. 

I let Daniel's trespass slide, in exchange for information about the corn, which he gladly divulged. It was Well-and-Med, a company down the alley. Since the fences had all fallen into disrepair there was an easy path to our dumpster. 

I took their heavy trashcan full of corn back to their place of business on a dolly. Fortunately, the corn, which wasn't in cans but just poured out into a metal trash bin, hadn't yet begun to stink. But that was imminent, so I imagine this was why the unlawful dump was made. 

The owner and an employee were there and acted like they expected me. They were actually standing out by their own dumpster, as if waiting for me to deliver a shipment, and they readily took the corn off my hands.

Since I always remember more of the latter part of a dream cycle, I always have to work backward. Before the nasty apartment with the pot garden, and before the corn incident or poorly repaired Subaru, I was out on the lake in a canoe. 

I had a kid with me and we were going to do some fishing. Or at least I was going to do some fishing. The boy, it appeared, was going to go into the water, flail about in the boat traffic lanes and get himself into trouble. He was wearing a life jacket, so I thought, "No big deal." 

But it was a big deal because apparently he'd gone too far out into the current and was in danger of being sucked down some Class I rapids near the outlet of the lake. Should that happen, I would be in no position to be able to rescue him in my cheapo plastic canoe, so I scrambled to get to him before he reached the point of no return. 

Just before I got to that critical moment of being able to grab him or making the decision to "let him go," a jet ski appeared out of nowhere and scooped him up. No harm, no foul. He wasn't my kid anyway. 

I'm sure more happened to stitch the dream together, but I don't remember what it was. So, there you have it, in all its corny, superfluous detail.

Sound systems of rooftop shed scavengers, I shower in the kitchen

I dreamed I was trying to put together a sound system out of scavenged parts from old junk audio consoles. My brother in law Harold was piecing one together for himself, and I needed his help to put mine on the roof of my shed. 

I'd found a mostly empty old chassis from an industrial computer control panel that had some audio components still intact, namely a subwoofer and couple of VU meters. It was a start. Things always take longer in a dream, so I spent a good bit of time wrangling the large, awkward frame around and finally decided that I couldn't do it without some help. 

But first things first. I needed to take a shower. Due to the dream sluggishness effect, I spent an inordinate amount of time gathering up the clothing that I would wear when I was done. I'd finally picked out some underwear, but time was of the essence, so I just started ripping off my clothes and got busy with showering using the kitchen sink sprayer. 

The kitchen was empty except for the island containing the sink. The rest of the house was in a state of semi-renovation/construction. At least the water was working, and I had this sink to shower with, although I had to stand outside of the sink and the water just drained out on the floor. I moved around the island so as to evenly distribute the giant puddle on the tiles. 

As is always the case when showering in the kitchen clandestinely, someone always shows up at the door or peeks in the window. It was Harold, so I told him to hold his horses, I'd be out in a minute when I was done.

After I got showered, or at least got done getting committed to the idea of being wet and naked in my kitchen and making a mess on the floor, I threw on some clothes and started getting my sound system up on the roof of the shed. 

It was a smallish shed, but would make good command post for my outdoor audio setup. I was patterning it after Harold's, which was already aloft. Harold lent a hand getting it situated, even though the roof wasn't all the way nailed down on my shed. 

I was always several steps behind the process, it seemed. But the jacked up old machine parts jukebox was coming together. Soon we'd be having DJ wars and barbecuing like a couple of backyard pirates, shouting at one another from across our neighboring yards. 

That's about it, sunshine. You woke me up just in time to miss the morning cartoons. But judging by the blue skies, at least I will be going for my walk later today. 

And I got my Walmart shipment of some new shoes and boots to replace the ones that I have which have nearly reached their expiration date. I waterproofed the boots and tried them and the shoes on yesterday, but I put them back in the box afterward and stashed them away in the closet with some other shoes that have been mostly unworn and are still in boxes. 

I have a bit of a hoarding problem, I guess. I like to call it stocked up. I really just want to get the very last little bit out of the current pairs before committing the new ones to everyday use. But walking out on the grass the other day and getting my toes wet through my old, previously waterproof boots was the clincher. So, I bought the new ones just in time to store them for the summer. 

Sharon's LED is still on and blinks at me occasionally. Sometimes it will go out for a few minutes at a time, but then come back on. I really don't want it to ever go out, because I feel it will mean she has had enough of hanging around coddling me. 

But when it is on, I feel that I am in some kind of imminent danger, and she is warning me to get off my ass before the flood comes, so to speak. I don't think it's a flood, necessarily, but it could be a major health crisis or even a home maintenance catastrophe which is looming in the cards and she has prescient knowledge of from the other side.

Regardless, I like having it on, as it is my psychological crutch, like Tom Hanks' Wilson in Castaway. I'm not crazy, but I am, said the schizophrenic.

Living with Mom, Dad (and Greg)

I don't know how, but this was the configuration: I was living at home, here on Stonehedge, with my mom and Greg. Dear old Dad was somehow living there too. Or at least he was posted up in my downstairs room and sitting at my desk, making himself quite at home. 

I told him that if he was going to be using my desk, that under no circumstances was he to go rifling through my desk. Specifically, he should not be tempted to go through my files, which contained my ancient scribblings and writings from my twenties. 

And in warning him, I opened up the drawer and pointed to the exact, specific folder that I wished for him to avoid, even teasing out a page or two in the process, to make it more alluring. I knew this would make it impossible for him to resist, but he agreed that they were off limits as I slammed the drawer shut. 

Next, I was in the kitchen with Mom and Greg. I was late for work and was vacillating between calling in sick or just arriving 4 to 6 hours late. My mom made a somewhat demanding remark to address the situation, which I resented intensely. 

"If you are going to go out, it is imperative that you pick up some things from the store," she demanded of my somewhat sullen, already put upon psyche. 

I went back downstairs to make the phone call to see about avoiding work altogether. It was already 2 pm. By the time I'd finished arguing with both sets of parents it was 2:30. Now I just had to find a phone with legible buttons on it to make the call.

For some reason I couldn't remember the number right away and I got some other business with my first attempt. When I looked at the phone, I couldn't make out the numbers, as all of the writing on the keypad was worn off through years of use. I couldn't even estimate the numbers because the pad contained a few extra digits and wasn't a standard 10 key configuration.

 I never did wind up making the call, and this comprised the bulk of the time I spent in the dream. I calculated the effect of just not showing up vs. showing up late without calling vs. what the hell would I tell them when or if I did ever make the call. Certainly, I would lie and just say that I was sick. 

The next thing I remember, I was back at my old house in Paradise. Nancy Leon was there attempting to make some kind of cake using cardboard cutouts that she had left lying around on the coffee table. I was rooting around looking at them, and she admonished me to not mess them up. 

I went out back to the little jam room that I had set up many years ago. I was going to show my nephew Morgan the room where I'd done so much creatively during those years. It was in complete disarray: dark, empty of anything of value, the floor wet with pools of blood, cat urine and vomit. I still tried to complete the tour, but avoiding the mess on the floor was a bit off putting to say the least. 

I spent the last part of the dream trying to enunciate the phrase "Trappist Monk," for no apparent reason. It was like a mantra that I was to wake up with as my keyword for remembering the dream, though there was no apparent connection to anything that happened. Be'duh buh dee, be'duh buh dee, that's all folks.

I'm mad as hell...

 ...and I'm probably going to keep on taking it like a bitch. <sigh>

Cat and mouse game with an internationally acclaimed machine gun assassin

I was once again on the run and under the gun, so to speak. I was on the wrong side of cabal of thugs that were world renowned for getting what they wanted and showing no mercy. Their leader was a badass type, played by a Liam Neeson or Bradley Cooper mashup, a real supervillain. 

I first fell under his scrutiny when I was in a typical wrong place, wrong time situation. He was laying waste an entire army of fleeing foes, and I got caught up in the melee. After a while of running and hiding, it became clear that he had finished off everyone but me. 

I hid out under a flimsy lattice, certain I'd be seen and executed on the spot as I watched his boots go past at eye level. At one point he even peeked under and I was sure the jig was up, but he kept on walking. If I ever got out of this, I vowed to put an end to him, knowing that I'd never be safe in a world with him in it.

The next thing I remember, I was at a large gala in a luxurious venue. It was decorated with floor to ceiling dark draperies and had Hollywood style floodlights or "can lights" giving the place an overly ritzy vampire gangster vibe. I was hiding still, but I could see the people coming and going to the event. My killer assassin nemesis would be in attendance, and I would have to get close to him to take him out. 

Enter my partner in crime, his estranged wife or girlfriend, a double agent who also wanted him dead. She was played by Loretta Brown, Cleveland Brown's wife on Family Guy. Although this was a non-animated version, I swear it was her, as I recognized the unmistakable voice. She was an attractive black female, and we kinda had a thing going, in addition to our mission of wanting her murderous husband dead. 

(Fun fact: the actress responsible for this voice is actually a white woman named Alex Borstein, who also plays Lois Griffin and some other parts on the show, as well as being a writer and editor behind the scenes. I did not know this in the dream, though; her voice was that convincing.)

At first, we stayed out of sight and waited for his arrival. It was thought that he was going to shoot up the place in his typical machine gun fashion. We hid out behind the draperies and eyed the entrance. After a long while with no sign of him, we got a bit more confident and decided to move about and find the perfect spot to waylay him. 

"To kill him..." I whispered to her.

 "We are going to have to be closer to him than his own breath," she finished my thought.  At that point she was standing close to me, and I could feel her breathing the words. 

I felt the pull of attraction, excited by her proximity, as well as the danger of our plot. We hid out in some bedding which just happened to be very near the entrance to the building. I held her tight and felt her shapely body next to mine, cupping her round buttocks gratuitously. Why the hell not, I thought, it might be the last thing I feel. 

So we lay there in wait and finally saw him and his gang approaching the entrance of the building. We decided that in bed together wasn't the best place to be when showed up, so we scrambled to find a more legitimate location for our sneak attack. When she'd gained his confidence, I would have but a moment to attack him from behind. 

There wasn't much of a plan, but we'd have to see it though, or I was certain that eventually one of his bullets would find me. Going off script, I grabbed one of the floor lights and used it as a weapon to temporarily blind him. This ultimately didn't work, but at least didn't recognize me through the lights. He simply shielded his eyes from the annoyance and moved on. 

That's about where things left off as I was awakened to Eddie the Cat making meowies and thrashing about the place. I suppose I need to account for Patsy now, since Eddie was clearly upset because her sister was sleeping in too late for her liking.

Creating a world is pointless

I'm unable to sustain a world of my own imagining that is any good for even my own deluded psyche to inhabit. What makes me think I can or should be able to create a real world to live in that is enjoyable by two people? Tell me that, would you? 

I can make tea, eat cornbread muffins and pancakes at ten o'clock at night, drink 3/4 of a bottle of wine and smoke an entire bowl before, during and after dinner--yes, all of this is true. And I can dance around the kitchen with the urn containing the remains of Sharon's ashes. Or not do that. 

Maybe I am qualified to pet a kitty or two, or pick a Master Lock 175 or 176, but that's about it. Other than that, useless as a feather. A single feather can accomplish nothing. Give me a complete wing, and I'll still be one wing short of a flapping machine. 

That's where I'm at. Nowhere. Like, Nowheresville, man. Yeah. This was pointless.

Nobody loves you when you're a seamonster

The problem was, a fair number of people were turning into oarfish. Big, serpent-like sea monsters with a lion's mane of triangular skin flaps and a star shaped mouth that opened and closed like those doors one sees in spaceports, teeth retracting and converging from a central point. One bite from an oarfish and you'd become one yourself. 

People were being rounded up and chased down over contacts they had with other infected people who had already turned. So, the world was becoming a loveless place, what with the epidemic of oarfish bites and suspected oarfish bites. I managed to avoid the bite but not the suspicion, so of course, I was on the run. 

I remember seeing another sorry looking chap with a Green Bay Packers hoodie, who could have passed for my doppleganger, that was also on the run. 

I really don't have much else, the dream evaporated rather quickly, and whatever other luggage I'd packed up got lost in the terminal on the way out.

Shipping shortage has me trying to break through the cardboard ceiling

Once again, I, the protagonist, was faced with a challenge. There was apparently a worldwide shipping shortage and a great need for all levels of transportation/shipping employees. From the people who made the pallets, to the people who put things in boxes to the upper level heroes, the truck drivers--all were in demand. 

I found myself in a facility that was made up of a rag-tag group of scruffs, which included Jose, aka CarWashy, who was attempting to teach me to operate a cheap electric pallet jack. I was kinda getting the hang of it. Kinda. 

I figured out the handlebar control buttons and was doing some practice runs around the warehouse floor, negotiating cardboard pallets that were all awaiting products to be placed on them for shipping. After mastering the controls, I took it out on the grass and opened it up, bouncing over the lumpy terrain at a most unprofessional speed. 

Inside the warehouse, most of the shipping needs consisted of people's household items to be moved across country. I was learning the ropes of box building, among other skills. Ready made cardboard boxes were in short supply. Pallets were non-existent. Both had to be made from flats of old cardboard and tape and were flimsily constructed, barely able to perform their function. 

I had one particular order that I was going to see through to completion, though, even if it meant I was going to have to learn to drive an 18-wheeler. It was a guy's entire life's possessions, including a couple of cats. 

I was first tasked with just hanging out in his house to make sure vandals didn't come and rob the joint while awaiting the next available truck. That was no biggie. Just hang around and pet the cats, or try to, as they were a bit shy. 

I was really itching to get the job done, but I kept running into resistance. Robert Eckerman, a nurse at Yuba Sutter Behavioral Health, on this side of dreamland, was my chief opponent. He kept stalling the move with various excuses and putting the ship date way off into the future. I told him I had all of the customer's merchandise packaged and I'd drive it to their house myself, if need be. 

Before all of his hemming and hawing, while I was still in the early stages of my transportation career, I had been a part of a massive move that required more truck drivers than were present. People were being conscripted to drive big rigs if they had even the slightest experience. I had absolutely zero, a fact which I kept hidden until it was almost time for me to jump in and drive one of the massive 21 speeds. 

I finally asked someone if it would be possible for someone to teach me the basics in less than 1 day. At that point I was ejected from the driver's seat and told that I'd have to start at the bottom of the chain, making cardboard pallets and boxes. It wasn't a surprise, really, the cardboard ceiling was real, and I was too much of a pampered pansy to qualify for the coveted job of truck driver in the upside-down pyramid of anti-privilege. I had a lot to learn. 

                                                              Heather Wade
 

When I'd built my first box, it was for Tex, who had two kids at the time, and looked a lot like Heather Wade, a now defunct radio host. She was moving and needed a box to be shipped to her new location. 

I visited her at her house, saw her kids and pets, which I commented were "just the cutest things." They were, too. She had miniature cows on her roof, roaming about like cats out for a stroll. 

I was determined to help her, but as I mentioned, Robert Eckerman was the antagonist in this situation, with his bureaucratic nonsense about legal shipping days and whatnot. I threatened to use FedEx, but that had no validity since they didn't work on Sunday, either. I was going to do the driving myself, even if I had to use my own car to do it. 

And that's the way the dream wound up. I have to mention that the LED, which has been on since Jan 23, is still on. It took a one day vacation on Super Bowl Sunday, which made me think that Sharon had abandoned me forever (again). 

But after just enough time for me to express all my doubts to my psychic friend, it was back on and has been on since. I try asking it questions, but mostly I just tell it that I'm glad it's back, that Sharon is back, since that's what I've come to accept that it means. 

Why she'd hang around with me at this point is a mystery, though. I'm very boring these days. Even my dreams of a cardboard shipping empire are more interesting than what goes on in this room day after day.

House dreams...ugh

I hate house dreams because they usually mean that I got some shit to take care of in real life. 

Last night I dreamed there were some undesirable types that were staying at my house. One of them was a guy named Robert Lee. My mom started to dislike him after learning that he had a civil war hero name. Me, I just resented how he drove his quad into my garage and banged the place up in the process. 

I had failed to install padlocks on all the doors and this was the result: people camping in my house. I chastised him for crashing into the plumbing and causing a massive leak. I had to be somewhere, so I had to leave the leak and charge this Robert guy with telling my mom to find someone to fix it while I was gone. 

Meanwhile, all I could think about was how the the garage would be flooded and all the drywall and the garage door would be getting ruined by the water. To be fair, the plumbing was a bit of a disaster without getting banged into. It snaked around and had many patches and dead ends in it. What it was doing right above the garage door to begin with was a mystery. Nonetheless, Robert was getting the blame. 

I found myself at my therapist's place, which was a trailer with a nice sliding glass door. I could see that David Chahn was already there along with a couple other people. I wanted to talk to my therapist about all the crap going on at my house, but really I just needed to use the phone. I was supposed to be at college, I believe, and wouldn't have time to have a session. 

"It's your time," she told me, meaning that it was my session. 

I guess David and I shared the time slot on alternate weeks, so it could technically belong to either of us. I told her I'd just need to use the phone and tell my mom to look after the plumbing, which I did. When I got to the part about it being Robert's fault, she asked me what his last name was. 

"Robert Lee," I told her. 

"Well, that makes sense," she said as if it suddenly confirmed everything she hated about racist stereotypes.

Later I was at the beach. There was a sidewalk being repaired and I guess I was on the crew. They were laying in grout for the cracks to give it a seamless appearance. Some of the old grout needed replacement. 

Once again, David Chahn was on the scene, laying in the grout in strips. I watched him as he performed the delicate operation. I told him I needed to study his technique, since I might wind up doing that job someday. 

After a few minutes he decided to go surfing and shouted, "I am Elias!" in a tone that resembled the line from Sparticus. 

I laughed at the incongruity of it all, an Asian quoting a line from the old movie and tweaking it to have a different ethnic twist. He was using it in a solidarity kind of way, as if to identify with the suffering of a person named Elias, who was I guess some kind of martyr for the cause of persecuted immigrants everywhere. 

I watched him disappear behind some growing waves as I contemplated just how far up the tide was going to come. I was in some pretty wet sand and I couldn't tell if the tide was going out or coming in. I got the impression that it was going out, but I still needed to watch my back since the waves were increasing in size. 

I woke up with the song from the Zillow commercial in my head. "Everybody wants a place to be. Lobsters live at the bottom of the sea and I'm at the bottom of the earth." Damn jingles. 

Hey, it's Saturday, though. I made it. I need to make it special, but I'm too scared to do shrooms, though I really want to try microdosing again. Just another thing I will put off, most likely. 

Perhaps I'll go under the house and look for plumbing leaks, since I keep hearing weird noises from the plumbing when I pee. It sounds like rain hitting the roof. I don't even have to flush the toilet. It's as if the pee is displacing the water in the bowl and causing a tiny waterfall inside the pipes that resonates instead of just being quiet like pee ought to do. 

If it is all internal to the pipes, well, I guess it can make all the noise it wants. But if it's drip, drip, dripping on my AC vents or something else under there, well, we gonna have some problems. Last time I looked I never saw any evidence of leaks, so I've been telling myself the internal resonance story ever since. 

Since I tortured myself with woodcutting and burning for the last two days, maybe I'll take another pass for today. I skipped my exercise yesterday because I figured four hours of chucking wood into a burn pile ought to suffice. Yeah, I'm good. I've made up for those late night pancakes and honey toast and mini pizza binges. I've gained 3 pounds, but then again, I may just have to poop.

Butte College American Idol and the case of the missing mink oil

I dreamed I was going to try out for American Idol. Auditions were being held at Butte College. Since I still lived in Paradise, I had only a half-hour commute to get there. Buuut...as in dreams, of course, I struggled to get there on time to make my time slot. I got there just under the wire and ran from the parking lot to the rehearsal area, only to find that they had postponed all the remaining contestants until the next day. 

This was fortuitous, I guess, since I was nowhere near ready, but I was still disappointed. I'd psyched myself up, and now I was going to have to wait another day. Worse, they rescheduled the afternoon contestants for first thing in the morning, so I would have only enough time to drive home, go to sleep then turn back around and be there bright and early. I was now more nervous than I had been. 

I woke up with the Who's "New Song" playing in my head. 

I have to admit, smoking weed and eating a carby snack before bed results in my sleeping way better and longer, and I wake up feeling like I've actually rested. I awoke to rainbows on the wall, cast from my refractive crystal ball place strategically on the bedside windowsill. I was in a poor frame of mind prior to the snack and toke. 

I've been getting easily frustrated these days. I spent another afternoon looking for something that has obviously been sucked up into another dimension. A box containing mink oil and saddle soap got up and walked away, as Sharon would say. 

I only partially blame her for things that temporarily elude my searches. I think she has developed this dematerialization skill and is using it to make me go rooting about in the house in order to find or see something else that she wants me to be aware of. 

Last time I wound up finding the tent poles which I'd thought I'd mistakenly thrown out before. They were hanging from a nail in the garage in plain sight. Not that I needed them at the time or anything. I had been looking for a hammer. 

Now I am looking for these leather protective products in order to clean and waterproof my boots, which have become annoyingly soggy of late. I was just using this stuff a year or two ago, and I distinctly remember several places where I had last seen the box. I don't know how much of the product I used, but it couldn't have been all of it. I had nearly a full tin of mink oil. 

Maybe Sharon just wants me to get new boots. Still, I'm sure she'd approve of trying to get one more season out of this pair. So where is it, dear? HMMM?

Me and Sharon: Easy like Sunday morning

Sharon and I had a place together, kind of an apartment thing. There were people coming over, and having meals with us. Actually, Jamison seemed to be a roommate. He was the parts guy I worked with at YC Honda. 

He made breakfast for the house, some ham and cheese sandwiches and eggs. There was a whole tray of those little sandwiches but how many did I get? You guessed it, none. 

I was only a little perturbed that no one had noticed when they were sliding them down. Perhaps that was why I kept referring to them as "sliders," when they, in fact, were more like a grilled cheese with ham. Anyway, Sharon had her share and Jamison cleaned up the rest, so there I was. 

After a while Javier Martinez came over and wanted to read the newspaper. I saw him outside wrestling it out from under the cat, so I invited him in. 

I told him that I'd just been speaking to his counterpart and made him do a guessing game of who that might be. He named a bunch of people and got them all wrong. I know "counterpart" is supposed to be someone different, but the name I really had in mind was Javier Martinez, so I must have confused him for someone else. 

Sharon was in the bedroom and we were enjoying some quiet Sunday morning time. Well, quiet is a relative thing, we had the stereo on and blasting.  I was about to make some coffee and we were just going to kick it in the bedroom. 

The apartment was in a semi-lived in, semi-just-moved-in state. There were boxes, some empty rooms and no where to sit except the bed. The stereo was on in the bedroom where Sharon and I were hanging out and there were four twin sized beds all pushed together to make one mega royal family sized bed. 

I invited Javier to have some coffee with us and proceeded to pour some for myself. I poured the coffee into a creamer dispenser with an extremely small opening, so of course it spilled a bit. 

I made a joke to Javier about my lack of conviction about curse words and said, "Where's my goddamn bible?" to accentuate my point. I told him that I didn't curse in front of company generally, but that if no one was around I would let things fly. 

He generally agreed, and the dream wrapped up quickly after that, due to guinea hen traffic on the rooftop. 

It seemed to me that there was more to the Sharon and myself dynamic going on, despite our guests, but it is now obscured by the details. There was a sense of her having to struggle with a disability but yet there she was, still walking from room to room at least, and able to enjoy a Sunday morning with me. 

I guess nothing is ever perfect, but I can't say this was all that bad. I think I wanted share more with her, touch her forehead and tell her I loved her, but, you know, company was there.

Sharon and I get high and talk about resurrecting Big City Graphics

Before Sharon made her appearance last night, I remember I was riding a motorcycle with a fat guy who was kind of a Gomer Pyle type. We were doing some remedial training on a small street where some kids were setting up for Halloween with their yard displays and getting ready for the tricks and treats. 

I felt a bit unsure on the bike, as did my fat friend. Up and down the street we went, with me following him to be sure he was being safe. But someone was following after me, and not with good intentions. 

As I made a turn too wide, I wound up on the sidewalk and found a small but determined automobile bearing down on me head on, about to engage me in a game of chicken. I decided at the last minute not to swerve, even though being on a motorcycle, this was a stupid move. They clipped me, and I almost went down, but I managed to escape with only minor damage. 

Damn those trick or treating hoodlums, anyway.

After that I saw Sharon. She was sitting on a quad and smoking a joint, which she handed to me. I took it and we passed it back and forth, both of us taking way too many hits. At some point the one joint had become two, and so we were just trading them, without getting a break. I told Sharon that I was way too high. I could actually feel it in the dream. 

She got off the quad, and we sat down in a garage that had a bunch of my uncle's old screenprinting stuff stored there. It was in a state of disarray, but looked as if he had left off with a messy and disorganized job and it had just sat there for 5 years or so. 

Sharon got the idea that we should resurrect the business and begin printing posters for Chico State. She said she'd been on the phone with them and that they wanted to repeat one of their previous orders and perhaps get some new ones going. 

I told her the myriad reasons why this was impractical and preposterous. The materials were all old and dusty. The ink was surely dried up. Even if I could somehow manage to pull it off and get the ink to flow through the screens and onto the paper, I would need them to provide me with new art, create new screens and etc, etc. I just didn't want to do it. I was never good at producing a quality product to begin with. 

She argued with me about this for a little bit as I picked up an old nylon string guitar with broken tuning pegs and attempted to play it. It sounded terrible, but then I was still high. 

I considered giving in and calling Chico State to get the order going. It wouldn't be bad being back in business in the laziest, most pot friendly work environment I'd ever known. I could almost feel those sunny Chico days returning, as I mulled over the idea.