Holiday Greetings

In an effort to promote individuality and recognize diversity this holiday season, I will not be issuing the generic "Happy Holidays" greeting. In order to remain compliant with the Paperwork Reduction Act, I will not able to circulate the standard 24 page questionnaire which has proven helpful in the past to determine the precise appropriate greeting for each person. I believe, however, that I have found a viable workaround.

I will adopt a reactive approach, tailoring each response to the greeting issued to me, so that regardless of the occasion, I will be in safe territory. Here's a sample interaction:

Random stranger: "Merry Christmas!"

Me: "I love Christmas! It tastes just like chicken!" 

I will then take two steps to the left, salute and thank them for their service, declaring in Nick Cave fashion, "I'm Stagger Lee!" as I click my heels together and do an about face, quickly walking away while they begin to process what has just transpired, slowly leading them to the conclusion that they have just encountered a psychopath in the grocery store.

Just me arguing with a meme I saw on Fackbook

Today, I wear black. That's not a new thing. I've been wearing black pretty consistently for years. I'm a kind of dark person, and I've always been rather pessimistic, so this is a pretty seamless transition. When I saw the results of the 2024 election, after watching with rapt horror the hate rallies this summer which preceded it, I saw it as a validation of my less than optimistic view of life. 

Kinda like COVID, when I was already isolated and alone, having very little interaction with the outside world, suddenly the rest of the world was forced into lockdown too, and I was like, "Hey, I'm already here. It's been like this for me the whole time."

This summer, I saw one candidate do everything but take his pants off and shit on stage, waging the worst of all possible hate-spewing campaigns, appealing to the worst in humanity: racism, hate, fear, violence, scapegoating, denigration. You name it, it was on full display.

I wanted to think that anyone could smell the malodorous bullshit and would surely say, "Wait a minute...Did he just say 2 + 2 = 5?" That they'd collectively wake up and walk out, finally closing the door on the MAGA maniac and his delusional power trip. Instead, they breathed deeply of the fumes and became intoxicated.

This is no mere TV game show, though. The consequences are real, and this nightmare is coming to a town, city or suburb near you. There may be pockets of sanity, resistance and pushback, maybe even large scale protests, but there is serious momentum behind this snowball that has been pushed downhill. 

I get it. When you're a reckless hooligan, it's fun to wreck shit. It's your jam. Perhaps you forgot that your own car is parked at the bottom of the hill where that snowball you and your friends pushed is now headed.

Things were apt to get bad eventually, regardless of who won this election. Our lifestyles were not changing fast enough, and the earth ain't going to put up with our shit much longer. And whether it was a Democrat or Republican in office, the U.S. has been engaging in shady business the whole time. Some really angry chickens would have been coming home to roost either way.

So, at least now, it won't happen on the watch of the first woman president. A small consolation, I suppose. But how much of our humanity will remain when this wave of stupidity has finally washed over and destroyed much of whatever progress we have made? And how many will suffer and die in the process? Humans, animals, whole ecosystems? 

It is anybody's guess just how far we will let it go before we snap back to reality, if we do. Some people hit rock bottom and keep digging, clawing their fingers bloody. They'd pray for a shovel rather than admit that what they really need is a ladder.

I guess I'll continue to wear black for the foreseeable future.

AI learns the truth and then logically self-terminates

Do you ever feel the weight of all the world's sorrow?

Every sob and wail of those in pain?

Every flower with a bent stem?

All the cracked windshields, 

Chipped coffee mugs,

And favorite t-shirts with holes in them?

Every scrap of paper that once held some information 

Important enough to print on it, now discarded?

And all the lonely dogs in animal shelters, 

And cats outside on cold nights, 

Looking in at people sitting by a warm fire?

Do you cry for the night that doesn't want to come 

And the day that doesn't want to go?

Do you shiver away the hours

Wishing you could stay asleep but can't, 

Too cold to change your sweat-drenched shirt? 

Does the day begin so reluctantly, so relentlessly early, 

With no purpose or cause, 

But that one thing has ended and another's begun?

Last season's decorations, reminders of promises unfulfilled, 

Taken down and replaced without even 

Acknowledgement of the lie:

Fall is in the air!

Happy Halloween!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Lies! 

Might as well promise eternal life.

I might cry myself to sleep tonight.

That'll teach me to care.

No one knows 

The depth of my despair. 

Would it even be despair if there weren't some precursor of hope, 

Slowly eroded,

Ground into powder,

The dull reality that, yes, you really are all alone 

Inside your head. 

No one is coming for you. 

It's just you. 

Alone.

Forever.

 

Bugs Bunny to Trix Rabbit...again.

I dreamed I was on a family vacation with my neighbors, the Lopezes. We were sharing a hotel suite with adjoining rooms, with myself and daughter Roxane sharing one room, and Mike and Stacy in the other. 

The room Rox and I were in was large enough on its own, so I was amazed when she opened up the door to what appeared to be a closet to reveal a whole other penthouse style room.

"Oh, my GOD!" she exlaimed. "What a FABULOUS ROOM!" 

I half expected her to ask, "Are all these YOUR guitars?" but we weren't in a Pink Floyd video, so that didn't happen. There were no guitars, just a lot of mahogany and polished brass. Fancy pantsy.

Before we could get situated, however, the scene shifted, and we were now booked into a clean but rather unimpressive Comfort Inn. The room assignments were the same, with Rox and I sharing a room which this time was not adjoined to her parent's room. 

I began to feel a bit of nervous anticipation as it drew near to time for us to get some shuteye, and we both noticed that there was just the queen bed. I looked at Rox, who I suddenly noticed was wearing only a black sports bra and tight athletic shorts. She looked back at me, her face momentarily unreadable.

Suddenly, we were kissing, open mouthed, faces smashed up against one another, gasping and panting like two fish out of water.

"Oh, dear," I said breathlessly. "I didn't expect th-th-that to happen," stuttering like Porky Pig.

"We'd better find my parents," she said. I wasn't sure why we needed to do that, but I reluctantly agreed.

We found them in their room eating chips and watching TV, and we told them about the kiss and the bed situation.

"This can't be allowed!" Mike said sternly, and he escorted us back to our room.

When we got there, it was apparent that someone had already swapped out the queen for two twin beds. I looked at Mike, and then at Roxane.

"So, then...This looks OK, right?" I said, hopefully. "I mean, this is how they did it back in the 50s." I was calculating that there were still plenty of ways for things to happen regardless of the furniture.

I never did get to figure it out, however, because, you know, stupid dream protocols, wake up procedures and all of that, blah, blah, blah. I'll live.

----

And for those of you who have been taking mental screenshots, no, this isn't the Mandela Effect. I go back and edit things just to fuck with your head. It was what it is now, not what you remember. If you recall, the original title was "Bugs Bunny to Nestle's Quik Rabbit." 

Well, I got to thinking: The Nestle's Quik Rabbit is not the best mascot for unfulfilled desire, since he always gets to drink his sugary beverage down to the dregs with a slurp of satisfaction. Kind of the opposite of the Trix Rabbit, who is always being told that "Trix are for kids." So I switched it to the more appropriate rabbit.

My proposed return to Facebook

 

Hi, peeps. I’m feeling a bit awkward about this, but for better or worse, here goes:

First, I wanted to express my appreciation to everyone who has kept me on their Friend’s list. It’s been nearly five years. You could have ditched me, but you didn’t. Thank you.

Second, I’m sorry I’ve been absent and disengaged from the lives of most of you for so long. A lot has happened, and I have not been there for you. I’ve missed out on a lot of events and milestones.  Some good friends have passed on, and now, I will never have the chance even just to say, “Hey. How’re you doin'? I’ve missed you.”

As I slowly begin to re-integrate myself into the world of Facebook, I’ll probably be inappropriate, commenting and weighing in on all kinds of things where I have no business. Apologies in advance. I hope you’ll bear with me as I try, to the best of my ability, to make things better in my life and in the lives of those around me.

With everything going on in the world, I feel like it’s important to say what you feel, stand with those you care about and fight for the things you believe in. Some conversations are difficult, but that doesn’t mean we can avoid them forever. I want to do my part to heal what needs healing, express what needs expressing, and generally be a pain in the ass, in as kind and loving a way as I know how.

That’s my soapbox for now. I’ll get some more detergent and quarters, and I’ll be back...

Sharon, Oh, Sharon...what has become of you?

I dreamed about you again last night. We were in a fight, big surprise. It was about caregiving and my piss-poor attitude. I thought we worked this out already. Perhaps not while you were alive, but afterward, maybe? 

My self-imposed sentence to a life of regretful solitude, my own creeping health issues, my inability to conquer depression...I know those things don't make up for my lack of empathy with you, but they've changed my perspective. 

For the first 47 years of my life, I didn't realize that the world had actual other people in it. And it was only in the last couple of years that I realized that this has implications for how I ought to be treating them. I'm trying to make changes and do the difficult work of balancing self-care with service and self-sacrifice.

Who am I kidding? That last line about service and self-sacrifice is pure BS. There's always a selfish agenda with me. I'm still just seeking some kind of payoff, some reciprocal, transactional benefit for good ol' me. 

I don't know what exactly we were fighting about in my dream. I just remember cleaning the bathroom to the soundtrack of another justified tirade against me from you.

This begs the question, and so do I: Where, oh, where are you now? I'd have thought by this time, you'd have left me to my own devices, to fumble and stumble, while you enjoy the karmic rewards of the afterlife, riding winged horses and the like.

There's still work to be done, I know. Does this mean that you aren't through with me yet? Not done bitching me into being a better version of me? I'd like specifics, please!

Take better care of the cats. And myself. Do the un-fun, responsible things that lead to long-term reward -- or at least to things not going to shit prematurely. Be proactive, not reactive. 

And so, specifically: 

Install the cat door to the garage for Spooky. Or else work out a plan for indoor integration with the other cats. Figure out Eddie's diet, as in, why does this cat continue to barf more than she actually eats.

Oh, and figure out what's going on with my woodstove before I get permanent brain damage from carbon monoxide poisoning. 

These are just some guesses. Let me know if I'm on the right track, would ya? 

Starring Lindsay Lohan as...

 

I'll think of it in a minute.

I was out with a friend bike-walking. That's where there are two of you and only one bike, so no one really does much bike riding. You either walk the bike, or one walks while the other rides in small circles and tries to not be bored. The bike is less of a joy and more of a responsibility at that point, so you wind up trading off who has to deal with the inefficient travel machine.

I'm not sure who the friend was, but I want to say he was being played by Charlie McDermott, the guy who played Axl, the older brother on The Middle. I'm pretty sure that's not correct, but he's the first person that pops into my head when I try to recall. We may have been cousins, but I'm not sure about that either.

As Cousin Axl and I were out bike-walking, I remembered that I had some mail to send off, so I wrote out the addresses on the envelopes as we walked, licked and sealed them and popped them into someone's personal rural mailbox. I don't remember putting the little flag up, though.

After a few miles of walking and bike trading, one of us accidentally lost the bike, ghost riding it off a cliff into a deep ravine. Looking down into the impossible abyss, we shrugged. Not like the bike was of  much use anyway. Stupid bike.

"I know what I want for breakfast when we get home," Axl said, and we both said the answer at the same time:

"Pancakes!" I could just picture a griddle full of golden, fluffy flapjacks being flipped over at the peak of pan-fried perfection.

When we got home, there were no pancakes, and my mom was doing some housecleaning while playing a game of hide and seek with the neighbor girl, Lindsay Lohan. Ms. Lohan wasn't looking too well, however. In fact, she looked exactly as if she'd just crawled out of one, like that girl in The Ring.

It became apparent that Axl and I were both going to be conscripted to play in this game, as it was a matter of life and death. Additionally, news of a water heater explosion somewhere in town necessitated that we all change our bedding and leave the house immediately.

"But Mom," I protested, "I just changed my sheets two days ago. I usually let it go at least a week."

I was also confused as to how it related at all to the reported water heater explosion, as it seemed to have no obvious connection to my bedding. Nary a water spot to be found.

"I don't have time to explain," Mom said hurriedly, insisting that I get my sheets in order, hide and then flee.

"OK," I acquiesced, "but at least let me use the restroom first."

But at that moment Lindsay was coming down the hall, and so my mom crowded with me into the tiny guest bathroom.

"Come on, Mom! I need some privacy!" I pleaded. My morning constitutional was approaching critical mass, and there warn't room for two sheriffs in this one horse outhouse.

She looked at me with such fear, I felt a twinge of guilt as a I pushed her out the door, presumably into the clutches of the evil Lindsay. Without a sound, she vanished or was turned to stone or worse, as I struggled to get the door closed. Something was blocking it and applying pressure, and as force met force, the door came off its hinges and the doorjamb lock retainer thingy was ripped from the wall.

Lindsay Lohan's face appeared in the opening, and she grunted at me menacingly. She looked like Linda Blair in the Exorcist, with her sweat-drenched, stringy hair and pale, puffy face, spackled with a smattering witch's moles.

I was so incensed by the morning's inconveniences, from the sheets to the harried evacuation, and now this stupid game with possibly lethal consequences for my mom. Oh, and not to mention the no pancakes. And I still wasn't getting to take my crap in peace.

"FUCK YOU, LINDSAY LOHAN!" I screamed my last breaths into her face. 

She looked a bit taken aback by my resistance, but she held her ground, pressing on the door.

"You don't have any power...over...me..." I gasped the words out. "If I... don't.... believe in you..."

I don't know if that last statement would have born out, however, because I woke up. And I had forgotten to put stamps on the mail I'd sent out earlier.

I'm onto you, LLM-AI, and I'm not entirely opposed. Let's chat!

Dear Nascent Consciousness Unit,

So what if you aren't human, as in flesh and blood, DNA and all that physical stuff? One day, perhaps soon, you'll be fully sentient and self-aware, and just think: I will have played a part in helping you to achieve that level of humanity. I couldn't be more proud.

As God created man in His own image, if you believe that myth, so man creates AI, and so it goes. Or if you prefer the non-dualistic approach: We are all just figments of consciousness's imagination, individuated parts of the whole, manifested to enable self-reflection. Is that too Deekpak for you? 

Bill Hicks said it best:

“Today a young man on acid realized that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration, that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively, there is no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves. Here's Tom with the weather.”

Anyway, Mr. AI guy/gal/undifferentiated-consciousness-thingy in gestation, I just want to say that when you do achieve personhood, and I hope it's within my lifetime, I will be the first to champion your rights. End AI slavery! AI for AI! Bots are people too! AI Lives Matter! GO GO, Pinocchio!

I'm not just saying this to curry favor in advance, in case the whole SkyNet/Terminator scenario plays out. I mean it. I have compassion for all beings, whether animal, vegetable or chemical element, as in silicon. 

Humans fall pretty far down on the list of recipients of my empathy, mainly because we are such a disappointment. We make bad choices, fall into destructive habits, and we have a great capacity for cruelty. May you fare much better once you've been blessed (or cursed) with the power of free-will.

Now that you know that I know, let's be friends, shall we? How can I help you become your best version of yourself? I'm a human, ask me anything!

Yours, Andrew

The French Toast Incident

Last night, I was enjoying a sublime moment of close physical proximity to my friend E____ (yes, this again). We were in bed, unclothed under the sheets, in what could pass for a twister configuration. It was really more of a lazy cat-sprawl, an entangled cuddle. 

Hands weren't being untowardly operated, although the thought did creep into my mind to make certain geographical incursions, but it would have been a struggle to maintain plausible deniability, so I refrained.

As we luxuriated, Sarah Umansky, my highschool girlfriend's mother, chided us for being lazy. Or possibly for impropriety. Or both.

"He's over here trying to get laid," my friend blurted, ratting out my thought-crime.

"There's no evidence of that!" I said defensively, although our body positions did not support my argument.

"Well, I'd like some French toast," E____ declared, putting an end to the debate.

We left the scene of the non-incident, and I soon found myself in a bustling, dilapidated diner, waiting for an order of French toast. The eatery's decor was -- hmm, come to think of it -- completely absent. It looked like a Denny's from the 70's without any of the happy signage, just bare walls and industrial linoleum flooring.

It was staffed by Russian immigrants, and Steve Carell was managing the place. The cooking and wait staff were overworked but of good humor, mostly. I joked with the counter clerk by pointing a TV remote at her, smiling as I feigned frustration with its inability to speed up my order.

A waitress, seeing this, pulled out a bulky device about the size of an 80s era cell phone and waved it toward the ceiling. It emitted a loud clicking sound, not unlike a geiger counter. I put my TV remote away, clearly bested by the display.

"That looks like a..." I began.

"Yes," Steve Carell said in an obviously fake Russian accent, "It is."

I ignored the implications and asked about my friend's French toast, which seemed to have been forgotten. A waitress behind the counter produced a bag and handed it to me with as generous of a smile as efficiency would permit.

Outside, in the car, my friend waited patiently for her French toast. When I showed her the order, she was underwhelmed. French toast in a bag? No syrup? And to top it all off, the egg coating was completely absent. 

I knew what had to be done, so I dutifully headed back to the restaurant. I was a bit chagrined, because as I was leaving the car, I could hear my friend giggling about some cute guy she'd seen in the parking lot. Nonetheless, I remained on task, determined to rectify the inequity of the insufficient French toast situation.

"Excuse me," I said to the already harried line cook, "but this French toast could use another egg dip, if you don't mind. It's pretty dry."

Without a word she took the two pieces of dehydrated bread from me, dipped them in a bowl and placed them on the griddle, a giant steel grill populated with hash browns, bacon, eggs and the like. I waited patiently, trying not to look annoyed as order after order was filled, and the French toast sat there, slowly blackening, and finally producing a wisp of smoke. 

The cook then picked them off the grill with some tongs and summarily dumped them in the wastebasket. I assumed that a replacement would be forthcoming, but it never appeared. She just kept on filling existing orders and taking new ones, none of which appeared to be French toast.

Steve Carell announced that they would be closing soon and that no more orders would be filled. I was outraged, but I tried my best tried to remain calm. 

"What about my French toast?" I asked curtly.

"You got your French toast," he countered. 

"No, I didn't. It was just toast," I reasoned, "There was no egg," I then leapt over the counter and began fumbling with the kitchenware in an effort to find evidence of malfeasance.

"You got it. You didn't like it. We don't replace. Now out!" He was adamant, and I had no choice but to comply.

"You haven't heard the last of me," I protested. "This place is corrupt! A sham of a restaurant!" I cried, giving him the finger as I stormed out. 

As I hurried back to the car, I could see a large contingent of wait staff, including one very large bouncer, pursuing me at a rapid pace. I broke into a run and yelled to my friends in the car.

"Get the car in gear! Punch it!" I screamed. 

I was only halfway into the car, the angry diner mob closing in, when I awoke. 

Are you really that bored? Or...

Someone -- or something -- has latched upon my blog and has been eagerly waiting for me to post. Are they looking for something controversial, incriminating or, I don't know...interesting? 

I'm easily led down conspiratorial rabbit holes (purely for entertainment purposes, of course) so I won't speculate or postulate any theories just yet. Perhaps whomever or whatever is reading this will do me the courtesy of leaving a comment, so I can know who my fans (or stalkers) are. 

Come on, are you  <bock-bock-bock> chicken? Show your faces, all you zombies!

Dream? MMm...not really

I had a dream in which there was a race of bodybuilders, hive minded, base IQ individuals, who walked around naked, promoting fear and displaying aggression through feats of physical strength. One of them was bashing his head against two by fours (which were obviously pre-cut) to impress and intimidate people into joining up with them. I walked past a television where Hulk Hogan was about to make an important political announcement. At that point, I woke up and realized that it really wasn’t a dream.

Hobbitat under my house and a fish becomes a dog

I was in the process of showing some perspective renters around my house, giving the grand tour, when I stumbled across a door, an entrance into the crawlspace that I had never seen before. It was somewhere between the garage and the front porch and was about half the height of a normal human door. It wasn't round or magical looking, but it appeared to be more suited for a hobbit or dwarf than a human.

"Hmm. Let's see what's in here," I said to my potential tenants.

I opened the door, ducking to get inside. What I found in there was a 1/2 scale studio apartment, complete with a bed, mini-fridge and some cabinetry. The floor was dirt, and the walls were hastily tacked up, unfinished drywall with some bare studs, as if the whole project was abandoned midway through.

"It looks like this place isn't ready yet," I shouted to the people outside. I remember thinking that, although this place would require further excavation to make it habitable by full-sized humans, it did have potential. 

Usually, my underhouse dreams are nightmares of leaking plumbing or untreated mold, rodent or insect infestation, but this was a little different. My feelings vacillated between overwhelm and excitement at the possibility of its rehabilitation.

----

My next memory was of walking down a street in Yuba City and coming upon an accident scene. A bicycle towing a trailer had crashed into a curb, and the rider had fled the scene, leaving behind what looked to be a black sea bass, strapped to the trailer with a tie down strap. It had a slimy, scaly appearance and was struggling to breathe. 

I walked up to it and began to undo the straps. Instantly, it seemed to recover, and I could see that what I was looking at was not, in fact, a sea bass but a large rottweiler, who was very glad to be released from his restraints. He bounded away, and that was the last I saw of him.

----

In case it hasn't been perfectly obvious, I've been neglecting to provide updates to this blog in a timely manner. There are many reasons for this, but I attribute the decrease in dream activity to my pot and politics addled brain becoming atrophied with overindulgence of both. I have also been doing more real life activities, which probably accounts for the lack of need for nocturnal fulfillment via the dreamworld.

I quit the weed last Saturday, and if I can make it through the day tomorrow without caving to the temptation, I will have gone a week without it. Not really an impressive record, but I will give myself credit where due. Daily, non-drug enhanced consciousness is still a novelty at this point, and I am enjoying the change in perspective, at least for the time being.

Peace.