Reunion

I dreamed I was at a large gathering of friends and family. I'm not sure what the theme was, but there were even pigs and cheetahs there. That came later, so I’ll get back to it. 

We were all in one large room with a de facto stage area towards the front. I pulled up to a table, and I spied Rienna sitting across from me. We exchanged a few pleasantries, and within the blink of an eye, we were alone in another room.

“How about I give you four seconds to get your clothes off, and we find out whether or not you’ve still got what it takes?”

I didn’t need to be told twice, and I began to strip, a broad grin spreading across my face.

“Classic Rienna,” I chuckled. “No mincing words. Right down to business.” 

I was a little worried about performance, as I was feeling every bit my age, but as our bodies pressed together, I felt the familiar chemical reaction initiating certain body part functions, and I knew that it wouldn’t be a problem.

I had only gotten my jacket off, and we began kissing. We played grab-ass for a bit, or I did, and after a moment she drew back and looked at me. 

“What’s wrong?“ I asked. 

“I’m kissing you passionately,” she said, “and you’re just…not engaged.”

I started to protest that she seemed to be the one disinterested, and that my excitement was real. I really was thrilled to be engaged in this activity with her. 

I’ll admit, though, a weird thought did cross my mind while we were kissing. I wondered if her political views were going to be a problem. I recently read somewhere that she had some convoluted reason for encouraging people to support Trump. 

I knew that she’d always been a liberal, and this kind of mental break seemed problematic, but I was willing to have a listen to her logic, if it came down to it. She’s always been more politically savvy than I, and perhaps she was following her convictions for reasons that I would just have to accept.

I suppose that if all that was going on in my mind, perhaps she could tell, and so my kisses weren’t as passionate as they might’ve been. I don’t know. My body is pretty capable of its own non-brain related responses, and I thought I was multitasking pretty well.

Soon she disengaged entirely. We sat on opposite sides of the bed, and she looked over at me with a displeased look.

“And another thing...” she began. 

Great. Another thing. There’s always another thing. I waited for the typical dream-crushing letdown.

“You are so skinny,” she said, almost accusingly. “You look unwell.”

“But I’ve had every test they could give me, and they have found nothing,” I countered, going on to describe CAT scans, PET scans, colonoscopies, etc., as if these assurances were going to save the romantic encounter.

She seemed to be on the fence, but I never got another chance to redeem the situation. Even though Jenny Bennett, who had been peering in through a sliding glass window and, seeing the situation, closed the curtains for us, it wasn't enough to tip the scales. Soon, the scene changed, and we were back in the big room with everyone.

I made an embarrassing entrance through the front of the room, and all eyes were upon me as I stumbled, catching my shoe on my other pant leg. I acknowledge the faux pas with a “dagnabbit” or a “darn rabbit,” which only seemed to strengthen the case for my geriatric ineptitude.

I sat down and consoled myself by petting two very cute and very round piglets who had stopped at my feet as they paraded themselves through the crowd. At least the animals knew that I still had some love left to give.

I watched in shock as two men were playing a game of gas station bingo at the front of the room. This was a game where animals would be thrown at a wall covered with Velcro, and they would either bounce off or cling to the wall, depending on whether or not they had the appropriate claws or fur for the job. The piglets would not fare too well, I feared, although the cheetahs seemed to do alright.

Rienna had really gotten in my head about the whole aging infirm thing, and I began to suspect that she was right. Perhaps I wasn't long for this world. 

 

This thought remained in my head as I began the process of waking up. But despite my protests that the brevity of my remaining time was another argument in favor of Rienna and I having one last fling, she remained unconvinced, and soon I woke up.

----

I recently noticed that Rienna has dropped off of my friends list on Facebook. When I lose a friend or even a casual acquaintance, I am always concerned, wondering if it was something I said or did that caused them to drop me.

 

In her case, I fear that although we've been close, and able to confide some of our deeper and darker themed thoughts to one another over the years, perhaps she's finally had enough of me. And I suspect that if she ever reads this blog, that in itself might be the reason.

Apples and crazy people

Don't tell me how I should think. Why are you comparing your thought process to mine? I am not you. You don't have any jurisdiction in my head. 

So what is a baseline "normal" anyway? Whose consensus are we going by? I am a person with a mental illness, or so I have been diagnosed. So what is normal for me may not be normal for someone without that little bit of clinical information tagged in their file.

I don't know what makes up the criteria for a diagnosis anyway, and who really has the authority to make that judgment. Furthermore, I don't care. I live with what I live with. It's no fun. Excuse me if I get pissy or grumpy or pouty or whatever around Christmas. 

Fuck it all anyhow. I don't have anything to say right now. Nothing logical or philosophical or witty. I don't feel love or joy or empathy. Just sadness, occasionally, if I'm lucky. Other than that, it's just drudge, drudge, trudge, trudge, down the treadmill I go, carrot dangling in front of me. It's a plastic fucking carrot anyway.

Proof of concept: I suck at poetry, Exhibit A

I want a hippopotamus

To take to my optometrist

And challenge his rhinoceros

Which there's never quite enough of us to do

 

I drew a lion in the sand

Which crossed him and he bit my hand

He said, "It tastes like candied yams"

And he began to spew

 

I made some tea and crossed it too

But Jesus' lawyer tried to sue

For copyright infringement on his robe

 

Which was a bust

You cannot trust

A thief to butter your loaves 

I hate to disappoint, I'd rather depose

But the feet made of clay

Already crumble at the toes

 

Never you mind

You never do mind

Do you remember?

I just robbed you blind

Breakfast Club

Not that anyone has asked to join, or cares, but here were today's picks from this morning's iTunes random shuffle. 

 

 

In Your Arms Tonight---John Cameron Mitchell and Steven Trask

Lifestyles-Sandrevan Lullaby----------------Rodriguez

Stick Around For Rock N' Roll--------------Outlaws

Sail Away Sweet Sister-----------------------Queen

All You Need Is Love--------------------------Beatles

Take It Any Way You Want It------------------Outlaws

The Weight-----------------------------The Band

Little Red Corvette-----------------------Prince

Fernando---------------------------------Abba

 

----

 

It occurred to me, after posting a picture of myself on Facebook of me on my front deck, playing guitar with a cat looking on, just how easily perceptions can be manipulated. 

 

It took mere seconds to snap the photo, but the image conveys an idyllic life, full of contentment and purpose. It says, "I'm doin' great. Look at me having a wonderful Sunday!" That image will live on, creating this false narrative in the mind of whoever comes across it for years to come.

 

I spent maybe fifteen minutes outside today in total. The other 99% of the day, I pissed away indoors doing nothing, watching TV, napping and managing my minimal self-care. My thoughts hovered between guilt and anxiety, as my eye continues to bother me, as well as my general lack of energy, motivation or any positive emotions.

 

I posted the picture in order to create the illusion of some positivity, hoping that perhaps I'd be able buy into it myself. It certainly has my friends fooled. It almost worked for me too, because there is a very tiny dopamine reward for each red like notification. (Thanks, Meta mind-manipulation algorithm.) 

 

Ultimately, though, it's just a trickle, and there's no substance or anything of lasting value, a sugar high, quickly dissipated if not continually refilled. Even the cat grew quickly bored and walked off to find a quieter place to waste her Sunday.

And how much of my time was wasted just now making this tidy little post conveying absolutely nothing?

Ban Apples

I love a good metaphor, but the "sin" of Adam and Eve, eating from the forbidden fruit, always seemed like such a stretch to me growing up. Why'd God make the damn tree and put it right there in the middle of the garden if it was supposed to be off limits? 

You know that's the quickest way to get kids to do something, right? Tell them some lie about the supposed dangers of something, and then casually leave that shit laying around while you are off at work. Then let them hear about it from some third party, who offers them a different, more realistic take, and voila, disillusionment, distrust and disobedience ensue.

Anyway, I don't think it's necessarily bad parenting on father God's part. He probably knew they'd be doing all that, and really, he wanted the whole business of good and evil, light and dark, pleasure and pain to get started. He just wanted to be able to say, "I told you so" and give Himself some level of deniability when shit hit the fan later. 

Really, He just wanted to watch the best reality show of all time unfold. So he didn't ban the apple entirely. He just put a parental advisory label on it, so it was on the user to deal with the fallout. 

As far as metaphors go, the biblical story is not the worst you could do. It's got everything: a good guy and a bad guy, innocence turned to tragedy, sex, violence, forgiveness, redemption and even a happily ever after with a prince on a white horse descending out of heaven. <cue the orchestral swells>

Parental advisory label for Facebook

So, earworms are a thing. 

I'm not talking about the RFK kind, that make you do weird things with bears and whales and believe all kinds of crap about vaccines. Nor am I referring to earwigs, those pincer bug little creepies that make you think of Chekov in "The Wrath of Khan" and wonder if they really got their name from crawling into people's ears at night. <checks pillow> <whew>

The kind I'm referring to are the songs that find their way into your brain through the auditory canal and hijack your internal monologue with an infectious beat, melody, lyrics or rhyme scheme. Catchy tunes, like old TV ads, can remain with you for years, sometimes coming back when you least expect them. 

"If it says Libby's, Libby's, Libby's on the label, label, label, you will like it, like it, like it, on your table, table, table!" 

"A Slinky, a Slinky--for fun its a wonderful toy!"

There are a million of them out there. I'm sure everyone has had a case or two in their lifetime.

To rid oneself of an earworm is not easy. There's not pill or eardrops that will make it go away. There are two ways to get relief, but neither of them is really ideal. One is to play the song over and over on a loop, singing along and committing it to its own little encapsulated portion of your brain. It will eventually satiate itself in there and leave you alone, mostly.

The other way is to pass it along to someone else. Like the evil shapeshifting zombie in that movie "It Follows," once you pass it along to another human being, it will take after them, giving you respite. I'm not sure what rules apply, so this may or may not be a permanent solution.

Anyway, here I am, after three days of listening to "Stagger Lee" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, learning to play it on the guitar, sing it, dance around to it--and it still hasn't left me. So if one of my friends with sensibilities that run as dark as mine can find it in their heart to relieve me of this burden, please, by all means, click on the video, and enjoy your earworm.

DO NOT click on this link if you are easily, or even averagely offended by EXPLICIT lyrics containing, but not limited to: gratuitous profanity, graphic descriptions of violence, murder, sexual taboos and generally reprehensible behavior. This song is not for you. It is not the Lloyd Price version in your oldies collection with the upbeat tempo and happy horn section.

You might, however, still find it catchy, and if you do, this will undoubtedly cause you to curse me as it invades your everyday consciousness, and you find yourself wishing you could un-hear it. It may also lower your estimation of me several notches, and we don't want that.

Anyway, long preamble, sorry. I just had to get that out of the way before inappropriately sharing this with my entire friend group.

My Morning Random Shuffle

These are the songs which Itunes selected for me this morning while I cooked my breakfast. Random, except for the first song, which was already in the queue from me playing it on repeat recently.

 

 

 

Stagger Lee                                               Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
You Won't See Me                                  Beatles
Track No. 10                                              Dick Dale and the Deltones
You Can Get It If You Really Want   Jimmy Cliff
Part 35 - No Death No Fear                Thich Nhat Hanh
He'll Take Care of the Rest                 Keith Green
Man and Machine                                   T.S.O.L.
Losing My Religion                                R.E.M.
A Kind Of Magic                                       Queen
You Don't Know How It Feels            Tom Petty

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy 3rd 34th, Harrison! And in other news...Notorious J.E.J. and I handle some beef

 

Today, Harrison Ford celebrates his 3rd 34th year anniversary of being alive. 

At the relatively young age of 34, the still unknown future Star Wars star decided that he would forego annual birthday celebrations, deciding instead to consolidate them into 34 year anniversaries.

In his words, "I'm not doin' this shit every year. It'll be another 34 years before I put up with this crap again."

He celebrated his 2nd 34 year anniversary at age 68 with a single cupcake, eaten alone in his New Jersey apartment, listening to Pink Floyd's "The Wall."

Today's festivities included a short walk with his dog Sandy, a Pekinese whom he says he is determined to outlive, and a cup of frozen yogurt at Bob's Fun and Fro-Yo, a dog friendly bistro and video arcade. 

Mr. Ford turns 102 in human years today, Jan 12, 2025. But who's counting, right? Back to you, Betty.

----

OK, so the real story today is that I was out driving with James Earl Jones, the voice of Darth Vader and Arby's Roast Beef. We were in my Honda Fit (an apt name, since it always seems miraculous that anyone of even moderate stature can be pretzeled into any of its seats). 

We were out collecting debts. Some were bookings from a gambling operation, others drug debts, and some were personal vendettas being carried out for pay or pleasure. The common denominator was the extraction of pain or profit, or both, from fearful and unhappy customers, something in which Mr. Earl Jones took great delight.

We were in the parking lot of a Safeway when we found ourselves in the unlikely position of being shaken down by a couple of grocery store thugs. Two black guys in their mid 20s were trying to rob us, alluding to a gun, which they never actually produced but claimed was hidden under one of their coats.

"We don't have time for this now, gentlemen," said James, in that famous voice that was both silky smooth and hard as a judge's gavel. "We'll take this up another time."

With that James Earl went into the grocery store while I went to a friend's nearby apartment for a foot massage. I didn't go there intending on getting a foot massage, but it just worked out that way. 

It got kinda weird when my friend, a guy who I really only knew in passing, asked me to get on the bed and lie down. I took my shoes off and did as he asked, but I didn't feel comfortable about it, and I wound up leaving before any actual foot massaging happened.

Back in the car, James informed me that we had to go to his mother's house. She was making soup, and it was a standing calendar event from which he would never be absent, no matter what else was on the itinerary.

At the house, his mom greeted us, but before we could even enter, we spied the two grocery store thugs lurking around behind my car.

"Excuse us please, Mom, we've got something to attend to," James said, wearily.

Back out to the car we went. The two thugs retreated into the woods, thinking they'd gone unnoticed, but we could still make them out talking about their plans to rob and kill us. 

"You wait in the car," James told me. "I'll handle this. Just be ready to peel out when I get back."

"OK," I said meekly. I didn't know what his plan was, but it sounded ominous. Pretty much everything he said sounded that way, because, you know, he was James Earl Jones.

He walked back into the woods and approached the two men. Without a word, he produced a .38 caliber revolver and shot each of them once in the head. Well, I assume that's what happened. I couldn't see anything. I just heard two shots ring out and then the sound of two bodies slumping to the ground in the autumn leaves.

"Hurry up!" James said as he opened up the car door. 

Paralyzed with fear, I was possibly the worst getaway driver in the history of getaway drivers. Not only was the car not running, but the keys were in my pocket, and I was seatbelted in, which prevented their immediate retrieval. 

"You've got to be kidding me!" James scowled as I fumbled.

I kept tugging at the blade of the key which protruded slightly from the pocket, but the rest of the keys were firmly ensconced, wedged behind a crease in my jeans. It took two of us pulling and prying to get them out, and by that time, bystanders who had heard the gunshots were starting to take notice of us. 

We finally managed to get the keys into the ignition and the car in gear, and away we went, skirtching the tires on the gravelly parking area behind his mom's house. At this point, the dream ended.

And James Earl Jones never got his soup.