American Chopper dad insults me in the shower

I was in the shower, in the house I used to live in up in Paradise, when I heard someone knocking loudly at the door. They let themselves in and began talking to me from behind the shower curtain. I was a little perturbed, and I guess it showed in my voice, because the next thing he said was:

 "Maybe if you weren't such a jerk, your wife wouldn't have left you." 

He pushed the exact button to make me explode in a screaming fit of rage. I got so worked up that I could feel myself getting a sore throat from screaming. 

"Are you saying that my wife wouldn't have died from MS if it weren't for me being a jerk?" I let the words sink in, and he quickly left. 

I just knew that my sore throat in the dream was going to translate into me having one in real life. When you have to pee in a dream, usually it means you'd better get up and pee in real life. So, I expected this to be the case with the sore throat sensation, though it later proved not to be the case. 

A few minutes later, comes a contrite knock on the door. It was the same visitor who insulted me earlier, the dad from the American Chopper tv show. He was holding a pair of waffle-soled rain boots up by the laces, as if they were a peace offering. 

"I apologize," he said. 

"I accept your apology," I said. 

Then he told me what he'd originally came there to tell me, or rather show me. He had purchased a jet-ski for $500 and had it loaded on some special spring loaded trailer. It was a very unique design, one which didn't require wheels, but relied on the truck's heavy suspension to suspend the item being towed in midair. I was impressed with both the purchase and the trailer. 

He needed to move the jet-ski and get the truck backed out to clear the driveway, so he had me jump in the truck, which just happened to be rolling backward. I tried to find the emergency brake but couldn't. The service brakes required the engine to be started, and that was difficult, since I couldn't find the ignition either. 

Meanwhile, the truck was picking up speed with me in it. It was now moving too fast for me to bail out, and it was headed for a busy intersection at the bottom of the hill. I was still mad about my sore throat, and now this was happening. 

I don't know how this part resolved, but later I was back at my property with Sharon. The place was different, a kind of composite of Paradise and Loma Rica, with an added on warehouse/barn. We had all kinds of items, some junk, some useful in this open floor plan type space. 

We were discussing which things should stay or go based on their suitability for the somewhat damp indoor un-insulated environment. Sharon was ready to toss out some curio cabinets, but I suggested we just move them. I knew they were kind of cheap and would warp and decompose in the damp air but would be fine if kept a little farther from the elements. She agreed and let me keep them. 

I had a CB radio set up on a desk which I also wanted to keep but had to move out of the way of the big roll up door. We spent a lot of time deciding where to put things to maximize usage of the space and prevent blockages of traffic. 

The CB was on and I heard Triple 4, aka Dan Kirkham of Chico, arguing with someone in the distance. I tried to insert myself in the conversation, but I was the one who was too far out of range. They switched to another channel, and I followed them there and keyed up, laughing into the mike. I could tell they heard me, though we never did have an actual conversation.

We still needed to move the desk, so just about that time guess who shows up? American Chopper dad, with his truck. It had a van-like side door with a large storage area, so we lifted one edge of the desk onto it, while we held up the other side and ran alongside the truck. Not quite the easiest way to move the desk, but easier than lifting its entire weight. We deposited it nicely in the spot where it was to reside. 

There were many more things to still sort through, but Sharon wanted to get outside and feed horses. It was starting to dawn on me that her being there was a big deal and that I should just drop what I was doing and follow her around.  I guess, I was semi-aware that she was dead, so this time with her shouldn't be taken for granted. She didn't mind me puppy-dogging her while she did chores, since I guess she was aware of this too. 

Not too much else occurred. I was awakened by a robot-telemarketer, who insisted that he was a real person, just being aided by a computer for "quality purposes." Great, a cyborg was going to ask me for money. I was going to rip into him/it, but he quickly said, "No message. I'll try again later." Curses erupted from me, and now my day was officially started. 

Luckily, I still remembered most of my dream and the sore throat was not present, though I drank some water anyway.

Stan's Mega Mansion

My next door neighbor, Stan, was building a mega mansion and utilizing state of the art earth moving equipment. At one point, I looked from my window and saw a huge strip mining "water excavator" type of machine sucking up huge amounts of dirt and rock and spraying the debris high into the air. Some of it rained down on our house, dirtying the windows. I was afraid that some of the rocks might damage our house, but he was being very precise and only a fine mist actually made it to us. 

I watched as they cleared a space between the two of our houses. It was going to be a lawn. He motioned to his workers to continue the clearing all the way up to my house, effectively giving me a new and improved front yard. I stuck by his side as his workers continued the process and we discussed other improvements we might make. Also, it was dangerous to be in the line of fire of the giant dirt flinging device, so I had to stay on the right side of it at all times. 

I was amazed at the huge new dwelling and with Stan's generosity. He was more than willing to share it, offering me a room and lodging there if I wanted. It was going to be three stories, some of which would block my view of the surrounding landscape. I was a bit disconcerted when I first saw the huge dirt heap that he had created as a foundation. It was mountainous. I calmed down a bit after he made his offer to renovate my land, though. 

That's about it. I woke up with my right eye still blurry, even though I had used the oxygen machine last night. I've been sleeping with it on, in hopes of refreshing my poor eye. I guess I'll have to make an appointment to see about having the eyelid surgically fixed. 

This worries me to no end. I fear complications, disfigurement and vision loss. But I fear those things if I leave the eyelid alone, since it has been two months and still it hasn't healed. For the last 3 days, I have had blurry vision and headaches, as well as localized eye pain around the swollen lid. The papilloma/stye isn't going away, and I'm a bit distressed over that.

On Board Announcement

This is your captain, ha, I almost said "cat pin" 

Just what you need, a dyslexic flight attendant, demoted because he couldn't even pilot his own plane

So, this is your "cat pin" speaking

This will be my final announcement

It has been nice being your captain for a while

Not so nice, really, all of the time

I mean, there are so many reasons I am stepping down

But to be gracious, I figured I'd say it, on account of I don't want to be a sore loser, like you know who

So, this is me, signing off, saying, "Sayonara, auf weidersane, arrivaderchi"

(I can spell it any way I choose, since I no longer have to comply with regulations) 

Farewell

My lovely beings

I'll see you on another plane (you know, other than the earth, duh) 

I won't be flying it, but some other chump

All dressed up to be somebody, maybe me, maybe somebody completely different

That's neither here nor there, since it's all up in the air (hah, not again with the punning around, geez)

So, just to be clear, there will be no pilot, nor co-pilot for the rest of the journey

Co-pilot bailed out at 30 thousand feet 

(or maybe she was pushed, depends on whose conspiracy you believe)

I'm not jumping, though, no, not me

Nothing that drastic for this boy

I'm simply letting the controls go on autopilot until the plane runs out of sky

Or fuel, whichever comes first

It will be quite a gas, seeing how this unfolds

Me sitting in a passenger seat, next to you, saying 

"Geez, love, do you know who's actually flying this thing?"

"No,"  I'll reply to myself, "But I think it must be Jesus. Or fate."

 I get the two of them mixed up

So, sorry to all of you who paid your fare in advance thinking you'd arrive safely

At your destination with me at the helm

You're gonna hafta kick in with some flying skills of your own

Or else become some kind of cloud surfing squirrels

Like those crazy folks in the winged suits

Base jumping from Mount Everest

The black box will be examined post-mortem

And all will be revealed

"It was a sunny day, slight low pressure system moving into the region"

No reason why the plane fell out of orbit

It just got tired of flying, I guess

This has been your captain

Signing off

--chunk--

zzzzzzzzzz 

(dial tone)

Catch a Wave

 

Sounds surfing themed, I know. 

I got no feelings

Might as well become a telemarketer

   Imitating an unimpressive AI

Robocall after robocall until someone caves

Something, sometime will make it through

      It's a numbers game

              Even the random spin will be lucky someday

                     I'm just sitting, eh, standing here 

          Ax in and, or, uhh, slung on shoulder, low--

But not really that low, cuzz, you see

      I can't see that far down, so..

          I'm uptight, isn't that what they say?

Lugubrious," I respond, "it's my word of the day."

I must have some pent up rage

  Isn't that what they'd say?

     I play the pentatonic 

       Like someone attacking you with a blade

                "I'll cut you, I will, motherfucker" is lurking

      Under the smile as I carve up the leftover turkey

"Life's all gravy," they accuse me

      I accuse

  Um, I mean, recuse myself

I'm not a bit angry today

I sit, rather stand, kind of a motionless pacing

    Thoughts -- I don't have thoughts --

   They have me

      Have their way with me most of the day

               If I sit and reminisce or if I go outside and play

                  There's a chorus I really gotta be getting to

                  Coming up in a minute

     Can't rush it though, it'll get here when it gets here

      Isn't that the whole point? 

  Be here now, be in the moment

Present and all that shit..hmn ah ha

I'm waiting, waithing rather, to catch a feeling

   The feeling is far off, I sense

But I will wait for it anyway

       Waith for it, like a wraith, only waiting, see?

          That shadow is me

   Waiting for the sun to catch me up to my real self

                  So, I'll wait for this feeling to come along

Like a bus or a train

   A Saturday was scheduled, that's what's on the books

     I might as well have one

Get swept up in the madness, the frenzy

   That seems to be what everyone is talking about

Focus on this

Ignore that

Gratitude, awareness

Being open, being a part of things

   Blah, blah, blah, going with the flow, kinda like

      I dunno, surfing? 

          Waiting for a wave

   Too chicken to catch one, should it actually arrive

  Telling myself, "No, not this one. It doesn't look right."

           What is life? 

              What's the game of it all? 

More fun with rules? 

     Better with some, at least, I think

Make 'em up as you go along

    Write your own song

      Sing it for you, let others in as you see fit or not

        Stop making notes to self and pick up your guitar

Surfing contest, Waimea Bay

I found myself enrolled in a surf competition at Hawaii's infamous Waimea Bay. I don't know what I must have been thinking to get myself into that position, but I was part of a long queue of people who were basically out to commit suicide for public entertainment. Wiamea has some of the largest, gnarliest waves on the planet, and here I was, with my barely functional swimming abilities, getting ready to go into the water and--what? Try to catch a wave? Ha. 

As it got nearer to my turn, I seriously considered the chickening out option. Surely, there would be understanding. My enrollment had been a mistake anyway, right? The waves were many and gigantic, there having been a storm recently. The peaks towered to inappropriate heights, with foam icing capping their tops. They just looked angry. 

Richard Leon and his wife Gloria (she was still with him in the dream) were slowly edging their way out of the spotlight and were about to take the coward's exit back away from the ocean. First Gloria, then Richard slipped out of view behind some railings and became spectators instead of contestants. 

My turn was getting nearer. I looked down the back of an enormous waterfall as a wave broke. This is the part where cowards who didn't commit usually get sucked over the falls and pay the penalty for their hesitation. I knew to get out of there, so I turned around and got myself out of there. 

Matt Brown was still hanging around, the only friend I had who actually stood a chance of riding any waves of that caliber. He seemed to think I should stay, but I was firmly against it. The waves were just too damn scary, and I knew my limitations. I woke up with things still in flux, but I believe I had made my decision. Too bad, since it was a dream and I could have done whatever I wanted, free from consequences.

Sharon's back, got an iPhone and Hannelore's body was swapped out at the cemetery

 

In last night's episode, Sharon was back and about to start school for the fall. It was a stressful time, getting her ready for this new experience. We were at a different part of her disabled journey, the part where she was just learning some of her limitations. Of course, I was blessed with 20/20 hindsight from my real life experience with her. Surprisingly, this didn't make me fatalistic or futilistic about it, but rather helpful. I was glad to be given another chance to be patient and caring. 

I had an iPhone, which indicated to me that I had been down the timeline a bit, since in real life I never had one while she was alive. I was there, trying to get her car winterized and teach her the basics of Iphone use. She was having a bit of a time with the text being too small, as I knew she would. I tried to show her the pinch zoom feature, but she wasn't finding it all that easy to navigate the tiny menus. 

Meanwhile, we were at a memorial for her mom, who had passed away recently. It was more of an afterthought, since they literally had to dig up the casket for us to view. I didn't realize at the time, but it was the wrong casket. Hannelore was buried in a plain pine box, per her instructions. This was one of those fancy mahogany jobs. 

The casket was being displayed on a wall with the lid facing out. I thought, what was the purpose of a viewing if all you could see was a casket, so I endeavored to open the lid, only partly concerned that the body might come tumbling out. I managed to get the lid open, and fortunately, the body was secured with a cloth and some velcro, to prevent just such an occurrence. 

What wasn't planned for was what to do in the event that they had mistakenly brought up the wrong body. Instead of Hannelore's corpse, there were the preserved remains of a Hispanic woman in her thirties. 

I mentioned this to the funeral director, Jeffery Duncan Jones, the actor who played principal Ed Rooney in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. He was just as much of a muck up in this affair as he was in the movie as he back pedaled and tried to explain that this had never, ever happened in the entire history of funerals. I found that hard to believe and told him so. 

We were in a tough predicament since he was also our landlord, and we were in a situation reminiscent of my time at 180-1/2 E 8th Ave in Chico. The dual role of landlord/funeral director also meant that he was actually Eric Hart, my landlord at the time, only being played by, you know, Ed Rooney. 

We were still trying to get straightened out just how he was going to make up this giant fiasco to us, but I think it was going to come down to getting some money taken off of our rent bill. We were still negotiating when I woke up. 

It was nice to be working with Sharon again, very natural, and I almost forgot the whole notion of her being dead. But something about the theme of the dream reminded me, and I remembered to be extra nice and careful in how I dealt with her.

Wild Arabian Horse

When people think of wild Arabian horses, they invariably conjure up the image of a majestic steed, perhaps just misunderstood, like Black Beauty, who prance about on some desert isle in slow motion, with a perfectly groomed, windblown mane such as one sees in shampoo commercials. 

That was not the case with the one I encountered last night. For one, he was white, emphasis on was. At one time. Now all besmirched with mud and blood, his fur was barely visible, but his muscles and veins stood out under his translucent skin like some anatomy model. You could literally see his blood coursing through his veins. He had a halter on, and a long lead rope was connected to it. 

He had broken free of his captivity, where he'd been tied up with a dog at the other end of the rope. This was bad news for the dog, since the horse took off at a gallop and dragged the white and brown pit bull painfully across the parking lot, bouncing like a rag doll at the end of the rope. The good news was, since he was a pit bull, he emerged undamaged, at least visibly. 

The horse came to a stop by the post office, where presumably he worked as a courier at one time. I know, who hires a wild Arabian horse to deliver the mail, right? 

I thought it was a bad idea, too, and I attempted to tell them that I'd take him somewhere far away where he couldn't drag dogs around or scare postal customers in the parking lot. They just laughed and told me to have at it. I grabbed the halter, and the horse immediately took a nip at me. 

"Hey, watch it," they said, "He bites." 

No shit, I thought, as I held on to the lead rope a little farther away from the snapping teeth. I gave it a sharp tug and yelled at him, as one would with a misbehaving child, with no cursing and a firm controlled tone which told the horse that it wasn't my first babysitting assignment. He stopped trying to bite and began to pull, becoming a 1000 lb kite at the end of a string. 

I didn't want him to repeat the dragging incident with me at the end of the tether instead of the dog, so I reeled in the slack and got him controlled with leverage. It was harder for him to fling his neck about with me grabbing the rope close to his head. It also put me back in closer proximity with his mouth, but we'd already established that there would be "no more of that" with regard to his attempts to bite me. 

That's about where we left it, with me holding on to a wild Arabian horse, as rank as they come, in the post office parking lot.

David Chanh and the parking lot revolt

There was going to be a revolution, or a car show, I'm not sure which. 

I was there at the beginning, from the first inklings of dissatisfaction with the regime, and so was David Chanh, a Honda co-worker of mine IRL. We were in the early stages of organizing, which entailed putting up our thoughts and plans on a giant board, like FBI profilers do when trying to crack a case. We were displaying pictures of our assets, which mainly consisted of cars, along with a brief description of their capabilities, such as engine size, horsepower, etc. 

All of the participants had a space on the big board, along with some kind of booth in a large parking lot, which was going to become ground zero in the contest for for power that was to come. All that was needed was some kind of announcement from us as to our intent to commence the conflagration. But it could have gone either way, a car show or an outright rebellion. 

So, that's about it. I woke up to the knocking sound of guinea hen feet on my roof and I thought that it might be someone at the door, but that was all it was. Now I'm awake and I've lost all sense of the details of the dream. Thanks a lot!

A-motherfucking-MAZE-BALLS!

I woke up with something in my eye. My right eye, to be precise. The one with the Papilloma Eyelid. Now, mind you, I am not referring to that as being the source of the irritation, as it is not. It is a discreet area to the right of it (as I see it looking out, not in a mirror). 

So to the right of my vision, off in the corner, there is this area that feels like a grain of sand or a worn dry spot that needs to be flushed, massaged or in some other way unfucked, so I can start my day. But that was hours ago and didn't happen. 

However, my left eye's area of concern, the sclera cysts in the right lower quadrant (again as viewed out of my optical), the area I refer to as "the bubbly patch," on account of it looks like a fried egg that sizzled a little too hot, now looks as if there is nothing wrong with it. Now, also, mind you that I'm looking at it through my other eye, the one with the irritation which, while not affecting the vision, could be producing some alterations of perception, nonetheless. 

Or I could just be a little stoned. Not much, since I'm a pro now and don't get overly high with a couple of tokes. But could it possibly be that my revolving wheel of symptoms has passed the torch to the other eye as my source of troubling anxiety while not allowing me to celebrate the victory of its passing? 

I AM taking notice. But it's like each time a persistent problem relinquishes its grasp, the next one is ready in the queue. So I am reacting to it appropriately, I think. A-motherfucking-MAZE-BALLS!

Flakey salt delivery company has side band

I found myself with a delivery job slinging "rock salt," which was kind of a drug slang for meth in bulk. We were getting truckloads of pallets of 40 lb. bags of meth disguised as common household water softener. It was a lucrative enough gig, despite competition. I was a driver, though since I was new, not quite familiar with big rig operation or the ins and outs of the meth business. I signed for one giant truckload of the stuff but that was as far as it got. 

Meanwhile the other members of the outfit were more concerned with the side band they had started up. It seemed to make sense to use the trucks to roadie about the the band's equipment. I was also performing roadie duties but had my eye on a spot in the band. 

They were happy enough with my enthusiasm and were trying to make an honorary spot for me in the lineup, perhaps playing some kind of synthesizer, like a Theramin, with a proximity operated interface. You know, the kind where you place your hand near the device, and it reacts by making weird sounds which you control by changing the distance of your hand in relation to the device. Nobody really likes Theramin solos, so I knew they were just placating me with this spot in the band, which was more of a hair metal band anyway. 

But I didn't care. I was happy enough, like Lucy, to just "be in the show." I was explaining to the meat handed driver from the "salt" distribution company, that I never used the stuff, but that I did tweak on coffee once in a while as a part of my musical process. 

"Yeah, sure, buddy," was the response, as all he cared about was getting my signature for his load of rocks. 

That's it. Had to wake up and pee. Got a strange ear condition going on. It's itchy and weepy right in the spot where my PowerBeats Pro headphones sit, on the inside. This has happened before and I stopped using them. I'm not sure why the reaction, but after only using them again for one time, the condition reappeared, so I'm using the last remedy that seemed to clear it up, Nystatin cream. Welcome to my kaleidoscope of symptoms and health complaints. Never a dull moment.

Exodus with the Orricks, LED ON.

I was taking a road trip, I believe it was school-related, as in traveling across country to the location of the next school I would be attending. There was a group of people I would be leaving behind, or who would all be leaving each other, to find our new prospective schools. I was going along with the Orricks, you know, my in-laws. 

Sharon wasn't among the group, although there was another girl, who I had my eye on. I had some kind of distant crush on her, or she had one on me, but it was kind of repressed. She had made some notes about predictions and prophecies that had or hadn't come true during the last semester and expressed them cryptically by making a pictogram on her right rear passenger car window.

It looked like those stick family decals, except that the writing was very tiny, so as to appear inconspicuous. I saw my name among the runes, as one of the things that didn't happen. I regretted not telling her about my crush when I had the opportunity, as it could have changed the outcome of the pictogram.

I was jogging alongside the car, with a few others in tow. Bob Orrick, Harry, Jenny Bennett and Ann Illions to name a few that I kinda remember. The family in the car joked that there was room for one more person in the back. I believe it was Ann who jumped in. I knew that I wouldn't be getting in the car, as I had a different destiny to fulfill, but I longed for inclusion. 

The car stopped for a pit stop and everyone got out. Jenny Bennett took the opportunity to roast the girl for whom I had affections. I wish I knew her name. She was a pretty girl with inappropriately poofy long wavy locks that seemed to weigh her down. They framed her lovely face but took some of the spotlight for themselves. 

"How hard is that mop going to be to navigate during sex, am I right?"  Jenny got started with the basting for the roast. It fell upon a receptive audience and there were laughs and titters from the family members. 

The girl played along, "It's true! Look at these danglers!" and pointed to her long locks that flowed out like solidified gold sunrays, succumbing to earth's gravity.

The journey resumed with me in the Orrick's group and my goldenhaired girl off to some other location. We stopped for another pitstop, this time at the market to pick up some food for the trip. 

Things were looking pretty ragged at the roadside vendor. I wound up having to choose between a couple of moldy bananas and apples that had been bitten by someone and put back on the shelf. I found one unspoiled apple and gave it to someone else in the group, and I settled for the one with the bite marks. 

They weren't satisfied with the idea that I was going to have to accept inferior fruit, but the deal was settled, since there wasn't much else to pick from.

Sometime prior to all this I had been working on cars. It was at a friends new shop that they were setting up in their garage. I had finished up on a Jeep Wrangler, doing a timing belt or some other impossibly difficult job for me. 

Apparently, it went ok, since I was now going to be working on a Honda or Acura as my next job. I was fearful, as usual, about starting a big job and pointed out that I didn't have much experience with that type of thing. The argument didn't hold up, in light of my success with the Jeep. 

I dug in and started taking things apart. I spent a large part of this portion of the dream talking myself in and out of completing the job. Anyway, that part is receding too far to retrieve, as the road trip part of the dream came next, and that was where I landed right before waking up.

 ---

I have a chainsaw that I believe has a frozen motor. I will be taking it in to have it looked at, but they will most likely condemn it to the scrap heap, as a new motor or a rebuild will be prohibitive. I may have designs on repairing it myself, but I'll probably get a second or third opinion first.

And Sharon's LED reignited yesterday for the first time in the several weeks since the power shutoff event. Besides supernatural energy manipulation, thermal expansion is the only scientific reason I can come up with for it showing up. 

The temperature has to be above and below certain thresholds for the light to be on. Right now it is 62 in here. I was in the 60s yesterday when it came on. I'll keep an eye out, to build or debunk that hypothesis. It doesn't stop me from getting excited and talking to Sharon when the light comes on, whatever the cause may be.

A Saturday Soapbox

 

If someone paid me enough, or otherwise incentivized me, perhaps I could buckle down and weave whatever kind of narrative my captor's audience would like to hear. Notice I said captor's and not captive. I feel I'd be the captive and my audience would demand from me a song, a dance or whatever's clever from the court jester. 

In short, would I sell out my principals and individuality for the guarantee of comfort and protection. Mmm, sure, why not? What good are principals and ideology when you are dead? I can always use clever code words to reach the enlightened few, dog whistles embedded in a text conveying an outwardly different message. 

Internal conflicts, I’ve had a few. But then again, too few to mention.

I'll shut up and let everyone enjoy their moment. But I'm thinking of a meme that should look like this: a picture of Hillary with a worried look on her face and the caption: "We're gonna need a bigger basket!"

 I will be supremely in awe of Donald Trump's growth as a human being if he can just utter the words, "I lost the election." Sadly, I don't see that happening. But that would be monumental. Paradigm shifting. It would mean that no human is beyond redemption. 

I see in DT all my own worst childlike tendencies. Not an innocent child, but a baby brat 4 year old, or 8, wherever on the spectrum kids can be the most obstinately frustrating. I see a person stuck like that, and I feel a shred of empathy, from one narcissist to another. Maybe I'm more of a closet one, since I'm aware of how odious that makes a person to the general public, and I try to hide it.

But inside each of us, it is there. The "I-me-mine" ego principal. How we dress it up may be different. It isn't inherently bad or good. It's just there. It's part of the hardware of being human. Perhaps we can call it firmware, or even an optional component, but certainly each of us humans has the capacity, or an expansion slot for it on their motherboard. 

Some would argue that ego is vital, like the CPU, completely integral and indispensable. Others would say it is the principal obstacle to enlightened thinking, more like malware, or an overreaching pre-installed operating system. I just see it as one more of those things that I will endure working with while trying to understand it, just so far as it helps me to get on down the road (whatever or whoever the "me" is who is trying to get to wherever the road goes).

How about we all just take a moment to cleanse our pallet? We have been binge watching a reality show called America Gone Wild 2020. We should be feeling dirty. Let’s take a minute to breathe some fresh air, unscented by any sort of political aroma. Just a raw, unfiltered moment. 

Good luck with that, by the way, it’s damn near impossible to do these days. It feels like were all just staring through different ends of the telescope and so naturally things look different. We each feel we are on the “right” end of the telescope. 

But my telescope, for the metaphor’s integrity, is built differently. One side does what a normal telescope does, magnifies distant objects. The other is for drawing back, and gaining a wider perspective. Not sure if real telescopes can do that, so this is my caveat. Anyway, both ends of a spectrum have validity and purpose, but neither of them is all right vs. all wrong in a moralistic sense. 

Looking at things without any lens could be considered optimal, but who among us could even claim that ability? As humans, our nature is to view things, process and assimilate ideas and beliefs about those things and use that to determine our best course of action in this world. Lenses. We need ‘em. 

Perceive the world through the “threat” lens and you will set the mind to working on how to protect yourself from various threats to your existence. That can be helpful in certain situations, where your survival depends on it. I’m not going to go into "tigers and how we need ‘em" here. Digression. But extrapolate that threat principal downward into your day to day life, and let’s see how it plays out. It’s like being in fight mode all the time, or flight, depending on the size of the threat. 

Now, I ask you—is that any way to live? Perceive the world through the peace and love lens, and you might fail to give enough credit to the powers of darkness, which certainly do exist and have their own innate characteristics. I don’t know if I can go so far as to ascribe “rightness” or “wrongness” to either side, dark or light, but I know which one feels better, generally, at any given time. 

Sometimes, I feel the need to be dressed all in black, FTW -- and all that hostility drama. Other times, I feel like, “Oh, no! We gotta root for the cute puppy dogs, we just gotta!” Then there are the times I just feel like, “I’m getting too old for this shit. Beam me the hell up, Scotty.”

Also, for there to be complete integrity, I feel we all need to own our own hate. Whether it is hate for hate (gotta love that paradox) or just a plain old everyday “I don’t like you because of XYZ,” we should, without judgment, take ownership of it. 

Don’t build a world view around it, but recognize the tendencies when they crop up in their various forms. Do you just go along with them? Do you ever question them or put them on hold, to wait for the final count, so to speak, before rendering judgment? 

More and more, I’m trying to adopt a “wait and see” approach to life. At the same time, I’m trying to be free to act in the moment, spontaneously, erroneously at times, unwittingly or intentionally deceiving myself and getting lost in the drama, like everybody else. 

Who the hell said we have to figure it all out before living life? Wing it, right? Fuck it, we weren’t given an instruction manual at birth. We have to write our own. Where am I going? I don’t know. I don’t even know if I’ll be me when I get there. Maybe we’re all on that journey. 

Maybe we should just try to let that sink in before dispensing with vast segments of the population to the wrath of hell. That’s what I propose. Before lowering the basket, think: what if things were reversed, and it was you that was being lowered, however unfairly, into the judgment of damnation? Canceled. Begone, Satan! 

So, I say, sympathy for the devil, yes, why not? When it’s all said and done, in the end, we’re all gonna need a whole lotta sympathy. ~Peace

 

 

 

 

Who knows, God may be a French poodle with an attitude problem, in which case we are all in trouble.

Pat, I'd like to buy...some scrubs

I guess that about says it all. I was on a game show where you were trying to build a stick man, or clothe one, rather by guessing various things. The stick man was you, and you were naked until you managed to guess a thing or two. I needed to get some clothes because I had a date with Rienna. I believe it was her at any rate. I had that "I'm dating Rienna" feeling. I needed to bone up on my knowledge of current events, or I'd be the slacker numbskull that she expected me to be, and that wouldn't do. Hence, the nakedness on the quiz show, I believe. There was more to it, some structure or story, but I don't recall it at this point. I need to pee and we still don't have a president.

A country walk yields a playhouse for Aunt Carol

Well, it was just a prospect. I had yet to run it by her. But as I was walking down a country road, I took a turn, thinking I'd take a shortcut through someone's ranch. I whistled while I walked and tried to be loud so that if someone was there I could get a greeting in at least before they tried to shoot me. 

I wound up spotting Tom Hoskins, the grumpy old dude from YC Honda's service dept. I thought for a moment that he owned the property, but as it turned out, he was looking at it to buy it. That meant that it was up for grabs, I assumed, so I began to look around, as if interested myself. I stumbled across a barn, which was concealing a huge movie theater inside of an auditorium sized warehouse frame. The inside was in disrepair, but it was completely suited for a large sit down venue. 

I immediately began making plans for tearing out the tattered movie screen and setting up a stage for live performances. My aunt carol would buy this place in an instant, I thought to myself. And she would, too, just to be able to say, "Oh, looky-looky, I've got this big venue, we can have our meetings here, and it will attract all kinds of artisty types. I'll be the belle of the ball, I will." 

That was as far as it went, just that projection in my head. Tom still had designs on the place. I tried to convince him that, despite his Honda service record, he was old and not in demand in the workforce. Not very nice, I know, but I wasn't sugar coating it. I really wanted that place and couldn't have him fucking it up. That's about it. I awoke and it is election day. I've been looking forward to the drama that I'm about to see unfold, since other than that little bit of vicarious excitement, life in corona exile is pretty dull.

I join a gym and come unprepared to the talent show

The goulash that I am serving up has no theme, just a few slices of unrelated snack products. If y'all want some more tasty morsels, try bringing something to the potluck next time. Otherwise, STFU and enjoy my meager offerings. Now, where was I? Oh, right. Last night's dream. Here goes:

I had joined a low budget gym which turned out to be nothing more than a room with a rubber mat for a floor and a shower/bathroom combo. After finishing up in the rubber mat room, I hit the restroom to pee. It seemed to be semi-busy in there with a bunch of guys milling about in the shower area, and one guy using the urinal on the wall. I waited til the urinal was free, only to find that the guy had simply been pissing on a loose tile, and there was no actual urinal. 

I moved on to the shower area where I discovered that the rest of the guys had used it for a giant urinal and made the floor quite wet. This was no shower, either. Just an area with tiles for a floor and a drain in the middle. I felt justified in relieving myself, but kept glancing out the open door, which was not even blocked by the partial partition of a bathroom stall. 

Girls were tittering and making snide remarks about how I was fouling up the restroom floor with pee. I felt that I needed to explain myself, but to no avail. Apparently, this was a unisex multipurpose type of situation. I don't know what the girls were expecting to do in there, but I was out of bounds with my soiling of the floor.

Next I found myself outside on a pier. But there was no ocean around. This pier was in the middle of wheat fields and farm land. I guess the ocean had been there at one time, but it was a ways off at this point. I saw a man making a wood pile and lighting it up with gasoline. 

I became upset and found the nearest wildlife officer, an older woman with a taut, permanently puckered brow. She seemed to be well-suited for her job of bitching at people for lighting unauthorized fires, so I pointed out the offender to her. She agreed that he needed to be punished, and so I asked her if we'd be hanging or shooting the guilty party. She seemed a little taken aback, but said she'd go and issue him a citation. Good enough, I thought.

From there I went to Sal Mendez's apartment. He's the all purpose guru/hero/big brother type that I worked with at Yuba City Honda. We all suspected he might be secretly gay because he was just a little too macho. That and the fact that he kept trying to kiss the guys and then making jokes about it. But I digress. 

In the dream he was just sitting in his sparsely decorated studio apartment talking with another fellow from work. He was eating fried flour tortillas in a syrupy concoction which looked to be something between maple syrup and candy apple caramel. I envied his ability to snack so decadently, but I refrained from asking for any. 

I used a paper towel to clean my hands and looked around for a trash can. There wasn't one anywhere to be seen. I was about to stuff it in my pocket, but Sal noticed my distress and got up from his seat. He'd been sitting on the trash can. I tossed the paper towel in, relieved. Now all was right again.

I had a talent show to get to, so I left Sal's and walked along the highway. The ocean finally made its appearance, and I am guessing I was in some version of Santa Monica, near PCH. I had been supposedly getting ready for the talent show over at Sal's place, but when I got there, I was just figuring out that I was going to be on next and had done zero preparation. 

Jeff Gross was onstage. I could hear him from outside. He was flubbing all the chords of some song he'd written. Maybe it was a cover song, I don't know. It was pretty pathetic, but I hurried to get inside so he'd see me in the audience supporting him. I was going to need support myself, so I made it a point to catch the last few verses. 

In the meantime, I spoke with Rick Johnson, my former band mate and singer from Malicious Mischief days. I complimented him on the old songs he'd written for the band, and he took the compliment with his usual humble pie approach, "Yeah, I know. I'm awesome, and those were great songs" etc. We finished up reminiscing and I told him I had a gig to get to.

That's about it. I know there is more, but I gotta poop. Thus endeth today's trasmission to Oceania. Listeners in Eastasia can continue listening on these shortwave frequencies: 6110, 5111 and 7150 mhz.

Robin Williams football team

I guess I don't have much in the way of a story. I was in high school, Samohi, to be precise. People were wandering down hallways and giving greetings to one another. It was football season and everyone was concerned with choosing up teams. I had shaved my head, which I just did last night in real life, coincidentally. I saw RJ Leon in the hallway, also sporting a shaved head. 

"White power," I said in a voice which, after the fact, I worried may not have conveyed the fact that I was joking. 

I wandered on down the hallways, in search of my team. I watched as a semi-truck, with a giant mousetrap lever-like contraption protruding out of the side of it, swept up a student and carried him off. This was a common occurrence and the reason for which most football teams were always short-staffed. 

"Damn," said Robin Williams, captain of my new prospective team, "Truck got another one. We'll need to replace him." 

I figured this meant he was recruiting me, so I followed him on down the hall, mindful of the sweeper/reaper trucks. 

See, I told you there wasn't much of a story there. All for the best. I have another day to get through, so I may as well be about it. I've been harvesting cannabis for the last 3 weeks straight. It's become a tedious, boring job which I can't do for more than a few hours at a time without eyestrain becoming a problem. 

I know it sounds like a guy in paradise complaining that there are too many coconuts, but that is exactly how it is. Coconuts here, coconuts there. If I never see another bloody coconut, I'll be a happy camper. No, on second thought, I'm sure I'll find something else to bitch about.

Jay Herbert's warehouse business

Very sketchy details are remaining from my dream, but here they are:

I was talking on a CB radio and a voice came through that I recognized. 

I responded by saying, "Hello, Jay. How have you been." 

It was an old friend and ex-employer, who had a TV repair shop in Chico, but had fallen on hard times since no one gets anything repaired anymore. He gave some enigmatic answer, but I gleaned that he had a new business that he was pursuing. 

I left off talking to him and went to the supermarket and that is when I discovered him living in the bushes outside of the Safeway. He had a chair setup in the parking lot, so I made myself comfortable. 

He told me that he had his warehouse business in those same bushes and I decided to have a look. It was one of those bigger on the inside than the outside situations, and sure enough, there was a large stockpile of canned goods in boxes in row up on row, just hanging out waiting for orders to fill. 

We talked for a little while about the possibility of nuclear war and such and there was the sense that Steve Clark, aka KFI, an old CB rival of his, would make some kind of appearance. Everything Jay ever did in his entire life was in direct competition to this guy, so that was nothing out of the ordinary. Kind of like cereal being placed on the table and awaiting the arrival of the milk. 

I don't really recall much of a theme beyond this. My sleep was rather fitful. Meanwhile, my guineas are disappearing, being taken off one by one when I am not looking by some wildland creature. I will most likely have to trap it and release it 15 miles or so from here if I intend to stop this process from re-occurring.

Lisa Fletcher's Pajama Party, Miss Shayla moves to Lake Isabella and I catch a giant catfish

First up was Lisa Fletcher deciding to rent a hotel room in Fort Bragg. She bought several pair of brand new pajamas and intended for me and Jeanette Antoine to wear them while we drank and caroused about the town. The hitch came when Jeanette declared that they didn't fit her and she wouldn't be wearing them. 

I said, no problem, you can have mine, to her chagrin. She really just didn't want to be seen wearing these cheap gray-striped pj's in public. I tried on the ones that were intended for her. She had tried them on already so they couldn't be returned. I found they fit quite nicely except for the pants were a bit short around the ankles. 

"No problem," I proclaimed, "I'll just sag them. That's still a thing, right?" Probably as much of a thing as wearing pajamas out in public, at any rate. 

So off we went for our day trip to town, sporting PJs, Jeanette tagging along in street clothes. We decided to do some fishing, since we were in a fishing village. I had some nice spots in mind, garnered in a previous dream. We didn't wind up going there but settled for a pier where people were both fishing and swimming and generally milling about. Not the most fishing appropriate, but I was in it to win it. 

I cast out my little yellow jig with the rubbery fake worm/fish dangly thing and reeled it in with my signature jerks which pretty much guaranteed me some action. Sure enough, I started getting bites. Then, without warning my line starts getting pulled off the spool in classic Jaws fashion. 

My uncle was there and perked up. "Looks like you got a big one," he acknowledged contrary to his usual pessimistic prognostication. "Careful you don't get it hung up." There it was. 

Anyway, I followed it around some trees that were growing in the water next to the pier and around a group of swimmers, waders and other people fishing. They all looked quite amazed as the line was being fed out, then slowly tightening, then reversing direction as I reeled and reeled. It was coming my way. 

I got the damn thing landed amidst gasps and cheers and behold, it was a giant catfish. Like four feet long kind of giant. It was old and beat up and its tail was missing, having been bitten off by a shark. His mouth was deformed from many battles with the hook and his fins were pulling away from his skeleton, revealing his sharp, poisonous spines. 

"Yep, it's a catfish," I announced, "His spines are poking me in the hand." 

He looked smaller now, not the four foot behemoth, but a more realistic foot or two. No matter, it was still the same giant fish to the crowd. 

I chided them all, "Don't make fun of the rubber worm! This thing has caught me just about every kind of fish you can imagine. It always works." No one argued with me.

 

 

Somewhere else in the world, Miss Shayla Sullivan, a local equestrian and animal rescuer, bought some land and was busy cleaning up her candy apple red Camaro in the front yard. 

I say yard, but it was more of a dirt patch. I recognized the place from my childhood. It was Gracie and Bill's property in Lake Isabella. The structures were all there, the house the trailer, the garage and the fish house, plus a few of Shayla's things thrown in the mix. The place looked a bit small for her and she wasn't all that thrilled with it, property-wise. I talked to her as she cleaned out her car. 

"So, you have this brand new car and you let animals of all kinds ride in it?" I asked.

She obviously cared more for the animals than for the car, though her cleaning it meticulously afterward said that both were things she cared about. 

"People give me lots of attention for this car," she stated to me. "When they see this car, it is an icon they recognize." 

I disagreed and told her that she was the icon, the car was just window dressing. She demured, but the compliment wasn't lost on her. She knew it, but was just playing the role of the innocent, "Who me? Pretty? Shucks." type of girl. Part of her charm. 

Her dog, Lucky Penny (deceased in real life) ran about sprinting like a filly. She was so exuberant that she actually looked like a little paint horse. The coloration was such that she was brown on one side and white on the other, so when she ran one direction you'd see a white dog/horse and when she'd turn and run the other way she was all brown. I noted that she looked happy and free, not at all like the shaggy rescue that Shayla had taken in. I guess that's what love will do to a critter. 

She showed me around the property and I informed her of my childhood connection to it. I wanted to see the inside of the fish hut/man shed that Bill had built to keep his drinking and nasty magazine collection from Gracie. It had been converted into a bathroom at some point so there was no fish sink or Playboy centerfolds to be seen. 

I tried to snap a picture of the inside of the fish hut, but my camera was set to video and all I got was this weird few seconds of a red scene in the center of a photo aperature slowly opening, like a James Bond title sequence. It was creepy, but I kept it for posterity. 

Next she showed me the inside of the trailer where she had stored an entire inventory of cowgirl show shirts with a variety of prints, some cheesy, some flashy, reflecting decade upon decade of horse shows and the history of horse show fashion. It turned out that a friend of hers had owned an equestrian clothing store which had gone out of business, so she got the show shirts. But probably, as in real life, she was the proud wearer of most of those shirts during some show or another spanning decades. We exited the trailer and it was time for me to leave.

"If you're gonna leave, you'd best get going. Traffic, you know. Gotta move," Shayla admonished me. 

My car had been parked in the driveway which they were grading. A giant pile of gravel was nearly burying my red Toyota Corolla SR5 (yep, the one I owned in the '80s). I brushed the gravel and it fell away easily and my car became unstuck in a minute. I thanked Shayla again and was on my way. 

The trip through town was a twisty turny affair, and there was indeed a bit of holiday traffic. Or it could have been commuting to the great employer of the region, Disneyland. Everyone worked there, so it was quite a cluster fuck on the highways. I made it down to Huntington Beach or somewhere in OC without much thought. 

I found myself in an alley going up to a main street with people riding bicycles and such. I decided to take my pants off and sit hunched over with my knees pulled up to my chest. I just wanted to see if anyone would notice. 

Sure enough, soon a girl riding a bike circled back around and started talking to me. Ignoring the elephant in the room, she questioned me about something she'd heard on the radio recently, asking if it was me doing the broadcast. I could sense that it would have been to my advantage to have claim that it was, though I had no idea what she was talking about. I denied any knowledge of it and she went on to describe some racy sounding DJ patter, which I'd have gladly owned, but alas, I was going to be honest. 

"I don't even have the equipment to broadcast," I explained. And with that she pedaled away. 

Damn. I looked down to note whether or not my junk had been visible during our entire conversation. Sure enough, my butthole was hanging out and my balls dangled freely for the world to see. Surprised the girl had maintained a straight face throughout our conversation.

Next I decided to put some pants on and get a move on. I began walking past some unfinished cul-de-sac construction. Someone had laid out some green plastic army men and accessory buildings, also made of the typical dark green plastic. I picked up one of the buildings and Godzilla-like, smashed it on the ground and kept walking. Take that, you stupid, tiny war machine. 

I was spotted, however and some mall cop style security men in a golf cart started following me. I took a turn and began doing some clever cliff climbing maneuvers on a brick wall behind the cul-de-sac. They had to follow on foot, but seeing my impressive moves decided not to hassle me and instead complimented me on my agility. I was hanging one-handed and flipping back to front, front to back alternately as I switched hands to advance, traversing the wall at about the same speed as a person walking would. 

"I used to do that," the guy noted. "It's really good exercise." 

Yeah, it was, I agreed, though it was entirely unnecessary, since you could just as easily have walked on the sidewalk a few feet below. It didn't provide me with any special powers of evasion, either, since the guy was following along and talking to me the whole time. 

That's about it folks. Woke up, had to write this down while it was still fresh. I think I got all the major parts and didn't conflabulate too much in the process. Until next time.

A day at the beach (Eminem soundtrack)

I only remember the dream that I was having before I got up to pee, not whatever I was just dreaming when I woke up. I was spending a day at the beach with family, I believe. I was being encouraged to play in the ocean in the shallows, as I was not a good swimmer, much like my real life self. I watched the people who were a little farther out riding waves on boogie boards and surfboards and longed for that kind of fun. 

I let the tide take me out just a little way and got a little panicky, so I caught the first wave in. It broke after it passed me sucking me down over the falls and into the washing machine. I didn't go all the way to the bottom, however, and maintained my above water status the whole time. 

I enjoyed it so much I began searching out any abandoned boogie boards, because I was ready to get myself out there to ride. The song "Without Me" was playing over and over in my head on loop. "I'm back, dana-nana nana nana nana..."

Ok, a vague notion of me working again at The Dealership came up. I was doing very light automotive work, basically eyeballing cars for damage to be sent out to a body shop. I was dealing with service advisors and customers. 

 

One customer was a black lady in a red dress who looked like Michelle Obama. Not her, but just a ringer. I looked over her car for damage and found only one minimal scratch. It was a 97 silver Civic coupe with a nice patina of dust, which made my inspection for fresh damage very easy. 

I brought the repair order back to Randy Mitchell, a devious drunk service writer who used to work there in the real world. He was really a devious drunk, but in my dream not as much. Just happy ass Randy, only slightly conniving. We both agreed on the course of action to take with the lady's Civic. 

I went to go find her as she wandered around the dealership. You'd think I'd be able to spot her, what with her red dress and, you know, being like the only black lady there. I finally picked her out of the crowd and tried to get close enough to her to advise her on her car, but she kept eluding me. 

I wound up following her down the street where I encountered Joey from Friends, working a small booth on the side of the road. It looked like a tiny dispatchers shed, with just him and a telephone in it. 

I asked him the famous "How you doin'?" and he looked up at me, happy for the recognition. He said his job was multi-faceted and he did a few impressions for me of the different characters he had to portray as he answered the phone for the many different functions. 

I had to go and bid him and some other guy named Dave goodbye. I wasn't sure about Dave being the guy's name, but after I kinda mumbled it, I heard someone else call him that, too, so I felt better. At least it sounded sort of like Dave when I mumbled, "Goodbye Joey, goodbye  ...Mmdeeaavee......" 

I continued following faux Michelle as the soundtrack continued on in my brain. "Danna nana nana nana nana nana nana. It's disaster, such a catastrophe, for you to see so much of my damn ass you ask for me....a nuisance, whose scent? You sent for me?" I guess the world needs me, since the theme of the song is that it would be "so empty without me." 

Oh, and the LED is still on. My Itunes (both the PC and Ipod) have played the Margi Lantos reading that I got back on Sept 5, 2018. I think Sharon wanted me to get something out of it, as the two events have been concurrent. The message of the the reading was for me to have faith, love and mercy, awareness and harmony. There were a lot of little details that I believed she was straining for at the time, so I didn't give the reading as much credence as I probably should have. Some details were nice, but unproveable from an earthly perspective. 

But Sharon, I am listening for your voice. Sometimes I'm pretty thick (and stubborn) but I do value your input and need your comfort most of all. You could always talk me down and make things easier for me to handle. Thank you for showing up the other day before my eye appointment. I think I'm going to go with my gut, that this LED is your way of saying you are still around. And thank you for that. I love you, always. Even if I'm a rat and a scoundrel, I still love you. Be merciful, I'm not done here yet. I don't know what my purpose is, but I hope I can fulfill it and make you proud. Today is Saturday, so you know what I'll be doing. I hope you can stand the racket.

Weird fish dream

It wasn't a weird fish, but my method of catching it. I was fishing from a rather teeterous floating piece of aluminum dock, approximately six feet long. It was unbalanced and had a high spot in the center like a teeter-totter, but I managed to keep myself upright while casting out for fish in a small river. I wasn't using any bait, just casting a bare hook into the water and reeling it back in as if it were a lure. It seemed to work because I was getting bites. 

I hooked into one, and the dock broke free from its mooring. Off I went downriver, alternately towing and being towed by my unknown catch. 

Eventually, we went down a bit of a waterfall, and things evened out a bit. I reeled in the fish, at least close enough to catch a glimpse of him. It was a small-mouth bass about 6-8 inches long. Not the biggest prize for all my trouble, but a nice fish. I don't think I wound up keeping him. 

I still had the dock to think of. It had become entangled in some fiber optic cables which were strewn up and down the river in the sandy bank. I used the cable to haul my raft-like piece of dock back up the river. Getting back up over the waterfall was a bit of work, but I managed. 

I inspected the cables to make sure I wasn't toting any high voltage electrical lines. Nope. Just multicolored hollow bundles of cable, wrapped in a grey wire loom tape. The wires were actually so big and so hollow that they could have been pneumatic tubes, like you'd see on some older vehicles, connected to vacuum operated accessories. They were soft and squishy, but relatively sturdy, apparently, since I managed to used them to pull the dock quite a ways back upriver. 

It appeared that the dock was the terminus for these wires, so I felt it was necessary to put the dock back where I found it. I don't know if I ever got it all the way back or not, as I woke up soon after the initial success of re-navigating my journey back up the waterfall.

I'd forgotten to record a minuscule dream snippet that I had while dozing off with a washcloth on my face the other day. I was falling asleep with the tune of "Everything's Alright" from Jesus Christ Superstar playing in my brain. Nancy Leon was singing to me. I don't know why I felt that was important to write down, but it happened several days ago, and I kept telling myself not to forget to include it in this dream journal.

Machining a new crankshaft pulley, my eyelid and a lame MLM scheme

I was working at YC Honda again last night. I ought to be getting paid, all the time I spend there in my dreams. I never seem to be doing good work, though. Last night was no exception. 

I was doing a new car Pre-Delivery Inspection, aka PDI. The car, being brand new, should have no problems, and these inspections are considered gravy. This car, however, had a problem. 

I don't know how I determined it, but apparently it was necessary for me to inspect the crankshaft pulley. I found it to be outside of tolerance, which was causing the car to run poorly. Something in my brain told me that it just needed to be "tweaked" a little. 

So off it came, and I set about machining off some extra grooves, which would allow the belt to ride in its natural position. Only I didn't think the whole process through, and soon I had machined off way more than the belt's width of grooves. Now the belt would be torn up or begin edging its way off of the pulley. 

I went around to the various parts of the dealership trying to garner some support for my actions. I got the guy in parts to look at it, but he wasn't much help. He just wanted to dance and lip sing to some girl song, like Cindi Lauper or something. 

Next, I went to see Sal, who had his own department, which was run like a pirate ship within the dealership. He was doing all the PDIs in an assembly line fashion, with minions performing the various tasks. I asked him for a little help, but he was preoccupied with the PDIs. 

"Don't forget the most important part," he admonished the crew. 

He held up a can of BG, a fuel system treatment designed to remove deposits from the intake manifold. Snake oil at best, it was completely unnecessary, since these were new cars and would have zero deposits accumulating anywhere at this point. I reminded him of this fact, but he jumped all over me with his defense of the product. 

"Have you ever tried it?" he demanded of me. 

I told him I had and that it had made no perceptible difference in how my car ran. When we would run it in higher mileage cars, it would put on a big smoke show which resulted in the car belching out huge clouds of the accumulated deposits in the form of white smoke from the tailpipe. After a period of running even worse, the car would clear itself up and eventually smooth out. My car didn't have enough deposits to do more than just burn up the can of BG, and so I felt it was an unnecessary additive. 

He stood by his position, and I basically had no support from him for my crankshaft pulley machining fix. I sought help from another guy in the parts department, who offered to machine me a brand new custom pulley out of billet steel. It was going to be all fancy and racy looking. 

I realized at this point that I'd gone way too far and should have just taken pictures of the anomalous pulley before I fucked with it. Honda engineering would know what to do with it. I assumed ordering a new pulley would have been the logical fix. Why I didn't think of that before I cut it all to pieces, I'll never know. 

---

Now I have to get going with my day. I have to make an appointment with an eye doctor. I have a small growth on my right eyelid. I think I was bitten by a bug there over three weeks ago. The eyelid swelled up at the time and was painful. After a few days the pain and swelling went down, but now there's a pimple like nodule on the margin of my eyelid, inside of the lash line. 

To make matters more ominous, Sharon's LED has just now come on, as if to say: "Aren't you going to do something about that? You really ought to have that looked at." 

I've been missing her LED for a while now, wondering if it would ever come back on. Wondering about life, and death and suicide. I'm not getting any younger, and these health problems will just become more frequent and perhaps permanently debilitating. 

I think of my uncle and his solution. I wonder how long will I last before I choose that option. Then I think of Sharon and how she played her hand right to the bitter end. Would I be able to do that? Surely, not with such courage and grace. 

But do I have the courage to even end my own life, even when I'm dissatisfied with it? I'm like a scared child. I just don't want to feel pain or be in misery. The worry over my eyelid problem magnifies everything so much. I feel alone and frightened about the future. I don't get the kind of comfort from my online friends that I do from just seeing the little LED. I don't know what it means, actually. But whatever it means, I always take it as Sharon has a reason to be here, and I'd better pay attention. 

So, I'll try to make an appointment at Walmart Vision Center. Maybe I will email my provider at Ampla Health too. Would that be a good course of action, dear? I see you flickering. Meanwhile, perhaps another soaking with the warm compress wouldn't hurt.

---

Another dream from two days ago which I forgot to write down. I was being recruited into some multi-level marketing scam by a girl who was peddling fake Oxycontin and other opioid-derived pills to homeless people. 

She had a profit sharing plan that included a strawberry cheesecake with which she illustrated the gist of the whole "top down" strategy. It was to be given to me upon recruiting my first member, a fellow who used to live down the block from me who I will call by his Facebook name, since that is all I know. 

Anyway, after bringing TowJam Hooker on board as a fellow pill pusher, she delivered the cheesecake and promptly sliced off half for herself. She then instructed me to slice the remaining half in two and give one half to my new recruit to do with as he wished. I started to get the idea of how the rich stay rich, and the poor keep getting smaller and smaller pieces of the pie. 

That's about it for that dream. I never made a good pusher-man. I kept having trouble getting the orders correct and spent way too long on the phone with my suppliers in Canada.

My Flanders Doppelganger

I don't know if I dreamed of my '80s doppleganger or if I was having an out of body experience in my sleep. It was weird. 

I was standing behind and to the right of a guy who looked like I used to look in the '80s church days. He was skinny, wore a nerdy sweater and had big plastic-framed brown glasses, a buzz haircut and mustache. I distinctly felt as if I was staring at myself from outside of myself. I was like, "Oh, wow, is that what people see?" 

It was disturbing, but I got used to it and was wondering if I might possibly be dead. But if so, why was this body still walking around? And why was he looking like a much younger, uncool version of me? 

I remember when I was in the church and used to dress and look this way. There was one day when we were having a car wash and some people were laughing because this guy got out of his car to have it washed, and he looked exactly like me. I went over to see and, sure enough, the guy was a ringer.

Michael Lopez buys an excavator and becomes a crack shot slinging rocks, Sharon and I look at birdpoop

I had a potpourri mashup of characters in my dreams last night. 

I was living in a rural setting, with farmland adjacent to my property. My neighbor, Michael Lopez, and I were doing ranch type work. Well, my neighbor was. I was watching. 

He had just purchased an excavator and was doing all the fun stuff one does when they come into such power: moving rocks around, digging long trenches for no apparent reason and creating huge debris piles to burn. He was burning one long row of last years crops when I noticed that some of his older orchard trees were catching fire. 

This should have alarmed him, but he was too busy picking up rocks with the excavator and flinging them at other rocks. He was a natural, possessing the skill to hurl one rock directly at another so that he could crack a boulder right down the middle. He proudly showed me two boulders that he had split with the precision of a jeweler. 

In the kitchen of his farmhouse was Suzanne Reed, somehow married to him in this configuration. She was in the kitchen and going about her day doing housework of some kind. 

She was kind of vaguely aware that they were having a problem with birds in the kitchen and pointed out some bird poop on the floor. She wasn't too bothered by it, though, and left me to investigate it on my own. 

I saw Sharon from a hallway view, standing there wearing her summer attire, shorts and a tank top. I ran to her and gave her a hug, full of emotion from not having seen her in real life. In the dream it was just another day, and she looked at me strangely for the over-the-top greeting. 

We examined the bird poop together, and she commented about the fact that Suzanne appeared to not be a very conscientious housekeeper, due to the fact that there was an accumulation of poop from the top of the pantry door to the floor. This was apparently a long running situation, which hadn't ever been addressed. 

The time got on to where I was going to have to get to school. I was supposed to be at the local high school for some kind of continuing education. I was about 2 hours late and I contemplated having Sharon write me an "Andrew is late today because..." excuse, but it was an afterthought. I was already on my way to school. I was taking the "water route." 

To save time on my commute, I elected to jump in a lake. It was a large lake with a huge dam at one end. The current leading to the dam was moving rather rapidly, and I had to jump in and then try to direct myself toward some rocks before I got sucked into the spillway. I was able to maneuver quite easily, like a skydiver in freefall, and soon I collided with the rocks. 

The collision must have been pretty forceful because this is about where I woke up.