Friday, December 30, 2022

My house gets an unwanted county makeover, cultural inappropriation at the football game and a teacup Corgie sings "I Shot The Sheriff"

 

Last thing I remember, I was running for the door. Except, unlike the Hotel California, Golding Ranch was being gutted by a small battalion of county workers, its siding and wallboard unscrupulously  stripped of its decrepit antiquity, so where the door should have been, there was a full length opening, with only a few studs left in place between the living room and the outside world. 

The inside of the house was similarly in shambles, missing drywall exposing its brittle Romex wiring and seeping, green-tinged plumbing and making a public display of all the substandard construction. 

"Will someone please tell me what's going on here?" I asked one of the workers.

The tight lipped county drone carried on with his deconstruction orders, ignoring my inquiries. A few more attempts of this nature all proved unfruitful, so I decided to seek out the foreman, or someone in charge, to get answers. I quickly discerned that this person must be the man in the grey pinstripe business suit, an imposing, dough faced, rosy cheeked man, reminiscent of the shady mayor of Amity, only taller, with hints of Tim Robbins.

Much like the evasively unethical politician in Jaws, I wasn't getting any answers from this guy, but not for lack of words coming out of his mouth. I wanted to know who, what and why, but what issued forth from his speech hole was an endless stream of sound bites and jargony red tape that I found completely unintelligible. He was speaking a dialect of Building Inspectorese, designed to sound like English, but conveying no actual information. He was a Sim, just jabbering away, meme-like, with his nonsense.

Outside the house, the property was being leveled by bulldozers and excavators, and all traces of rock, grass and vegetation were being tidily removed from the premises. What was left was a perfectly graded surface, slick as chocolate cake frosting, glistening in the morning air.

I went back into the house where I found my brother, played in this dream by Georgie from Young Sheldon. He was the only one who was willing to talk to me about the unauthorized renovations. 

"I think someone dropped a dime on you," he said. "Code violations. You're probably going to have to pay for all this."

"I don't understand," I said. "When I bought this place, everything was disclosed. It was understood that these things were grandfathered in. But if I have to pay for...all this...well, I'm going to sue Century 21!"

The inside of the house was coming back together in rapid fashion. The living room walls had been replaced with a fresh set of drywall panels, taped and texture coated, with a cheap, low-gloss enamel finish. The decorative wood of the vaulted, high ceiling was similarly covered over and its height lowered, presumably to make room for insulation. The whole place was starting to look like a characterless apartment in the city.

----

Later on, I was at a football game. It was halftime, and there was a Native American contingent doing a tribal dance, marching around in a semi-circle. I decided to join them, but my style of dance, and the fact that I was a white man, was not much appreciated. From mild scorn to outrage, words of disapproval came my way as I sort of slam-danced my way through the line backwards.

I did receive a bit of solace, though, from a comical talking Corgie, who was lip singing a perfect version of "I Shot The Sheriff" directly to me. I laughed, and it eased the sting of embarrassment I felt from the crowd's reaction to my culturally inappropriate dancing.


Tuesday, December 27, 2022

Requiem for a bully and Aunt Arletta and Cousin Tim's Junk emporium

I dreamed I was in Norwalk, an old neighborhood from my early childhood, in the area where the state of California later appropriated a large tract of homes to make room for the 110 freeway. All of my photo memories of this time seem to be in black and white, however, this was dream was in Polaroid color, a little pale and washed out, but color, nonetheless.

In this neighborhood, there was a bully. He was also a little pale and washed out, having age progressed appropriately for the year 2022. He looked like a cross between Albert Finney's Ebeneezer Scrooge and the "Thou shall not pass" bridgekeeper in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. He had a shrill, shrieky voice that one had a hard time taking seriously, were it not for the fact that he was still a pretty good pugilist for someone with Methusela's years.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was riding a child's bicycle, a red Schwinn sporting sparkly red hand grips with tassels and the matching metal flake vinyl banana seat with a sissy bar. It was the deluxe edition and the envy of all kids within a certain age group. 

In my own childhood, I owned one of these beauties, which I continued to ride well past the age of enviability, to the scorn of the kids on my street, all of whom had progressed to riding dirtbikes stripped of all accessories except for a numbered racing plate zip-tied to the front handlebars.

The bully saw me walking and he let out a sneery taunt as he passed by. I don't remember what it was, only that it irked me. I responded by returning a taunt of my own:

"I don't suppose you are going to DO anything about it, though, are you?" I challenged.

Upon hearing that, he made a quick U-turn and parked his bike, snapping down the kickstand with a vicious flick. 

I was in for it. This aged street tyrant, toothless and and balding with long, stringy hair the color of fireplace ash, was still agile and ninja-like in his movements. 

"What did you say to me?" He shrilled as he quickly narrowed the gap between us.

Without missing a beat, I stepped forward before he could mount his attack. I was carrying a single drumstick in my right hand, and I began wielding it like a sword, alternately waving it like a conductor's baton or a magic wand. 

"I said--You....Are...A...SISSY!"  punctuating the final word with a thrust to his chest. I simultaneously stepped on his big toe, causing him to lose his balance and landing him on his backside. 

I felt a surge of self-congratulatory pride as he went down, although I have to admit, there was still some fear, since he didn't appear too injured, and he might still prove to be a threat. 

He got up slowly and dusted himself off, but he didn't pursue the matter any further. He got back on the bike and carried on, presumably in search of more diminutive, less equipped targets.

----

Later, much later, I was in another geographical location. It was some conflation of Lake Isabella and Long Beach. I really can't place it, exactly, but elements of both were there. One of the elements was my cousin Tim.

Tim and I were walking down a pathway, adjacent to an industrial drainage canal. In LA, they call them rivers, but there isn't anything natural or river-like about them. Mostly, they just accumulate garbage, and they function as a footpath for the homeless or intrepid bicyclists. 

We skirted the perimeter of the aquifer, making our way towards the site of the old Western Auto building. This was a landmark specific to Lake Isabella in the late 70s. It used to be an auto parts store, then it became a thrift store, and finally a residence, but without any of the accoutrements of its prior incarnations. An older couple had let the business go to ruin, and were living there in a hospice type situation. 

By now it was completely sealed off, and only an upstairs room remained accessible. This single room was the residence of Aunt Arletta and Cousin Tim. 

As we approached the building, Tim said, "I'm going to hang out with family today," and he bid me farewell.

I felt a little shocked and hurt. "I thought we were family?" I said, pouting just a little.

He opened a big sliding metal door and went into the building. I followed him inside, not wanting our hangout session to finish so soon. Inside the spare and empty (by aunt Arletta standards) room, I made note of my cousin's recent hairdo. It was a punk rock style, dyed bright orange, ala Johnny Rotten, but with a pink rat-tail in the back and some fancy shaved rainbow steps right above it.

"Pretty cool doo, cuzz," I told him, hating to admit to the fact. "And here I had you pegged for a mullet man." He said nothing, just sneered, having affected the entirety of my coolness repertoire. 

At this point, Arletta entered the room bearing a set of boomerangs, presumably brought up from her junk emporium downstairs. They were held together in a triangular interlocking puzzle configuration, with each boomerang slightly smaller than the next. I remember having owned a boomerang of this type as a child. It was the fancy kind, straight from Australia: dark oiled wood, feather-light, but durable and made for competitive sport.

"Um. Those are really nice," I said, as Arletta handed the set to me. "Do you know if they are ever going to open up the emporium downstairs again?"

I woke up before she could respond, so this question will remain unanswered for the time being. Also, it is getting late, and I need to eat something before my stomach eats me.


Thursday, December 22, 2022

Three Dreams, in short order


First, I dreamed that Denise was here in bed next to me, getting ready for sleep. She was uncharacteristically mad at me. I don't remember what for, just that it was a side of her that I'd never seen. She's so calm and unrelentingly peaceful, mostly. It's like she took some notes from Sharon's and my playbook, and it was her turn to run the anger ball down the field.

"I can't take this anymore...You...This...All of it..." She scowled the words out, leaving me with lying there with my shocked sense of hurt, as she threw the covers off and gathered up her things to go.

Instead of her leaving, however, it was I who took leave of the situation. I decided to go for a meditative walk to get some perspective. 

I walked down the road, a narrow, dark, house lined walkway, with a gate at the end of it. Beyond the gate was dimly lit staircase, descending into blackness. 

I felt fear. It was intangible, a vague conceptional fear. I wasn't going to be dissuaded by a concept, so I closed my eyes and proceeded.  

The ambiguous fear began to materialize in the form of a hoodied figure, a mugger perhaps, ascending the long staircase toward the gate. Bravado be damned, I turned and walked hastily toward home, looking back occasionally over my shoulder to see if I was being pursued.

----

I was in a hospital hospice wing, just visiting, as the corner square in Monopoly firmly asserts. But someone I knew was in this hospital, and that someone was my dad. I didn't want to be there, and at first I walked past his room. He was sitting upright in bed, in full control of his faculties, and in possession of all his disdainful superiority. 

Christ, can't this guy at least die humbly, I thought.

I walked down the hallway and found that I'd been mistaken. This person, Paul Golding, this white bearded man of intellectual certitude, man of screenplays, of self-aggrandizing condescension, was not my father, but his twin brother. 

I did a double take, and walked down the hall. I walked on down the hall, like Jim Morrison in This is the End, and I saw another man. A helpless, puffy version of the man I knew to be my father.

"You never told me you had a brother," I started, accusingly.

No glasses to focus his critical stare, this was a rosy cheeked Santa Claus of a man, completely supine, breathless and weak, meek as a sheep and barely able to speak. This was his deathbed, and I was there to witness this redemptive moment. 

He smiled at me as if to say, "I've fucked up, son, but it's all going to be OK."

----

Meanwhile, back in Las Vegas, I was on a road trip with some friends of mine from Bible Study. Martin, Johanna and a few others, I don't recall exactly. We were at a restaurant, and things were taking too long for my liking.

"I'm out of here," I said, standing up from the booth in dramatic fashion. Always the drama with me.

I began walking home, but I soon realized that home was several hundred miles and a mountain range or two away. This stubbornness of mine was going to cost me a couple of pairs of shoes at least, not to mention the wear and tear on my feeble knee joints.

As I made my way down a side street, strip adjacent but hidden from the towering luminescent glow of Sin City proper, I encountered two females. They were attractive mixed race siblings of undetermined origin. Black, white, French, American--hybrid model types--mocha skinned, with hair that fell past the shoulders in a cascade of perfect ringlets. They were dressed in summer clothes of a whimsically skimpy nature, the kind worn by prostitutes who cater to a certain type of clientele with mildly pedophilic leanings. 

I eyed them with suspicion as one approached me. I looked into her eyes, and my suspicion melted into bliss. They were a brilliant hypnotic blue-green, and staring into them, I  appeared to be gazing into a more vibrant version of my own dull, world-weary hazel eyes. I saw limitless potential, mischief, undying love and everything that makes a man fall head over heels. She was trouble, and I was already in deep.

"Hello, kind sir," she said, weaving a web she'd undoubtedly woven for many unsuspecting tourists in the past.

"I don't have any money," I blurted out, although I did have my wallet with all my credit cards in my pocket.

"We don't care about that," she said. "Come sit down with us." She then invited me to sit on a padded leather loveseat that functioned as a park bench. You gotta love Vegas.

I sat down, and the second girl sat in between me and her sister. She playfully began to kiss me, flicking her tongue about like a snake and tickling my lips and teeth. I found this amusing, and reciprocated a bit, but it was not her that I was drawn to, but her sister, who reminded me not a little bit of Lesa.

I extricated myself from this frivolous activity and began to address the first girl, who was now going through the contents of my wallet. I think she'd expected me to carry on a bit more with her sister, but she was unfazed by my sudden shift of attention. She put all the contents back in my wallet and handed it to me. 

It didn't matter, I thought, she'd had more than enough time to copy all my credit card numbers and had probably run up quite a tab already with the old click and buy on Amazon. I guessed I'd have to get all that sorted when I got home.

----

Each of these dreams ended somewhat prematurely, as I had to wake up and dry my sweat drenched thermals in front of the small infra-red space heater in the bathroom. God, I hate winter.

My weepy, weepy heart -- is suddenly cracking wide open


 
It's all too much for me to bear, 
My tear strained eyes can barely see. 
My walrus-like blubbering heart heaves, 
My reason leaving me for a spell. 
It's no use, I can't begin to even tell you, what's wrong in my world, 
My little world, my incredibly dense, foggy, 
Everlasting world of shame, loss and hurt.
"What's wrong?" you ask, like something can be said.
"I can't...I don't know how..."
"It's  all in your head."
It's true, I guess. That's where it began. 
Some tiny, mad thought, that I believed until the tears ran. 
In trying to tell you the source of my pain, 
My reason takes over, and I become mute again. 
These complex human emotions, love, guilt and shame. 
Sentimental longing to see you again. 
It's been four years, and the memories fade, 
My picture of you and and what once could've been, 
Gets melted into a river of day to day sameness.
So this is Christmas, I wanted to sing. 
But I don't know how. Can I learn my lines? 
Can I make the music, rhyme and keep time? 
I suddenly rebel, as my eyes have done. 
I'm done with this poem, if that's what you call it,
Done with it all. With everything. Just done.
I've said nothing, and this hurt is too big for words.

Tuesday, December 20, 2022

Paula won't shut up

I dreamed I was working again, at a different Honda dealership, this time in Oroville.

 <sigh> OK, fine, I thought. I'm here, let's get to work. 

I started performing a safety inspection on a gold 2001 Civic that had been brought to the shop as a trade-in. It didn't look too bad on the outside, a little dirty, but nothing visibly wrong with it. I took one bolt out on the side cover for the timing belt, so I could inspect the condition of the belt. 

As soon as I loosened the bolt, coolant started to pour out from the side of the engine. I took the bolt out all the way and, lo and behold, the water pump and the starter just fell out. Somehow, this one bolt was responsible for holding the entire engine together.

"Um..Something is terribly wrong here," I said to the service writer, a short, fat, dark haired mustachioed fellow that resembled Luigi, the other Mario brother.

"Don't bother with this one," said Paula, the service manager, who had been hovering nearby. "They aren't going to keep it," she confided with a wink and then turned and walked away.

Paula was a shapely black woman, late 30s to early 50s, with long straight hair, full lips and a set of thick black horn rimmed glasses. In real life, she plays a TV character named Maxine, head of the crime lab on CSI Vegas, but in my dream, she was using her real name, Paula Newsome.

Not knowing the ropes yet, I wanted to follow up with her and ask just how much "not bothering" I could get away with. I'd been familiar with the flat-rate system, and performing an unnecessary safety inspection on a car that was going to be wholesaled anyway seemed like a waste of time. If I skimmed though the process, I'd certainly be able to clock more hours.

I followed her around as she talked with other employees. I waited politely for a break in the conversation, but this lady wouldn't stop talking.

"We're from Canada, you know. This country is a whole different box of animal crackers, if you know what I mean.We do things differently up there," she just kept droning on about non work related stuff. 

I was trying to be respectful, but her non-stop chatter was making me impatient. Time was money, and I needed to maximize both.

----

I finally woke up and turned off my audio book, "Memories of the Afterlife" by Michael Newton. It was a PDF being read by an AI voice named David. David is one of the free voices, not the premium, more natural sounding ones. He sounds a little like the classic Stephen Hawking robot voice, but perhaps a tinge more human and smoothed out. 

Today is day three with an eye infection. It looks like a stye, but it has swollen up pretty big, making me nervous that I might be facing another couple of months of facial deformity. I had a chalazione a year ago and it took 4 months and a steroid shot to the eyelid to make it finally recede. 

I'm trying to do the whole "What the fuck is the Universe trying to teach me?" thing, but I really am annoyed with these Gestapo tactics. "Vee have vays of making you vake up!"


Monday, December 19, 2022

Jenny Bennett brings a snake and a dildo to a sleepover

...and guess which one winds up up my butt? There is no good answer to this question, but I'll cut to the chase: It was the damn snake. I'm not so concerned about the psycho-sexual implications of my latest round of dreams. I'm just glad I woke up when I did. 

 

I was in an apartment in a beach town, if I had to guess from the interior alone. It was a nice enough little unit, cozy but with enough windows to make it light and breezy. A few people were there socializing, and it was apparently going to turn into a sleepover. 

 

Jenny Bennett arrived, wearing a kimono, loosely fastened in the front, as all good kimonos are in dreams of this nature. She gave me a hug and her bosom pressed up against mine in a most familiar and appealing way. She presented me with small garden snake and staked out her place on the floor before spreading a blanket and lying down.

I held onto the snake as best I could, but the little guy was pretty wiggly. I had to grip him firmly so he didn't escape, but not so firmly firmly as to crush his delicate anatomy. I was going to hand him back to Jenny when I noticed something that made me do a double take. 

It was probably just the angle from which I was viewing things, but Jenny appeared to have a penis. I mean, what I saw was definitely a penis, but from my particular vantage point, it looked like it was right about where it would be expected, kind of protruding from the front of her kimono.

Still holding the wiggly snake, I circled around got a better look. I discovered that it was simply a dildo, positioned in a rather comical fashion, and not a part of her actual anatomy. I lay down beside her and asked her for some advice about how to handle this wayward snake that seemed to be intent on exploring parts of my body that were strictly off limits to members of his species. 

"He wants up your butt, doesn't he?" she asked bluntly.

"Yes. Yes, he does," I protested, as I felt the his little snake head make entrance.

I gripped him firmly by the tail and managed to pull him out before he got too far in. Jenny didn't seem concerned and went back to whatever she was doing. Within a minute, the little bastard had wiggled free of my grasp and made a beeline straight for my bunghole, this time getting in so far that all I could grab was the tip of his tail.

Fearing the tail might come off in my hand, I could only grip him so tight. It was a very tense few moments, as this battle of wills reached a seeming stalemate. He wanted in, I wanted him out, and neither of us wanted his tail to break off. And then, in slippery snake fashion, he escaped my hold and -- ploop -- in he was. 

I was horrified. I'd heard about things like this, urban legends mostly, and anecdotal hospital stories of bestial sexcapades gone bad. Fortunately, I was relieved from further trauma by the sound of my telephone. Never have I been so glad for the random intrusion of a telemarketer.

Sunday, December 18, 2022

No volcano trip today

I woke up at 3ish because of these persistent night sweats, damn them, already. I finally got back to sleep around 5:30AM, and then Emery texted and woke me up at 8AM, just as a dream I was having had promise of getting somewhere. I won't damn her, though. You just can't go about damning your friends because you were too dumb to turn down your own ringer.

I was in an elevator, headed for the eighth floor of a motel on the outskirts of a town located somewhere near a volcano. I was with my nephew-in-law, Dylan and Tommy Lee Jones. I'm not certain about that last one, but since I was sleeping with The Sunset Limited playing in the background, it was either him or Samuel L. Jackson, and I am pretty certain it wasn't the latter. 

Me and craggy faced, hang-dog depressed Tommy Lee were just in the restaurant below the hotel, and I was trying to persuade him that we had to go on an adventure. He wasn't too thrilled about it, but then, he was never thrilled about much of anything. Dylan provided the spark, since, you know, kids...

As we made our way through the restaurant we got some stares from the diners. I don't know what their problem was, but we played it cool. I overheard one of the more forward gossipy ladies making a comment about us to the rest of her little group:

"They must be secret agents or something. Look at the way their cheap glasses reflect. When they turn their heads to look around, you can't see who they are looking at. Very professional. Well done boys."

I did a slow turn, acknowledging her statement, and in the process I got a good look at her. She was a mid 30's mom type, a little heavyset, brunette with long straight hair. She was ensconced in her chair at the table, and very confident, as the spokesperson of the group. 

My little cranial pivot gave them all a thrill, and there was a tittering of applause and murmurs of approval, as if I'd just performed a magic trick.

"And on that note," I said, "I will perform my vanishing act," as I thrust my arm between the closing elevator doors and hopped past the threshold.

I got lucky, and the elevator was actually still there. It hadn't departed and left me stepping into a dark chasm, as elevators are known to do in dreams. I checked first, because believe me, you can't be too careful with these things.

My two companions had taken the adjacent elevator, and it dawned on me that poor old Tommy Lee was going to be completely at a loss as to which floor we were headed. No, worries, I thought, he had Dylan with him, and Dylan was an old hand at these adventures. Dylan knew exactly where we were going.

Where we were going was to the volcano. Dylan rode dirtbikes there, and he was familiar with the layout. I'd been there before in my car, and I'd had a devil of a time with the treacherous mountain roads. It was a deathtrap of washed out switchbacks and thousand foot dropoffs. The bottom of the volcano was full of a slimy gravel soup, a mixture of rainwater, dirt and roadbase. The last time I was there, I'd barely made it out.

I was kind of excited to be revisiting this area, excited and nervous, since there was always the threat of imminent death. Plus, I was experiencing deja vu in a dream, and that can sometimes be a precursor to lucid dreaming, of which I am a huge fan. I'm a huge fan of anything more exciting than my normal day to day life, though, so even a dream about school or work rates above that.

Anyway, I don't recall too many more details, but I will spend a little time searching my archives to see if I can find the blog entry which corresponds with the previous dream. I'll provide a link if possible, but if not, I'll just have to set my intentions before bed, and maybe I can plan my next trip a little better.

I don't know WHAT you call this


***Trigger warning--sexual content***

I don't exactly remember the whole context, but the dialogue and some of the action loosely followed Pulp Fiction. There were a couple attempts at sex involving me, Fabianne and Butch.  So here's the business:

Fabianne and I were outside somewhere on a picnic table. We were partially clothed, and she was straddling me and imploring me to declare my love.

"Say it!" she begged, whispering in my ear.

"I want you to be with me," I said, dutifully repeating Bruce Willis's lines.

"Forever and ever?" she continued, mixing her lines slightly with mine. 

"Um. Forever is a long time, babe," I said, fearing my honest answer would kill the mood. It did not. She continued to dry hump me without comment until the scene changed. 

Atop a ladder outside my house, under the eaves on the northeast corner, in a configuration that was confusing to all involved, Butch was straddling me. Neither of us were clothed, and private parts were being made quite public.

"I don't know how this is going to work," I said, as we both fumbled around, deciding who was going to put what where.

I grabbed both of our tools and clasped them together in my hand in a kind of penis handshake. Some arousal was felt on both ends. It was determined that since he was on top, that was how we were going to proceed. I was kind of looking forward to it, but just before the moment of insertion, I noticed that a tree which had fallen up against the raingutter earlier this year, and was still somehow present, was on fire.

It wasn't a large fire, just the tip of the tree that happened to be leaning against the house. Butch didn't think it was much to be concerned with, so he tried to convince me to keep going. I thought about it for a minute, but the flames were starting to blacken the wood of the eaves, and fearing it would catch,  I had to decline.

"Let's at least get this fire out," I said, extricating myself from the awkward entanglement of limbs. 

I started grabbing handfuls of dirt to douse the flames. The fire was soon out, and the smoky, steaming mess smoldered in a less threatening manner. Surveying the damage, I noticed that my water heater enclosure was open, and the tank had fallen over, still somehow connected and not leaking, but not optimal. It was covered with dirt as well.

Butch left, and although I kept searching for him, we never did hook up. Probably for the best. I had too much work to do on my house to be fucking around on a ladder anyway. 


Wednesday, December 14, 2022

I am refused a handgun, Maggie pees on me and Hope DeLeon finds this to be justified

 

The title says it all. I woke up in a cold sweat. That was unrelated to my dream about the gun or getting peed on, but it seemed like a salient detail to include since it really pisses me off. Additionally, Google made me go through a bunch of security hoops to log in on this device, adding to my frustration. 

I'm hungry, I'm dirty, I'm losing my mind... 

EVERYTHING'S FINE!!!!!! 

Thanks, Tracy Bonham, Veronicas, et al. I needed a good scream. 

OK, I had breakfast. The dream evaporated, and I'm OK with that. Who needs a handgun or to be peed on, anyway?


Monday, December 12, 2022

A broken hammer and a laughing fit

 

I was dreaming that a spiritual guru who looked like a biker—bald, burly, tattooed and rough around the edges—was giving out hammers that were alleged to be talismans. He had five of them, all different, and he picked out several people on the street upon whom to bestow specific hammers. He handed me a claw hammer with a blue rubber grip and two broken claws on the business end.
 
"Here," he said. "Take this one. You'll need it."
 
I told him that I had one just like it already, except mine wasn’t broken on the claw end. 
 
"Can I keep it anyway?" I asked, not wanting to pass on something free.
 
He told me to keep it, and if it didn’t serve me, I could give it back. I kept it and walked on. Then I woke up.

Before that, I was in a rec room somewhere, with my friend Emery. I was laughing at a kid outside the window who was doing something funny. I can’t remember what it was, but Emery found it amusing because I was laughing so hard that I had to lie down next to her, wiping the tears from my face with her garment as I did so.

After the hammer-guru-biker segment, I was awakened by a text from Emery. 
 
"I'm annoying you now. I'm annoying you now. I'm annoying you now," came the familiar ringtone. 
 
"I couldn't sleep last night," she said. "I kept having nightmare after nightmare." 

I told her about my dreams, omitting the detail about wiping my tears on her skirt. It somehow seemed inappropriately weird, and although I make no apologies for anything that happens in my dreams—my dream, my universe—still, I didn't want to creep her out first thing in the morning, or at all, really. 
 
Anyway, there you have it, another faithfully reported dream fragment, frivolous as it may be, and insignificant in the scheme of things.

 

Saturday, December 10, 2022

Quibbles and bits

 


I love it when I'm right about something. It's still good, even when tempered by the fact that it was something I was being stubbornly stupid about, rebelling against my own best intuition. I get to say, "See? I told you so!" or "I told me so" and feel the smug satisfaction of being in possession of The Truth. (I'll save the diatribe about absolutes for another time.) 

Last night, night 2 of no pot before bedtime proved my theory about cannabis suppressing dream activity to be correct. I "scienced" it by simply abstaining, and the result was conclusive: I dreamed. I'm still trying to piece together the fragments, but after a good 4 months of dreamless nights, they are back.

The first fragment involved a random sampling of characters, four of us to be exact, who were somehow involved in a motion picture production. I don't recall who they all were, but if I were to guess, I would say it was my mom, Denise, myself and an ex-YC Honda co-worker named Mike Cardenas, aka Carnitas aka "The Little Chocolate Teddy Bear." 

Although were all working for scale, there was a big deal being made about clocking in for each scene. I don't know how scale is supposed to work in real life, but here we were paid for each take, whether or not the footage was used. As usual, no one was clocking in, and after a lot of useless quibbling, it became clear that we were going to have just split the acting budget equally four ways. End dream one.

Dream two began with Crystal Mitchell and myself in bed. Crystal was the wife of Randy Mitchell, the drunken, barrel-chested macho man who used to run the YC Honda service department like his own personal business enterprise, offering cut rate repairs for off the books cash payments. He was an intimidating figure who, upon hearing that a fellow employee had complimented his wife, choked said employee, holding him against the wall a foot off the ground. 

Now, Crystal and I were just sleeping, mind you, no hanky-panky. But as we lay there lazily refusing to get up, a knock came at the door. 

"You'd better go see who it is," said Crystal.

I got up and peered out the front door. It was an Amazon delivery driver holding several packages.

"You Randy Mitchell?" He asked. "Sign here."

Not being Randy Mitchell, and not wanting to add forgery to my list of offenses against him, I deferred:

"No, but his wife Crystal Mitchell is here. Can she sign for it?"

As the words came out of my mouth, thoughts were racing around in my head. Why was Randy getting packages delivered here? What was his wife even doing here, and in my bed, no less? And mostly, what was Randy going to do to me when he found out? This signature business was going to be the death me. I went in the house to give Crystal the news.

The dream ended there, as my fear and pain avoidance response kicked in. I went on to have several other aborted dream attempts, but my conscious mind kept trying to get back into the drama that I'd left with Crystal in my bedroom. What, you thought I would rather get back to quibbling about wages on the movie set in dream #1? Please!


Thursday, December 8, 2022

I traded all my dreams away


I've been on hiatus, having had nothing to write about. 

Having had nothing to write about, I've been on hiatus. 

I'm not writing these days. I'm on a break. No dreams, no typey-typey.

I'm unsure of my own voice, except insomuch as it intones in my head in moments of frustration, egging on the anger like a gleefully antagonistic cheerleader. 

Vegetable on cutting board: I think I'll take a floor vacation. I hear it's nice this time of year.

Me: Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck! 

<violently picks up a scrap of vegetable and rinses it in the sink>

Me (cont.): You thought you'd get away that easily? You are going into the pot, you intolerable piece of FUCK!

or

Casually playing Words with Friends (against the computer; my friends won't play with me), I stay in bed until 10AM, cursing the occasional loss, which occurs despite my employing a word unscrambler app and utilizing the numerous in-game hints and points boosting cheats. I don't like to lose. I am stubborn, so even though I really don't enjoy playing the game for hours, I am determined to clear the board of challengers before I get up.

"FFFFF-UCK!" I scream, pushing replay for the third time.

A sound of unease from behind the closed bedroom door gets ignored by me. It is the cats, undoubtedly hungry for their rations. Soon enough, I'll get up, I tell myself, so they can wait. I have to finish one thing before starting another. My inability to press the pause button on anything is another of my faults. Once I begin something, I'm like a dog with a bone. Don't even try to pry me away from it.

Today, I have a meeting at 5:30. That's about it. Nothing else on the agenda. 

 I've texted with Emery briefly, and likely that will occur again at some point in the course of the day. These texts are like the wild cards in my deck, and out of them, I can fashion myself into something that looks legitimate, almost like a real person with a life. 

I have a friend. She confides things to me, asks for my opinion and constantly tells me that I'm awesome or amazing, you know, those apex adjectives millennials use to express admiration or awe. I think she's top shelf, and I never pass up an opportunity to tell her. It's nice to be able to compliment someone without setting off their creep alarm.



Regarding my dreamless nights, well, I know the reason for them. It's the weed. Duh. I've been using it as a "sleeping aid." Sure, buddy, tell yourself that. It has nothing to do with that. It just happens that I do it at night, when I am supposed to be getting ready for bed. The effect is that I stay up longer, fiddling with my Ipad, doing childlike scribbles with a sketchpad app. The weed doesn't make me a better artist, but it does make me more receptive to the idea of playing around with an artistic medium. 

The weed also makes me more easily frustrated during the times when I'm not on it, which is most of the day. It is a very exacting toll taker, and there is an incremental tolerance that develops, requiring larger and more frequent doses to achieve the desired effect. Once I got off of the gold standard of  "only once a week and only on Saturday," I started down the reckless road of addiction. It's nasty, and I'm not enjoying it nearly as much, despite exponentially increasing my usage. 

FUCK! 

I'm going to have to start from scratch. Rebuild the framework of my critical thinking on the marshy swamp of my pot addled brain. See what's going on here? I'm using cheap phrases like "pot addled" in a desperate attempt to punch above my weight class. Like that last metaphor, and like a hundred others, I just pick things from the scrapbook of overused memes and sayings and offer them up like hash at a diner. This is Dollar General writing, not even Walmart quality fare. 

Let this be a cautionary tale: If you go chasing rabbits, and you know you're going to fall, tell 'em a hookah smoking caterpillar has given you the call. 

I'm just going to stop right here, not  because I have finished a thought or expressed it satisfactorily,  but because, well, just fuck it. I guess I just had to address the absent elephant that used to occupy the room upstairs.

Saturday, July 30, 2022

Amazon Emergency

*The following events actually transpired:

 

Brrring-bring bring. 

Bring. 

 

A:       <robotic computer voice> Hello this is Amazon calling to inform you about a charge of 913 dollars on your Amazon account for iPhone11. To stop this transaction press 1. To authorize this transaction press 2.

Me:     <presses 2 just to fuck with them> <waits for live representative>

A:       <scammer, located somewhere in India> Hello this is Amazon, how can I help you?

Me:     I don't know. How can I help you? You called me, you know. You must need some help with something. How can I assist you?

A:       Are you on drugs, sir?

Me:     <laughs> <caught off-guard> Umm....

A:       You are on drugs, aren't you?

Me:     <continued maniacal laughter> Umm...Maybe...a little. <embarrassed to be outed by a telescammer>

A:       Haha. OK, sir. That's OK. That's fine. 

Me:     How did you know?

A:       Sir, I need to know what kind of drugs are you on? 

Me:     <silent> <I had smoked a little weed earlier> < man, this guy's good> 

A:       Sir, are you going to do cocaine? You want to do some cocaine right now?

Me:     <more laughter> Thanks, man! You're a really cool guy, you know.

A:       That's OK, sir. Have a nice day. You can do your cocaine, and don't worry about it. We will reverse the charges, and they will no longer apply.

Me:     Whatever you gotta do, man. I understand. 

A:       Goodbye, sir!

Me:     Goodbye, friend!





Meanwhile, back in Paradise...another dream about Sharon, work and my inability to arrive on time, or at all.


 

I am having trouble piecing together the two threads, but there was some element about Sharon being left at home in our little Paradise house while I was attempting to go to work. She was disabled, but she had rare moments when she was completely fine. I never knew when those would be, so I couldn't ever count on going to work and leaving her safely.

"Fix me up this way, and I'll be fine," she said pointing to some pillows to put behind her head as she lay there in bed.

I was dubious, but I did as she said. Within minutes she was ambulatory. This always comes as a shock to me when it happens in dreams, but I've learned to go with it.

"So, I should go to work, then?" I asked, kind of disappointed on the one hand, but glad on the other. I was excited that she could walk, but I don't like going to work any more in my dreams than I do in real life.

"Yes," she said, "and you'd better get to it, or you'll be late."

Of course, I would. I am always battling clocks and impossible ETAs in my dreams. I calculated that if I left right then, I'd be an hour and a half late. I said goodbye and rushed out the door. I jumped in the car and tried to back it out of the driveway, but I banged into a parked car on the way out. It was my neighbor's car, so I had to stop and tell them how I was sorry, and that I'd deal with it later, but I was late for work.

My car wouldn't start after that, though, so I grabbed my skateboard out of desperation, thinking -- I don't know -- that I'd somehow make it the 50 miles to Yuba City on this decrepit old contraption whose wheels would barely spin? I'd made it halfway down Neal Road, when the trucks came apart, separating the skateboard wheels and axles from the board. I ground to a stop in the middle of the road as cars sped past.

I pulled out my old first generation candy bar cell phone and managed to dial the number for work. I didn't get it on the first try, but after a few attempts, I had Luis from the service department on the line.

"Look," I told him, "I'm still about forty-something miles out, and my car is disabled. Are you sure I need to come in today?" 

"Don't go anywhere," he said, "I'll come up and get you."

I hadn't planned for this response. I figured he'd tell me that it was a slow day and that I could just stay home. Nope. Within seconds, it seemed, he was right there in his truck.

"I have some tools," he said. "Let's get that skateboard fixed, and you can be back on your way."

This was the most unlikely scenario I could imagine, and I suggested that maybe I could just catch a ride with him, since he'd already driven all that way. Apparently, this hadn't occurred to him. I still didn't want to go to work, but as we worked on my skateboard, putting the trucks back together while we discussed logistics, it became apparent that, one way or another, I was going to have to go.

That's where the dream left off. I kept waking up and trying to reconfigure my dream in such a way as to avoid the inevitable outcome, but I kept running into the brick wall of logic. I couldn't play the Sharon card because she was fine at the moment. There was work to be done, and I was needed, and Luis was there to pick me up. Damn.


Friday, July 1, 2022

A Day At The Races


I dreamed I was <yawn> working at YC Honda again. It was a slow day, so we were taking a field trip out on the town. A group of us were hanging out on the bridge just as a pride parade was scheduled to come marching through. I found myself outside of the railing in a most conspicuous spot as news cameras were poised to get footage of the event.

"Yikes!" I said out loud to no one in particular as I struggled to get myself back inside the safety of the iron bars. 

It wasn't so much my fear of heights that made me retreat from my perch, but the fear of being caught on camera and becoming part of the news story of the day. I wasn't sure how they would spin it, but it would probably not be favorable either way:

"Protester or supporter? Man falls from bridge on Gay Day" or "We've done a little digging, and here's what we've uncovered on dead Pride Day Bridge Guy." 

I don't know what I was doing on the bridge, but I wasn't aware there was a march scheduled, so I really wasn't there to protest or support anything. I was just being dumb and clowning around. On a bridge. On Gay Day.

After returning to the safety of the group, I went with them back to work, got into my old black '79  Datsun pickup and headed up Hwy 99. I was between Yuba City and Live Oak, doing about 60, when I got the urge to put the seat back a little. I pulled the lever and suddenly found myself lying flat on my back, staring straight up at the sky. Remarkably, I was still going straight while maintaining my speed and staying in my lane.

I pulled myself back into an upright position and kept driving. Still not satisfied with the seat position, I tried this maneuver several more times with similar results before I finally gave up the notion. I stopped in Live Oak, pulling into a random driveway, where I guess I intended to relieve myself in the corner of someone's garage. Unfortunately, I'd only gotten about halfway done when I was spied by one of the members of the household. 

I zipped up and tried to conceal a wet spot on the front of my pants, hoping to get out of there before I was noticed, but it was too late.

"Is that you, Sparky?" A familiar voice came from inside the garage. It was David Chanh.

"Oh, hey, David," I replied casually. "I was just having a little car trouble, so I thought I'd stop by for a quick pit stop."

He made no mention of my urinary indiscretion, and after telling him about my harrowing experience with the seat, we proceeded to look over my truck to see if we could determine the cause of the malfunction. 

That's about all I've got. Sorry to abandon the story just when it wasn't going anywhere, but I do have to get up and pee, so that's that.

Wednesday, June 29, 2022

Morning Pages Day 10 – Jan 18, 2022

Is it weird that I’m feeling a little sentimental right now? I’m feeling it for Sharon, but though she seems so far from my mind so much of the time, she’s all around me, in all the possessions that I ninety-eight percent have her to thank for. The rest is my man stuff, though she played a part in all of that too. She was there for every major purchase. All my music stuff. The quad. The bicycle. Whatever I needed, she was in favor of me buying, and she’d often make the purchases, since she had online accounts back then, and I didn’t.

Anyway, shifting gears, I had a song I was working on. I’m shifting out of melancholy, but not really. I’m just moving into a more ambiguous, jaded, emotionally unavailable phase. I am post-grieving, but also post just about everything. I better write the words down before the idea completely escapes me.

It’s called “I’m Too Fucked Up For Love.”

We can do all the things you want to do
Hold hands, call each other sweetheart too
Go for walks, text and talk
Make reservations for hotels
Run up our gas bills
And try to get each other’s pets to be cool

It can be just about everything you’ve dreamed of
But honey, I’m just too fucked up for love
 
Putting on our raincoats, we can
Walk along the beach
Take a day or two of freedom
So we can find ourselves some peace
When will these inner voices cease?
I’m being vilified for my deeds, but my needs I must appease
Captain Courageous, step up to the plate, please

----

OK, let me just say that I started out
This thing—with the best of intentions
Something decided to invade my mind
Rendering me completely under its spell
And I can’t question it; that will just be that
I have an arrangement with myself inside my head

----

No, really. The semi-rhymie poetry crap, I don’t do so well. If I rhyme too strictly, it seems trite. It’s a limericky sort of affair, or nursery rhyme sounding crap that’s just so banal. I can’t get myself to write good songs.

I will be back to criticize myself later. It is late, but I thought I’d get an early start, since technically it is morning. It has been a long day. I’ll tell ya about it tomorrow, when it is today. I mean, it is already, but after I sleep for a bit and then wake up. Later. ‘Sout

----

Later, it is. And I will forestall re-reading this last bit of early morning poetry, since I already can tell by my closing that I was probably higher than I’d like to admit when I wrote it.

Sharon always used to poke at me, “So, how high are you?” I always responded with my thumb and forefinger, making the sign for “this much.” She would laugh and spread her hands way apart, like she was estimating the size of a rather large fish. “More like THIS much,” she would laugh. I couldn’t get anything past her.

I woke up at about 8:30 AM this morning. I don’t feel like I could conquer the world today, but I’m not as godawful tired as I was on Sunday. Those Saturday music dates really take it out of me. Yesterday, I chopped wood and hoisted my amp, possibly straining my groin, but still I am not as tired as I was on Sunday.

So, my amp arrived yesterday. It was a day early. It came on the UPS truck while I was sitting out on my front porch. Good thing I was out there, since the gate was shut, and they would have wound up having to re-deliver. Seeing the condition the box was in, I’m glad it didn’t have to spend any more time in his truck. The driver dropped it on the lawn when his dolly upended on the uneven grass in my front yard.

I managed to get it into the house and unbox it. Poorly packaged, it only had a single layer of bubble wrap inside of a cardboard box. The only item they really went all out on was the tape. They must have used a whole roll of extra heavy duty packaging tape. It gave the cardboard a transparent skin that could probably make the whole thing waterproof to 10 meters.

When I first fired it up, it sounded horrible. A loud hum and weak, jangly audio. Just like my other amp. I went outside to feed the guinea hens and shut the gate. It was humming so loud that I could hear it from the back deck. I came back in and resumed playing with it, bringing out my strat for the occasion.

I fiddled with the knobs, and one came off in my hands. So much for the pull-out boost. Someone had replaced the pot with a non-pull out variety and glued the knob on with rubber cement. The Tolex has a few rough spots, and the front faceplate has a ding that I couldn’t see in the pictures. Other than that, and the fact that it probably fell off the back of the UPS truck, it looked in decent enough shape.

Concerned about the hum, I called my amp guy, Skip Simmons. Skip is the whole reason that I bought an older Fender like this one. I had no idea of the differences between the tube amps of today vs. the ones made 40 years ago. Apparently, the hand wired circuitry was better than the printed circuit stuff they have today. Anyway, he only works on the older ones, and seeing as how all tube amps need work from time to time, I thought I’d buy one that my local guy could work on.

Skip’s fame in the amp repair business is legendary. Pros from all over the country ship their antique amps to him to restore. I knew that whatever was wrong with it, he’d be able to fix. Just dialing his number must have gotten the amp calmed down, since it stopped making the hum by the time he answered the phone.

“Do you work on Fender Twin amps?” I asked him.

“For you, of course,” he said. He was always saying nice things like that because we are neighbors and we went through the Cascade Fire together.

 “I wasn’t sure,” I said, “since these things are so heavy. I thought they might be on the list of stuff you don’t work on anymore.”

“Nah, man. Since it’s you, I’ll look at it. I’d even look at some piece of crap newer printed circuit amp for you, just cause it’s you,” he said.

I hit the jackpot with Skip. He’s a good egg. I met him during the Camp Fire when I was housing an evacuee and his mom. Greg Miller, my temporary refugee, was a kindhearted soul, and an old friend of Sharon’s. When the Camp Fire threatened their home in Berry Creek, he and his mom (and three dogs and two cats) all stayed at my house for a week or so. During that time he managed to burn some broccoli in a pan by letting all the water boil out. He also left for a half a day with the crock pot on high. If I hadn’t turned it down, all the water would have boiled out of that as well.

Greg was as kind and thoughtful toward people as he was clumsy. When he accidentally broke the on/off switch on my subwoofer by packing the closet too full of stuff, he searched and searched until he could find a guy locally to look at it. He helped me load the monstrous speaker cabinet in my car, and we drove it over to Skip Simmons’ house. Skip doesn’t work on printed micro circuits, but he took the speaker in to look at it anyway.

Skip took the board out and examined it. Too delicate of a repair job for him, he knew of a guy in Sac that would do the work for a reasonable price. He offered to ship the board to him, so I didn’t have to drive down there, and he never even asked for the money for freight. I did wind up giving him a big bag of weed, since he wouldn’t take any cash. He was appreciative, although, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t up to the standards of anyone in the market for weed these days. Damn those kids and their hydroponics.

I'm reaching the end of the page, and this story is going nowhere, kinda like me. The end.

 

Saturday, June 25, 2022

"A kiss between friends"

I dreamed of Sharon again last night. It was 1997, and we were in that stage of a relationship where things are firming up, and one has to decide whether or not to be exclusive with their affections. At least, that was the stage she believed we were in, whereas, I apparently believed we were much further along. 

We were playing house, living in my decrepit, tiny particle board home, and we'd decided to throw a party. People were arriving while we were still cleaning the place up from the initial move-in. I was getting a little upset because there were so many things to be done, and guests were already there, entertaining themselves and making a bigger mess.

"What is all this crap?" I exploded at a case of recyclable water bottles that I found wedged inside a space between an outbuilding and the fence. 

I looked over at Sharon in some kind of accusatory fashion and saw that she was talking with a guy to whom I'd been trying to sell a guitar amp earlier. He was a portly fellow with a Brillo pad of dark frizz for hair and thick black framed glassed that made his eyes bug out just a bit. 

When I was showing him the amp, it appeared that the amp wasn't working, so I fiddled with the dials until I finally got enough sustain to satisfy me. It was my mom's cheap Crate amp, so one couldn't really expect anything marvelous. I handed him my guitar, a well worn instrument upon which much finger skin had been shed by me over the years.

"Uh, gross, dude!" he exclaimed upon seeing the flaky residue on the strings.

"It's not for sale, just the amp," I said defensively. "Those are the original strings, and that skin reflects years of shredding, so there!"

He left and rejoined the party. He was interested in the amp, but he was more interested in Sharon, it appeared. I'd gone back to cleaning up the property, while the party was in full swing, and it was at this point that I looked over and saw the two of them talking quite intimately. My "what is all this crap" comment must have registered with Sharon as an outburst of jealousy, because she grabbed the frizzy haired, bug-eyed boy and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

"A kiss between friends," she said unapologetically.

I fumed and continued the cleanup, trying to think of a good retort. Soon, I found a bunch more things wrong with the place that had apparently gone unnoticed during the home inspection. There was a trailer on the property that was damp and full of mold. I opened the door to air it out and went around looking for more things to stew about. 

The place was as full of people now as it was full of uncompleted cleanup projects. I was going around with a garbage bag full of recyclables which finally burst at the seams, leaving a giant mess in the middle of the yard and eliciting more curses from me. A young girl and her mother accosted me as I was walking up the stairs to retrieve another garbage bag.

"I'm mad at you!" the little blond teenager said, in a serious tone.

I looked at her, and then at her mother, and tried to figure out if I even knew them. I couldn't place either of them, so I asked the girl:

"What did I ever do to you? If I've done something to offend you, I apologize, but really, I don't believe we've ever met." 

She looked at me with steely blue eyes that had a hint of mischief in them. "I was waiting at the bus stop, late for school, and you passed me by on your motorcycle," she said with an air of indignant outrage. "You didn't even offer to pick me up!" 

"I'm not going to offer a ride on my motorcycle to a stranger, and especially not a girl as young as you," I replied. "How old are you anyway?" 

"I'm fifteen," she said. 

Her face said, "I'm plenty old enough, you ageist, sexist fuck."

"That settles it," I said, and I proceeded up the stairs with my armful of recyclables, my attention focused elsewhere. 

I was still mad about Sharon's newfound friend and the kiss they had shared. I noticed that they were still hanging around together in the garage, and I went in to make myself obtrusive. As if to make my point for me, a giant tractor trailer pulled into the garage, pinning Mr. Frizz Bug to the wall just as he was about to make his move, effectively separating Sharon and him for the moment.

Good, I thought to myself. I'd wished that the truck would have run him over, but this would do. Oh, well, at least I was some teenage girl's unrequited pickup fantasy, so there was that small consolation. The dream ended, leaving me with the bitter taste of jealousy in my parched, dehydrated mouth.


Sunday, June 12, 2022

Mad Max

 


I dreamed Sharon and I were living in Paradise again, and she wasn't disabled. Far from it, actually, and she was up to her old tricks. She had a wandering eye (and two wandering legs, apparently). She was scheming about a threesome, a fantasy she kept trying to persuade me to help her fulfill. This time, instead of fighting it, I went along with the idea, at least in principle. 

We decided on a candidate, someone of her choosing. He was a CBer named Mad Max, a big strapping diesel mechanic with a gruff demeanor over the radio but a puppy dog in person. With his bib overalls and gingham shirt, he reminded me of a cross between Forrest Gump and the Andre the Giant. I liked him, but not in "that" way. Sharon liked him and figured he'd fit the bill. 

We met with him in the parking lot of Ray's Liquor, and Sharon propositioned him. His eyes lit up, and a big Cookie Monster grin spread across his kind but oafish face.

"I'm in!" he said excitedly. "When do we begin?' He was even rhyming like the ogre-like character in The Princess Bride.

"Hold on, Tiger," I told him. "Let's go back to the house first. We have to establish some ground rules."

We all took separate cars back to our place, but when we arrived, Max had brought along a friend. It was an older gentleman from his church named Glen, who reminded me of Ed Begley, Jr.


I didn't like how the math was adding up, so I lingered outside for a moment as Sharon and Max went inside. Glen got cold feet and left before any of the action, and I was left outside with my lower lip quivering in an expression Sharon and I referred to as "The Bear." 
"Not The Bear!" she said, feigning incredulity. "Don't worry, Sweetie, there's enough of me to go around."

Sharon had picked up on my petulance and come out to ask if I was still OK with everything. I told her that I was, and that she and Max should get started, and I'd join them in a minute. She didn't need too much persuading, and she was back in the house and unclothed in under a minute. 

Whatever she and Mad Max did, it didn't take more than a minute, and soon he emerged, fully clothed, and drove off. I did likewise, and as I drove around Paradise in my white Honda Accord listening to the CB radio, a faint voice came through the static:

"Do you know what the problem was?" the voice inquired.

I couldn't place the voice right away, but as I kept driving, it became clear to me.

"Do you know what the problem was, Andrew?" the voice repeated, calling me by name.

It was Sharon, of course. I drove back in the direction of home, and picked up the handset to reply:

"No, what?" I asked.

"He was a church boy. A Seventh Day Adventist. And it's Saturday, so he couldn't do anything." 

Sharon always did have a distaste for SDAs, simply because their religious services always interfered with her fun.

By now, I was already parked outside the house, and I went in to find a still naked Sharon sitting on the couch. I dispensed with the CB mic, which I was still talking into even though we were face to face.

"You'd think that Saturday would be his happy day, though, right?" I said, applying my own logic to the situation.

"That's not how it works with those guys," she said. "His buddy Glen was a perfect example."

"I didn't know how that was going to work in the first place," I told her. "The gears didn't seem like they were going to mesh." 

She and I had never discussed any of my leanings or proclivities, and now didn't seem to be the time to bring them up. Still a bit jealous and insecure about her and Mad Max's brief encounter, I reached around and felt her backside. It was a bit clammy, but it gave me reassurance that no hanky-panky had taken place.

"Just checkin'," I grinned. 

"I guess it's just you and me," she smiled back as the curtain closed on the dream.

----

It's been nearly month since I've had dreams of any sort. I suppose it's not odd that I should have a dream like this now, since I've recently been sleeping on our old bed. After many months of sleeping on the downstairs couch, my back finally began to protest, and I reluctantly brought myself back to the scene of so many memories, some happy, some not so happy.

It's Saturday, so I'm going to get my own religious ritual going. If you aren't already familiar with what that is, don't ask, because I won't tell. It's for Super Secret Squirrel's Club members only.

Saturday, May 21, 2022

David - Procrit commercial #4

                                                                 

Grandpa: David was really wearing me out -- so as I couldn't stand to see the little bastard. What did I do? Picked up some Procrit, and I locked him in the closet. Schmuck.

<interlude>

Grandpa (cont.): Anyway, this David is turning out to be quite the troublemaker. The other day, he lit a firecracker when I was on the toilet. What did I do? I dug it out of the toilet and threw it back at him. But instead, I guess I must have grabbed a turd. Little prick.



Context: I wrote this song in 2005 as a response to an ad called Procrit commercial #4. The ad was repeated often enough that it weaseled its way into my subconscious, and I had no other choice but to memorialize it forever by hacking the original to bits and putting in my original song as a soundtrack.


Tuesday, May 10, 2022

The vending machine


 

I dreamed I was at work again, making myself useless. I didn't have a job or a purpose for being there. I was just wandering around talking to my ex-coworkers. I saw Luis Ramirez at the vending machine, and I stopped to talk with him for a minute. He didn't have much to say to me and left without taking his change. I stuck my finger in the change receptacle, and a quarter fell out on the ground with a very audible tinkle. Luis swung around and looked at me.

"Go ahead," he said. "I guess you need it more than I do."

I did go ahead, picking up the one coin and digging further into the receptacle. I kept pulling quarters out until I had about a dollar fifty total. Score. I usually don't have this kind of luck with vending machines, or cash in general. 

After collecting my fortune, I walked past the front desk. Art, the owner, was sitting in front of a computer terminal, intently poring over some data. I greeted him cordially, and he looked up at me.

"Hey, Andrew," he said. "I'm looking at some new hires. Do you want to see their pictures?"

"Sure," I said.

"I don't know if I can pull them up on this machine, but I'll try," he said.

----

That's all I remember. Pretty basic, I know. My brain has been occupied of late with the defense of my home. I am at war with the ants on my property. 

Since a tree went down in my backyard, millions of ants who had been nesting inside the dying trunk have now been displaced and are seeking new accommodations inside my house. There are long lines of refugees crawling around the foundation, and some have made incursions as far as the kitchen. 

Spraying them with bug killer only seems to stem the immediate invasion, a single battle won in a war that is gearing up to be an infinitely long conflict. We have opposing agendas, the ants and I. They want in, and I want them out.  

Today, after spotting another two lines of attack, I brought out the next phase of my chemical warfare, the bait granules. The product alleges to be able to kill the entire colony, since the ants will carry their food back to the nest, eventually reaching the queen. No queen, no colony. We'll see, as the Zen master said.

I did watch some of them pick up these rather large poison laden particles and head in the direction of my house. This new strategy is testing my patience, though. My instinct is to kill them on sight to prevent them from entering the house. I have to have faith that wherever they are going, I should let them go, since the poison won't get to the queen if I kill the workers. 

That's my life right now. Big struggle, I know. I'm literally making a mountain out of an anthill. Oh, and I may need a small bowel resection, but I don't want to go on about it.

Saturday, May 7, 2022

Mutated Mutant

I stole this picture from someone else on Blogspot -- sue me!

 

Muted mutant

I feel muted 
Mutilated and mutated
Ablated and outdated Miscreated With a fatal flaw Checkmated With an iron will and glass jaw Living life above and below the law

Who thought of such a thing as a me? That I’d be any more useful than a tree? A blank piece of paper to be written upon And this is my song Far away, in a distant land I make peace with my demons I make them understand We’re not so different you know The singer sings and the sower sows

“Ahh-ahh ahh-ahhhh-----you got me!” I said Quoting every gunfighter who’s ever been gut shot dead

Thursday, May 5, 2022

Nuclear War

 

A co-worker and I were out on a landscaping job in the company van outside a customer's house when the news report came over the radio:

"It is with great sadness that I must report that two nuclear explosions have taken place on American soil. We are still trying to determine their origin. Scientists have yet to explain who will be affected by the fallout, but for now, citizens are advised to remain in their current location."

We both knew instantly that nothing would ever be the same. An all out response was sure to ensue, followed by a counter response and a counter counter response. Society would break down in a matter of days, if not hours, as the news filtered down. We saw a pallet of toilet paper in the customer's garage, and we both had the same thought:

"Let's grab that and get out of here!" my co-worker barked.

"May as well," I said. "It will probably be the last time we'll ever see this much of the stuff. I just wonder if we'll live long enough for it to even matter. We're probably dead already. It's just a matter of time."

We loaded up the van and started driving, where we didn't know. Anywhere, I guess. It didn't matter; the radiation was invisible, and we'd never know until it was too late whether or not we'd received a lethal dose.

We continued driving, and I saw bright flash of light as an electrical transformer exploded. I instinctively shielded my eyes, thinking it was another nuclear blast. My co-worker assured me that it wasn't that. It was the electrical grid going down. 

"Say bye-bye to electricity," he said with a sardonic grin. "That flash was the last you'll see of it in this lifetime."

I don't remember much more of the dream than that. It was just a feeling of dread at the irrevocable nature of nuclear conflict. I remember thinking, "Damn. They've went and done it. They've killed us all."