Okay, hands up:
- How many of you have been head-butted in your sleep by their somnambulist partner?
- How many of you have done the head-butting in your sleep?
All right, so we all been on both the giving an receiving end of the dozing head-butt, but riddle me this, Batman: how many of you have been bitten… in the back!!!… by your unconscious significant other?
I thought so.
Okay, hands up:
My friend and coworker E had a birthday party for her dog, Leia (whom you may remember from this post), who turned 2 years old.
Dogs and their owners were invited, including my sister and her dog, Whistler, a black lab (whom you may recall from posts such as this)
It does seem a silly thing to do, but, to be honest, it was a lot of fun. Whistler was the only large dog there, and likely weighed as much as the other crowd of pups put together. Still, didn’t stop him from playing with them. Whistler is a big goofy child who can play rough with me and large dogs, but plays quite gently with the littler ones. I’m a proud uncle because Whistler was certainly the party doggie.
Here’s a picture of him with Bennie and Harley, the only dogs who weren’t afraid to really get their paws dirty with him. Then again, Whister is a hard dog to keep up with, and kind of grabby, taking toys away from the littler ones, or chasing down balls intended for them.
After the party, I was at Aden’s Aunt’s place for a big send-off soirée, full of food and wine, and, yes, more dogs. Later that night I had a dream that my sister got me a boxer puppy, but it was not a nice dream since I new, despite her insistence, that I didn’t have the time to devote to a puppy. Awww. Bad dream… but cute.
Had a dream last night that the comic book writer/artist Dan Jurgens was giving me shit for my repeated lambasting of him and his silly 1990’s comic book legacy. I didn’t really care. I don’t hate his work but I really don’t like it all that much either… it’s mediocrity at its most mediocre.
Had my first nightmare in a looong, long time last night. I’d like to say I never get nightmares, but that’s probably not true. I rarely get them, though, and to be honest, I can probably say I havn’t had a woken-up-with-a-start kind of dream since those “oh my god I’ve missed my exam” panic dreams you get in university around exam time.
Last night I had a dream that Aden had died, not sure from what (car accident? disease? don’t know) but it was sudden and I couldn’t cope. I was freaking out and just couldn’t deal. I was distraught, and thinking of life without her seemed impossible. I tried to call my mother, but my fingers couldn’t make my phone work, and being on a cel phone at that time just didn’t seem right. I collapsed on my knees and cried, my heart feeling like it was fading away.
I woke up with the most awful empty feeling, only to find Aden asleep beside me. I grabbed onto her tight and mumbled a few expletives of joy and relief. She woke up a little puzzled asked me if I was okay. “Just a bad dream,” I said.
“You were gone.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Not that kind of gone. Permanently gone.”
She turned, embraced me, kissed me on the forehead and said “I’m here, and not going anywhere, beloved.”
I smiled, squeezed her tight, kissed her back, and we fell back asleep in each other’s arms. Give me demons and monsters, psychos and savages… those kind of dreams I can handle…
Had a slash dream last night involving Zach Braff and Colossus from the X-Men. My predominantly hetero side feels a little disturbed by this, and that tiny iota that is my homosexual/curious side says “Colossus? Really? Huh.”
Book: Those Who Walk Away, by Patricia Highsmith
Purchased: eons ago… August 11, 2004
Start reading date: July 26, 2006
Finished reading: September 23, 2006
Total days taken to read the book: 59
Average reading speed: 4.24 pg/day
The plot was rather simple: Ray, a young American widower living in Italy, confronts Coleman, his father-in-law who blames him for his daughter’s suicide. Coleman makes numerous attempts on Ray’s life, and yet Ray still attempts to resolve their differences. A game of cat-and-mouse/hide-and-go-seek continually ensues about the Italian landscape. Highsmith paints a vivid and now lost era of low technology and primitive communication, travelling without passports and old fashioned police and private eyes. As much as I like technology, I would love to leave for a civilized yet incommunicado and, to some degree, niave world like the Italy in this book on occasion. Kind of like camping, but with lattés and warm baths.
Now starting Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer
Free-form blogpost. Stream-of-consciousness-like.
I’m often what they (”they” being nobody in particular) call a “perpetual thinker” (okay, I doubt the non-existant “they” actually call anyone that, but stick with me here). My brain is constantly engaged, rarely ever shutting down. I’m often thinking so many thoughts I’d rather not think that I wish sometimes I were a tad simpler so I could find enjoyment in dormancy, alas it is not to be. So when my mind is kicked in full gear, thinking about girls and music and comics and work and bills and a few dozen other things that constantly niggle away (I was checking to make sure I was using “niggle” in the right context and answers.com asked me “Or did you mean: niggardly” - with lack of question mark, no less - to wit I most certainly did not!) it often creates a very distracted and extremely restless me. I don’t remember the last time I had a really good, full night’s sleep. When I was in Windsor two weekends back, I was able to escape much of my routine life and also sleep in a house with air conditioning, so I did get a better sleep, comparatively, but still not a good sleep. Two of the big things that have been taxing my brain was a quandry about love and the other, oddly enough, was The Futureheads (see sidebar review). I know it’s weird to exhaust so much thought on a band, especially considering it really wasn’t me thinking about the band, but rather just being unable to get their songs out of my head. It was odd how often the chorus to “Fallout” would push every other thought aside for tens of minutes (”After days in the dark/The light broke through/And it was beautiful to see you/And sit in the warmth with you”), or to sort of enter a fugue state with the chorus from “Favours For Favours” (”But there’s something that you do/I just can’t help myself/and I wish that I could move more in time with you/I watch you step and I watch you turn/I watch you move like a knife in the water/As you move across the floor/Over to me/For all to see”) only to snap out of it and find I’ve been staring blankly at my monitor at work for an undetermined period of time. It’s really mildly insane how fixated I became with the Futureheads recently, so last night was the climax of this whole build-up, and mercifully it did the trick. I slept last night free of thoughts of sound, instead dreaming of… well, i dunno, bunnies and Wonder Woman or something. I don’t remember. The night before, however, I dreamt that a friend had turned into a demon, so I asked her if she is now or has ever been a demon. Peanut butter before bed will do that to you. So anyway, one major distractor resolved, and the other is resolving itself in a happiest circumstances as well so now my thoughts are less cumbersome. Well, Rooms and I are now in the apartment hunting market after the neighbours said that they’re not moving for another year and are likely selling the house, so that one other worry off my brain but a whole new one on it. And I’m trying to figure out what’s happened to my initiative and motivation, as it seems like all my little projects are nagging my brain and yet the rest of me can’t be bothered to deal with them. This post is disjointed, like Ragdoll in Secret Six. I’ve also lost weight, which isn’t good, considering I’m now on the 100lb dare-to-be-Wolverine thing. I’ve toned up quite a bit, which is nice, but dropping a belt size wasn’t part of the deal. (”Everything was ready but he had to run away/Shot for the money on the very same day/ Le Garage/ Le Garage-rage”… I don’t even understand what that means). VAAAH.
Anyway, this kind of ramble randomness is tiring and I’m hot and sweaty in the priests collar. I think I shall read some comics.
I realized this morning that for the past four days I’d been refreshing the Weather Network webpage for Stratford, Ontario, rather than Toronto (I went to Stratford on Sunday, see, and it was delightful… I have a fun idea for adapting Coriolanus to modern times… plus, Colm Feore).
I think I finally figured out what that wonky smell is in the basement sometimes… it’s the ages old dehumidifier (that overflowed this morning, by the way, since the duct-tape floater-thingy ain’t working none good so much anymore) overheating or something. Maybe. Good to know at least.
If the kitchen smells like hummus, that’s ’cause I made hummus. Help yourself, there’s lots there. It’s kinda tahini heavy.
I really thought I’d enjoy this rhubarb-ginger jam, but, you know, not so much.
Sometimes my calves get so tight and/or fatigued that I quite literally feel ill to my stomach. Often it gets so bad I can’t sleep well and no amount of stretching really helps. Could it be a buildup of lactic acid poisoning my system, or is it just some psychosomatic trigger? I often have dreams where I’m running, but my legs are so tired that I actually run in slow motion, more like I’m M.Piedlourde or my shoes are made of gooey tar. These dreams usually involve me trying to run away from something. Last time I had a dream like that I was performing parkour throughout the Montreal Forum, trying to escape Shawn and Marlon Wayans who had been given the task of killing me. I managed to outsmart them (naturally) but in my flight it took me forever to run around the block. It was a fun - but very weird - dream.
To sleep, perchance to dream…
Running through my mind last night:
It was there that I awoke, my hair had grown out quite rapidly (overnight-like), but it also accentuated the thinningness of my locks (which isn’t really happening in real life) causing me to have a near-combover (more of a combforward, like Donald Trump).
I woke up in a place that seemed like an amalgam of my home in Thunder Bay, my current apartment, and the neighbour’s place. My mom was around asking me if I wanted breakfast, and she kept running down a list, like she had a menu of possible servings.
I checked my GMail account to find that this woman from a publishing company (whom I’ve exchanged a couple of emails with as a result of my Comic Column reviews) was coming to Toronto from New York for a wedding and was wondering if I would be her date. Sure it was weird, but also very inviting. But the ending of the letter was kind of odd going something like this:
“…and if things work out and we sleep together we can keep seeing one another and spend our lives together forever or something.”
She attached a picture, but it was a picture SHE took of her friends helping the bride into her wedding dress (the purpose of which was so I could match my tie to the bridesmaids dresses, which was a canary yellow with flecks of pink in it). All her friends and the bride were quite good looking and for some reason I assumed that would mean she was too.
And for some reason I thought, yeah, this is a good plan. So I wrote back, said yes, and asked my mother if the outfit I wore to the work holiday social was appropriate for a wedding and if I should find a new tie.
There were some other weird bits of this dream I remembered soon after waking up, but as it happens they’re lost in the ether now. Oh, and the publisher lady from New York? Smokin’ (not to be confused with “smoker”).
SILLY THINGS TO DO
by me - 11.01.06
Take tally of all the times you sing “Happy Birthday” this year and then send a royalty cheque to Time-Warner (as they own the copyright, see)
I slept 12 hours last night (actually falling asleep during my viewing of Aqua Teen Hunger Force Volume 4… unheard of… “Are they mooning us?” “They can’t do that. WE are the Mooninites!”) and when I woke up, well, I hit snooze and slept more. Repeat this wake/snooze/sleep cycle another half dozen times and the result is, well, groggy Graiggy.
Nevertheless, a lovely lunch out with the always enjoyable freak girl spew drinking copious amounts of tea and having a hot ‘n’ spicy bowl of pho has made me feal loads better. I think I may be kicking this cold in the nards.
Nope, that’s myself.
Still no internet connection at home. This dry-line internet takes bleeding forever to set up. Busy work combined with clouded brain has made my blogging postings rather… blah lately (eg. this post). But when that net connection gets going and this cold gets gone, you’ll get my year-end list of favourite albums, a long rant on hip hop, and some more reviews of things… oh, and probably some meanderings about relationships. Or friendships. Or relatives. Or the holidays. Or crazy dreams. Or somesuch.
Digested recently (aside from pho at lunch):
Scrubs: Season 2 - really funny. A great ensemble cast, sharp writing, and just enough quirk to make it appealing, but not so much that NBC prematurely yanked it from the air. Not like, say….
Arrested Development: Season 2 - outright hilarious. This is the smartest comedy that’s been on tv, perhaps ever. I don’t mean smart as in the humour is all “intellectualized” like Frazier, but rather smart in how tightly the show is put together. Set-ups to gags take place episodes in advance, and and even though the storylines are continuous, they don’t rely on soap operatic techniques to keep you interested and they managed to self contain each episode (although it does work best as a whole). Cancelled as of season 3. Bastards.
Space: Above and Beyond: complete series - Still working on this one, but I loved this show back in the mid-90s and still like it now. Created, co-written and produced by X-Files luminaries Glen Wong and James Morgan (they went on to create “Final Destination” and Jet Li’s “The One”), this is like a gritty combination of Starship Troopers (the movie, even though it predates it), Babylon 5 and Battlestar Galactica (the original). The show is 10 years dated in its effects and production, and some of the stories aren’t as well put together as others, it’s still a compelling show for its rather visceral presentation of war. The score for the show is done by Shirley Walker, who composed all the music for the Batman Animated series.
SILLY THINGS TO DO
Karaoke + choreographed dance moves = silly. But practice in front of the mirror first.
Said before lunch
-I figured out very early on that there was no Santa
-Yeah, but what about Jesus?
-No, I still write to Jesus to bring me presents every year. I mean, if he’s been accruing interest on all that gold, frankincense, and muhr for the past 2000 years he can afford it. Seriously, when Jesus comes back, if he invested wisely, he’s going to be loaded.
I got home around midnight and spent a good two hours reading Ebola Monkeyman’s detailing of his first encounter with Nigerian email scammers. I swear there’s at least fifty pages of text in that one encounter. Hilarious to a point, until the prankster starts getting abusive. It would have been funnier had he played it straight the whole way through. But still, getting Nigerian scammers to email pictures of themselves holding signs with “secret phrases” is pretty damn funny.
It was linked off of 100 Greatest Internet Moments (what, no stinkyfeet? for shame) which I in turn pulled off of Circadian Shift’s links-a-plenty
Had an odd bit of that pre-sleep mania going on last night, likely as a result of eating peanut butter (the bad kind with trans fats… I know, I know) before bed. I was thinking about the Nigerian scammers and how oblivious they can be, especially considering how desperately focussed they are on trying to part you with your money. From there my mind trailed off to the TLC medical show I watched earlier this week, specifically about the dude with the flesh eating bacteria. I began to feel a tingling sensation in my shoulder, a burning actually that didn’t feel natural. So I looked at it and it looked purple and wrong, so I went to my Doctor at the clinic (who I saw on Monday, I swear this waking dream recaps my entire week) and he nodded and said “You’ve got mites.”
“The damn I do!” I shouted. Having never shouted “the damn” before, it seemed a pretty odd thing to say. I asked him for a scalpel (now why a clinic doctor would have a scalpel I’m not entirely clear) which he refused to give me, so I grabbed a pair of scissors from reception and started scraping away the infected flesh.
Oddly enough the infected flesh was only around where my Superman tattoo is (and Toast and I were discussing our tattoos and what new tattos we would get on Wednesday) and I managed to scrape away the whole thing. I asked the Doc if he could stitch up where I had cut away the flesh and he handed me the needle and thread and said do it yourself. As most of you probably know, stitching one’s self up one-handed is not an easy thing to do, and as I was in the middle of stitching up, my open wound bubbled, then erupted with millions of mites which scattered all over the clinic room.
“Huh,” I said. I guess it was mites afterall.
I don’t really recall where it went after that as I fell into a much deeper sleep. Probably something to do with an appearance on the Colbert Report and hanging out with the Thing from Fantastic Four (I’ve been reading the Marvel Essentials: Marvel 2-In-1 Volume 1 book this week, wherein the Thing teams up with a lot of really lame minor Marvel superheroes, printed on cheap paper in rub-off black and white… it’s awesome!)
SILLY THINGS TO DO
For today, refer to all your friends as either Jessie or Jess. If they ask you what’s up, tell them that they’re acting mighty strange and you’re concerned for their mental well being.
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before…
A monk and a priest were walking down the street….
That’s all. On the weekend I actually saw a monk, complete with the Friar Tuck hair and burlap robe with hemp rope belt cavorting with a priest, collar and all. First thought was, “It’s a few days late for Hallowe’en”, but I actually think they were legit. I think it’s the first time I’ve seen the monk cliche in person.
In a strange dream I had on Saturday, I ate Gir, our big fluffy bunny.
In this dream, Emma couldn’t decide what we were going to have for dinner, and we really didn’t have much other food, so I coated the rabbit in bbq sauce (fur and all) and ate him. I won’t get into the gory details of actually eating the rabbit, but let me tell you, in my dream, I ate the whole damn thing…
What’s worse is I ate him out of spite. I was eating him to provoke Emma, who cooked up some veggies (probably meant for Gir) and ate them. Emm said that I’m an asshole, even in my dreams. But I did feel bad. I began to regret it almost instantly… I mean, what was next? The cat? What am I, from Melmac?
No, I saw Gir’s empty cage and I began to miss the little fluffernutter’s goofy face and big twitchy nose. As much as he’s Emma’s damn rabbit, I like the little guy too… he’s cute and amusing and tasty with bbq sauce… NO! No more eating of the rabbit. He was kind of stringy anyways. So yes, I missed him and I began to regret eating the bastard… that kind of regret where you know you should’ve thought things through more, the kind of regret that you wish you could take back your actions, the kind of regret you’d build yourself a time machine to step back in time and maybe ask out that girl you liked in high school and then, perhaps, stop yourself from eating the rabbit… the kind of regret that, were you a religious man, you would ask God to spare you from your indigestion and bring the bunny back. Yes, YES! I regret eating the rabbit, and I felt guilty and sad and a little unsettled.
But I woke up, and he was still there, eating his poop, bless him. I was so relieved I didn’t eat him, and I won’t eat him ever again… promise.
*NB* in a weird coincidence, Emma had a dream that same night that the rabbit died… Emm is very paranoid about the rabbit dying, because he likes to sleep on his back which gives him a very dead look.
But I wouldn’t eat no dead rabbit. That’s just gross.
geekent, master of the kitana
TBIT. Marmalade Girl. wNoodle. The Metrogeek (at TripleDoubleYou.com). geekent.
We five make up Paragon City’s latest ustoppable supergroup (name tbd when we reach lvl 10). We assembled together for the first time in our Blogger aliases Sunday night, promptly progressing six levels without even breaking a sweat. Metro, our Tanker takes the lead, with Scrappers myself and Marmy following closely behind. TBIT is our Defender point man with the only powerful (damage wise) long range weapon, while Nood is the Professor X to our X-Men as he’s the Controller, telling us where to go and what to do. He’s also known as Primadonna Sensei.
Yes, we’re having fun in our little GTABloggers: City of Heroes offshoot (which we geekily call “GTAB uNight”), and we completely realize how geeky we are (my battle cry is “You’ve been Archived!”), and you know, we really don’t care, especially since you aint seen nothing yet. Wait until the pictures get posted….
won’t shouldn’t even mention our argument over how to slot the A*Team into CoH archetypes…
does anyone else ever get so distracted deleting the spam comments out of their blog that by the time they actually sit down to write they forget all about what they were going to type?
Fucking call centers.
yes, welcome back
I got a half dozen or so requests for my “best of”/21 for 2004 2-cd mix and a requested delivery at the GTA Bloggers’ Holiday Party” (which I was waffleing on a commitment to attending), so I worked my keester (keester?) off on thursday to ensure that the 50 cds were rightly burned, that I had 25 covers and inlays to put in the dual-jewel case and that all the cds were painstakingly hand labelled (okay, they were written on with a Sharpie marker in a chicken-scratch-like scrawl, but at 1:30 in the morning, that’s painstaking).
I’m not pleased at all with how the cover and the inlay turned out but, then again, for a 1-day production (plus sneaking in an extra hour of $3 martini drinking with co-workers), you can’t expect brilliance.
Here’s the result (click the image for the full-sized printable thang so you can make your own cd case in case you’re downloading everything from the sidebar and DIYing it).
The front cover on screen is a lot lighter than my inkjet printed it out as, rendering the “GeeK.ent. 21 for
1977 2004″ illegible.
Also illegible is the writing on the tray liner as I “wrote it” using the mouse. I think it’s kinda charming, and also kinda crappy.
The official title for this version of the cd set is “Kraplan” (a riff on the cheesy Gabe Kaplan album I ripped off of the ‘net somewhere).
So yeah, in total, 25 of these were made and delivered to Big Trouble in Little China for the party, and 6 or seven of them were then promptly dropped on the floor, breaking cases and shattering hearts. To those that received a broken cases, sorry, no receipt, no refund.
(new cases are available as Sonnum computers up on College/Spadina for $0.50)
I also noticed someone lost their cover onto the kitchen floor, where I spent most of the night ensuring the corner cabnetry didn’t make a break for it… oh, I was tired, and leaning, and tired of leaning.
why so tired?
Me walk lots. From work (Queen/Spadina), to dress shop to pick up Emma’s party dress (at Queen/Shaw-ish) for tonight’s work end-of-year soiree , to the DUDE up on College and Markham (where Emma is selling her books, you should go, now), to Honest Eds to buy a lamp for Emma’s table display, back to the dude, then walked over to Spadina, back down to wore (at Queen, remember) to pick up the cds I left there, then up to Joey’s place about a block away, and then, yes, insane amounts of sugar and wine.
I had to walk up to College again after I left the party (1:45 AM-ish) as I realized after five minutes at the Dundas stop, the streetcar stopped running half an hour ago. I got home at about 10 minutes to 3… fell asleep a half hour later and woke up periodically during the night to feed my thirst… dehydration baaad.
waking up is hard to do
But I did it all the same.
Emma’s staying up until 6am on a regular basis recently, making as many books as she can for the DUDE (remember, you should really go… really) and doing hard crashing in bed for four hours before getting up again.
Today was no different.
While Emma’s Dad is off gallivanting across the pond, we are caring for his van. Unless you have a parking pass or a driveway or a garage to park in, maintaining a vehicle in Toronto is a huge pain in the ass.
We have paid on-the-street parking just in front of our house from 8am - 9pm (although you can’t park there during the 7-9 or 4-6 rush “hour” periods Mon-Fri but that stipulation doesn’t apply if you park on the other side of the road)… and you can only pay for 2 hours at a time. It doesn’t seem logical as for a two week period you have to pay $168, which is outlandish (12 hours x 1 dollar x 14 days).
I knew in advance that we were getting the van but I forgot until we actually had it that we were getting it. Faced with the burdon of both plugging the meter and paying for parking I was trying to think of alternatives.
I suggested to Emma last Friday to try parking it in the Loblaws/Zellers parking lot up the street at least until we figured something out. Sure there are signs stating a “2 hours and then we tow you” maximum, but I’ve worked retail, and I’ve never seen a tow truck in a lot before (but then again, that wasn’t in Toronto). I suggested she park where likeliest the employees would park, you know, mingle, blend in. Silly girl she is, she actually listened to me (she should know better by now).
On my way home from work, on the streetcar, I wondered about the side streets to the South and North of us. Those one-way streets with all the cars lined up in a row along them. So I checked out the signage before I went home and indeed you need a permit to park there but only from midnight until 7am. So logicall you can park for free if you a) move your car to the side street from 7 or 8 am to after 9pm and b) park on the street from after 9pm until before 8am the next morning.
Now we just needed to fetch the van from Loblaws (*aside* did you know the founder of Loblaw’s first name was Robert, aka Bob. Yes, Bob Loblaw. Say it aloud, and giggle)… And when we got there, it was, naturally, not there.
There’s a little sense of panic when that happens, a sort of “Dude, where’s my car” kinda moment… more like a Jazzy Jeff and Fresh Prince “Yo, who stole my car” kinda moment.
A trip down to the beaches and $107 later the van of damnation was back in our posession.
The next night I left the lights on when shuffling from the side street to out front, so the battery was dead the next day when we were going to go up to Barrie to fetch some furnature from my sister (a kindly neighbour helped give us a boost, luckily).
Every morning it’s a kind of bone of contention about who’s going to get up and move the van, this morning even in my hungover state, I lost the argument (basically, Emma was dead weight and wasn’t moving for nothing). I decided to plug the meter instead of moving it, not trusting that my judgement wasn’t still impaired.
As handy as a vehicle is sometimes, I can’t wait for that thing to go away.
Far, far away.
No, really, seriously, you should go
I had a weird waking dream this morning which may or may not have been somehow connected to the fact that the radio was on and the Brent Bambury (aka Radio God, not so primitive) program “GO” may or may not have been discussing some elements of my dream.
Anyway, my dream was like a clip show of Frank Sinatra at various award shows accepting his awards, interspersed with commentary and snapshots, most in black and white of young Frank mingling in a crowd with a beautiful woman on one arm and alternately Sammy Davis Jr or that Joey guy on the other arm.
And with the clips from his acceptance speeches, Frank would always say at the end “And I’d like to thank science” as a subvert to those who always thank God.
Frank, the asshole and mafioso connect that he was, was a tough guy, and made many enemies, including the dude who played J.R. Ewing on Dallas, Larry Hagman… I have this distinct picture in my head of the black and white meeting of the two and Sinatra was laughing in Hagman’s cowboy-hat-wearin’ face and ol’ J.R. weren’t too happy about the situation.
It was all so weird, but when I woke up Bambury and “Pinky” (I’m not sure who Pinky is, he’s some reporter type guy) were discussing Pinky’s report on the menace that is senior citizens. It was a hilarious Daily Show-style reporter piece blowing things out of proportion, and it included wacky interviews with a pharmacist and a guy in a Santa costume and a random crazy old guy. Pinky was playing everything straight (he’s got an awesome radio voice too, sounds like the guy who plays G.O.B. on Arrested Development) and Brent was being the voice of reason. I would love a copy of that.
Later on, after the 11:00 news - announcing the new election in the Ukrane where the two Victors were going to battle for the people’s affection again, only this time, no stacking the vote and the winner gets to keep the moniker Victor and the loser has to change his name to Loser - Leslie Fiest joined Brent in studio and they had such a wonderful conversation which reminded me so much of Brents interviewing days back on Brave New Waves. The guy rules. He’s my hero right behind Mr. T (Mr. T cropped up on ABC’s “Extreme Makeovers: Home Edition last week, and he was tossing Ty Pennington around like a rag doll and motivating the construction crew… it was awesome. I love Mr. T).
Not sure if they have radio archives or not, as the CBC site is all glitchy at the moment.
Wow, this just went on and on and on.
And I was going to talk about the blogger party some more… but we’ll save that.
Finally, Twin Peaks season 2 on DVD… maybe
According to “Lying in the Gutters”, AP Comics are creating a “Mr. T” comic book.
This is not a first, as Mr T. and the T Force hit the comics page back in Eclipse comics dying days of the early ’90s. It was drawn, surprisingly, by the legendary Neil Adams.
I’m having a mild anxiety attack about the American election tonight. The already horror stories about Republican sympathizers trying to invalidate the mail in and pre-vote (not heavy enough paper my ass!) don’t bode well for a comfortable ride tonight. I wish I could say I have faith that Kerry will win, but as an agnostic and thus I’m lacking faith which, were I American, would probably mean I would vote for Nader if at all… or something.
Can you be agnostic in politics as well?
The Daily Show’s Inecision 2004: Prelude to a Recount airs live Tonight at 10pm Eastern time on CTV and Comedy Network in Canada, and Comedy Central in the US.
Hopefully that will ease some of the tension this evening.
Had a dream on Saturday that I grew an extra toe beside my baby toe on each foot. I went to the doctor, whom I saw previously a week before this dream, and he was amazed that I could grow two new toes in a week. He wasn’t really sure how to get rid of them.
Any amateur dream interpreters want to take a stab at this one?
It’s another “getting to know you” meme… because I love talking about myself, and this is the closes I’ll get to being interviewed by Tom Snyder. I miss him on late night chat television.
I had a dream last night that went so far beyond absurd that when I woke up I was pretty frustrated about the whole thing.
Apparently I was in Japan - Tokyo to be precise - with some of my fellow GTA Bloggers (I don’t remember exactly who came with me but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was David, Jacqui, Carla, Rannie and Jeremy). There was a huge blogging convention going on and we were a day early.
The hotel was pretty ritzy - as I would imagine all hotels are pretty ritzy in Tokyo - and yet the lounge was a dull scene.. It wasn’t an ugly place, but we were all sitting at the bar, the rest of the place with its circular booths virtually empty. On a stage in front of a large bank of tinted windows (it was night so I’m not sure how I know they were tinted) was a pretty drab space-pop band backing up a lilting space-pop chanteuse. The whole thing was putting us to sleep, and the gin’n'vermuth wasn’t helping.
But then out of nowhere a trio of Japanese-beatnik-hipsters approached us and infected us with their enthusiasm.
“Hey, okay!” They moved and stood in a triangular formation, the leader had a bright white smile permanently etched onto his face. His companions, a male and a female, were both wide-eyed and grinning but exposing no teeth. “You guys are bloggers, right!”
“Yeah,” I said barely lifting my heavy head up from the bar, “how’d you know.”
“We can spot bloggers miles around. Canadian?”
“Right,” I responed, managing to sit upright finally.
“Aha,” he said, and he slapped his hands together. The lights around him seemed to be brighter than everywhere else.
“You want to come with us. We show you good time, Canadians.”
Everyone hopped off their stools except me. “Come see band. Good fun-time band, not boring stuff like this. Planet Smashers. Ska make you dance!” And behind him his two compatriots started kicking their feet skank-style.
“Planet Smashers? Here?” I perked up, and hopped off my stool. “Hey, ho, let’s go!”
And we went.
Along the way I was chatting with Jacqui (I think), asking her about Japanese money, because I had none so far, just our pretty Canadian bills. She explained to me that the Japanese had money similar to the Euro, only here they called it the “en” (the eeee en), and roughly converted one Canadian dollar was worth a 10en bit.
Don’t even say it, as I know quite well this is incorrect.
We arrived outside the club, which was actually inside a shopping mall. Everything inside was closed except for this one area with blaring music and a giant blue curtain in front of it. All the other stores had big grey slab walls erected in front for nighttime security (don’t ask me how that works ’cause I don’t know). Everyone went to the curtain, where a big burly but not quite sumo-sized bouncer stood at the entrance. He didn’t ask for id, he simply pulled the curtain back slightly and tapped everyone on the back as they went in.
I hung back noticing the ginormous bank machine on a nearby wall.
The thing was a grey tank, and had two terminals to service people… however I couldn’t read any of the signage as it was all in Japanese, which I not only can’t read but can’t even begin to comprehend, so feeble is my brain.
There was a very go-go-space-girl already at the one terminal, and I tried to observe her in action at the machine to see how it worked. She was just finishing up her transaction, pulling a large black card out from one slot in the terminal and putting it into another slot. She retreived her stack of oddly shaped bills (about 2/3 the size of our money) and pulled out her card. She saw me watching her as she packed up her shiny silver purse, and she looked scared. I smiled politely but the white stranger was perhaps even more menacing with a toothy smirk. She clomped away in her white vinyl platform knee-high laceup boots, while I was left examining this machine that only seemed slighlty less complicated than a console on the Enterprise.
My first step was to put in my bank card, thankfully the screen also was displaying in English… but its instructions past “insert stripup” were nonexistant. After my card and pin number were accepted, a long card, like the black one I saw the girl move around minutes ago, ejected from the machine. It was about 10 inches long and the width of a credit card… it had all these holes in it, as well as silver foil on it, and a bunch of tiny tiny switches. The silver foil was like that you would find covering a tray of Claratin or Dentine Ice, you would have to punch through it to get your pill/gum and in this case, there were all these obvious spots for you to punch through, as beside each of these spots were a number 100en, 200en doubling itself all the way to k96en (which I guessed was 9600en). I punched the 200 en and noticed all the little switches, which had Japanese characters beside them. Perhaps this was account information? I randomly pushed some of them, and they clicked when moved from 0 to 1 or vice versa. There was a slot on the machine that had a little flashing light so I supposed that’s where I was supposed to stick this horrendously long punch card.
It made some clicky-whirry-old-fahioned-processing sounds (like the grind of a dot-matrix printer) and then something flashed on screen. “PRESS YOUR OPTION” it said… although I had no idea of what option it meant. I looked around… there were buttons, dials, slots, switches, lights and the like everywhere. I randomly hit something, and the machine went ballistic with noises sounding like an electronic jackpot machine that just cashed out.
From above me a microphone fell down, and I became very confused. On the screen was a Street Fighter meets Bad Dudes style side scrolling fighting game. My head was about to explode but I figured I should play… but there were no joystics, and the microphone had little lights on it that flashed every time someone hit my avatar.
I said “Ach” into the microphone and my character hunched over throwing his arms in front of his face. I said “hit”, “punch”, “left”, “right”, “kick”, “punch”, “kick” until 8 seconds later my character was on the ground “dead” because it didn’t respond to anything I said.
Another short-skirted, ponytailed girl walked by. She stepped a little closer to me and the machine to see what was going on, got a look, giggled (her hand covering her mouth) and kept walking.
A black card, like the one I had seen before, ejected out of a slot. Up close it actually looked like those Florida voting cards I’d seen on the news with all these punches taken out of it and a few “hanging chads”.
I put it into the slot like the girl did before me, and nothing happened, except my bank card was spat out. A few tuchscreen options then appeared on the monitor, nothing English though. The backdrop image was something akin to the baby in the sun looking over the fjord like on Teletubbies, only less childish but still ungodly bright. I touched one section and a whole new set of selectors appeared. I pressed another random selection and the whole screen went blank.
An exact duplicate of my bank card shot out of another slot, only this card had gold foil lettering on it, but it was still a TD green card.
It seemed like I’d been at this machine for hours at this point, when the guy who rescued us from the louge appeared behind me. I knew he was there because things were brighter all of a sudden.
He noticed my confused look and at the blank screen on the machine and laughed heartily. He said “Give me card,” with his palm up.
I gave him the new gold lettered card the machine gave me. He wiped the back of it on his pants and stuck it in a slot I didn’t even see. The screen went blue and he moved with the quickness as other cartridges needed to be moved from one place to another. It took him less than 10 seconds before he was handing me my money, and his last step was to put the gold lettered duplicate in a slot that essentially ate it and made a horrid grinding noise.
I was curious about the whole procedure but also extremely frustrated. I was going to ask my new saviour what the deal with the machine was, to get an explanation but, well, then I woke up… the vivid memory of defeat branded to my brain.
And I was looking forward to seeing the Planet Smashers in concert again.
dream 1 - catamaran
Our cat of cats, Bailey, has FIP (feline infectious peritonitis), or as we call it, kitty-SARS (as it’s also the corona virus, just a different, non-people infecting strain). Most cats transmit the virus via their saliva, touching noses, or touching feces (in a shared litterbox, say).
Bailey got hers, we suspect, from another kitten Emma once had that died a sad, painful, young death. We’re not entirely sure she’s got it, but we suspect it is so. When people who have kitties come over and pet Baily, we ask that they wash thier hands before they leave, and that’s usually enough of a preventative measure.
When I informed our new upstairs neighbours of our kitty’s disease, they got concerned for their cat… a little freaked out, in fact. “We better go get ours tested,” he said. I said it wasn’t necessary especially because they’ve never come in contact with one another or even the same objects (aside from the occasional foray into the backyard for some grass eating, Bailey is strictly an indoor cat).
So last night, I had this odd dream where the cat from upstairs was waiting by our door, only this cat look exactly like Bailey - black and white fur - only the black spot on her nose was on the opposite side. But I didn’t notice at first. So I let this cat in our house saying “Bailey, how’d you get out there in the hall?”
She meowed at me and walked towards the back of the house. The meow was slightly off.
“Bailey?” I said quizzically to myself like they do in the movies when they suspect something’s up but then immediately dismiss it afterwards.
As the faux-Bailey made her way into the bedroom, real Bailey emerged from the basement. I knew immediately my mistake. It was only a brief matter of time before they saw each other and god a little curious, making nose to nose contact. I raced to the back of the room and I tried to grab one of the cats, but I couldn’t. They kept avoiding me.
“I need to get the faux-Bailey back upstairs before she gets infected,” I thought to myself. But Bailey and faux-Bailey, now circling each other in giddy glee were getting ready to make contact, and I had one of those “which one do I shoot” moments (shoot ‘em both is usually my answer), and seeing as neither of them had one of those “parallell universe, evil-twin goattees” I had to randomly select one.
I wish I had a more exciting conclusion to that dream, but I don’t even remember there being a resolution. I think the other cat did come in contact with Bailey, and I did get her and take her back upstairs, but I didn’t warn the neighbours that she might have kitty-SARS because I’m a bad person.
dream 2 - insert coin
I remember the next dream I had, and I know it stemmed from reading Supercade, a book documenting the progression of home video games and the arcade from the early 1970’s to 1984.
Having immersed myself in these simplistic but addictive games, it’s only natural the dream turned out the way it did.
I was in my Grandmother’s garage, the one from her first house in Thunder Bay. In it however was all mine and Emma’s crap, as opposed ot my Grandma’s. I was cleaing it up a little when I heard a squeek, and looked down, and it was a little, fuzzy, grey mouse (ovalish, not quite pixellated but blurry, and no distinguishing features - no tail and just black dots for eyes). I stared at it for a second, and then it jumped, emitting a curt “squek” (not “squeak”.. sounded more like a cat toy) as it jumped… straight up, about four feat high.
Being unexpected this made me jump back a bit.
And then it did it again.
It jumped chest hight and back to the ground again, running around. I heard another “squek” and another small grey ball fell from the ceiling behind me to the ground. Now there were two running around.
I had in my hand a long flat object and I began trying to smack the mice, but they moved too fast.
Another “squek” and a third one fell from the ceiling onto my hunched over back, bouncing off and to the ground, just as “SQUEK” one jumped four feet up just beside my face. As that one fell to the ground I swatted at it, and it flew across the garage and into the boxes.
“SQUEK!” One jumped. “SLAP!” I swatted it.
“SQUEK!” Another one jumped. “SLAP!” Across the room it went.
And as more little grey blobs fell from the ceiling and jumped up in my face, I swatted them too. I even tried swatting them as they came down from above… score more points that way.
The only thing was, the mice that I swatted were stunned, but they’d crawl out from under all the boxes of crap, and return to jumping four feet, sometimes bouncing off my chest, knocking my “ick meter” down a notch.
I knew I had to get brutal.
So I grabbed the arm/leg end off of a dismantled futon fram and began to squish like the dickens. I had to hit each mouse on the ground twice before they were dead, with each hid a little red pixellated circle of blood would appear on their grey body.
When I woke up, I was still in the “game”, and I was a little more than disturbed by the final round that I was “playing”.
Blasts from the pasts and deja-vu are always nice little distractions. I’m never sure what they mean though. Sometimes moving on is forgetting the things you left behind, and sometimes moving on means always remembering them. It’s always confusing as to which is which. But in either case, dwelling on the past is never healthy… but what constitutes dwelling on the past?
I’ve had to think about this kind of stuff lately, with people from my past popping up here and there, and sometimes I just don’t know what’s what nor what to do.
An good friend of mine from my Lakehead days (we met in business classes during first-year), surprised the crap out of me earlier this year with an email (our first contact since bidding farewell at graduation) out of the blue (was that redundant?). We shared a few emails back and forth and then it fell off when I sent the last e-mail and never got an email back. You ever have that? When you email someone and you don’t receive a response back, and then you don’t know what to say next? Well, it’s like that, coupled with the fact that I’ve been busy at work and relatively tired of computers at home (of course I could be writing an email now, but I’m not… but blogging requires less thinking).
I know I’m awful at it too though, often people will write me back and I have time to read it but no time to respond immediately, and then time passes, and more emails accumulate in your inbox and the message you’ve been meaning to respond to gets buried and … hey, I have cake on my belt. Sorry. Got distracted, by the cake… on my belt… well, actually it’s icing. But that story’s for the next post.
There’s not a month that goes by, though, that I don’t wonder what someone that I havn’t interacted with in a long time is up to. Sometimes I’m just curious as to where they are in life, and maybe sometimes I want that friendship back. I’m not sure if either thought is healthy or not.
University was an interesting time in my life, a time where I really came into my skin and grew as a person. I changed quite a bit, thanks to the many good friends around me, and the roles I had on the student newspaper. Producing “the Argus” was a definite labour of love (as the money was token at best… $125 for 30-60hrs of work a week? Yeah). The people that surrounded me, with few exceptions, were great great people, and during the time I was on the paper (3 years staff, 1 year contributor) it felt almost like family, in the same way that the Justice League winds up being like family: a number of people of different backgrounds and interests working towards a common goal.
But take away that common goal and what do you have? Is friendship still there? In some cases yes, in others no.
But there was a guy, K, who wound up being a quite good friend regardless. My year as Editor-In-Chief he was my right-hand-man. The following year, the roles were reversed. We shared a lot of interests in terms of music and entertainment, humour and pop-culture, and our lives were in a similar status being in the same program and dealing with rather serious relationships. When I left town after university, we would sporadically send an email over the next year, and when I returned to Thunder Bay we would run into each other from time to time, and hang out once in a while.
But then Toronto called and I got a new life, in a matter of speaking, and over the past nearly 3 years I’ve been having difficulty maintaining a lot of friendships at the pace I once did. There will be times when I don’t see or speak with my close friends for months on end, and while it saddens me, I know that a lot of the time I just don’t have the energy to put into it as well, not to mention the fact that I’m meeting more and more people.
So anyway, I’ve been having weird moments lately where I think I see K’s girlfriend from back then (they were still together when I last saw him, although she was in Ottawa at school) all over town. But I don’t, it’s just someone that looks like her. That is, until yesterday, when I was walking along Queen Street, headphones on, rather ignorant of the world around me, and I passed right by her, the same unmistakeable smile I remember her having. But it was one of those things where it takes a few seconds to click in.
Normally I would have turned around and said hi, but I was really running late for a meetup with someone, and if I saw her once, surely I would see her again (a likely thought).
I wound up at my destination point, Queen and Yonge, and Mr. 3×2U was not there yet. I didn’t know which corner he might be standing on so I leaned up against the North-East building, all cool non-chalantly and casually looked around. Then BLAM!, blast-from-the-past #2 comes walking across the street. No, not Jeremy, but Streetcar Accident Girl. I didn’t recognize her at first, but when she did a double take, I noticed. She turned away shyly and crossed the road quickly (or perhaps I’m reading into things…), then I spotted Jeremy making his way up the street.
We headed on up to the Phoenix for the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s gig (an early show with doors at 5:30) where we were to meet up with my Dirty Monkey partner Gary (who made his way in from New York especially for the show… oh and a little of the work-related stuffs during the week). The show I’ll tell about later, but after the show, it was blast-from-the-past number three.
Yeah, it was K, of all people… too weird. I gave him an old holmes hug and we searched for business cards/pen&paper to exchange info. K produced first so I’ve got to make first contact, which should be a cinch, though I don’t need to do it ’til Monday when he’ll actually be at work.
With all this backtracking going on I wound up having a pretty fucked up dream last night, where in K’s (ex, I found out) girlfriend wound up sitting behind me on the streetcar one day. I leaned my head back, and had a smile on my face. I said “Hi C!” in my most excitable voice. She was nonchalant and said non-effusively “Hi Graig.”
“How’s it going?”
“I’m not in a good mood.”
—It became one of those cinematic dreams where the conversation continues normally, there’s a cut to a new location, a time jump that wouldn’t make sense if it weren’t for pacing purposes—
Suddenly we were outside of a Wal-Mart on a bright sunny day. I said “How come” and she said “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh” I said, and we were inside, wandering down the health and beauty aisles.
“We’re not together anymore you know?”
“Yeah,” I said, not mentioning that I’d just ran into K the night before.
I grabbed a bottle of Pert Plus that was in with the Dove shampoo. “I havn’t worked here for 3 years,” I said, “but I still have this annoying habit of putting everything back in it’s proper position. I don’t know. It’s some weird compulsion”.
And then C started letting loose about some shit she was going through with her legal clerk.
“I’m a legal clerk, you know,” I said.
But she kept ranting, and walking really fast. She wasn’t trying to lose me, but she was rambling and shopping like I wasn’t a going concern. She didn’t care if I kept up or not. And as she talked there would be skips and we’d wind up different places all over the store, until we were heading towards the exit, C getting ever further ahead of me, when I got stopped by an elderly gentleman, his white, white hair contrasting against his deep brown skin. He stopped me and whispered in my ear something I couldn’t quite understand, but by that time she was gone, out the door and through a green curtain into a dark place with the sound of sexual moaning emerging. I kind of puttered around outside the curtain for a minute or five, but the moaning, neither of enjoyment or distress, never stopped. So I left, back inside the store, where I disappeared, and woke up.
It was a strange dream and I couldn’t get back to sleep, and for a moment I thought about C, and K, and all the other people that I think about from the past of my life, and I felt scared for a few minutes. My heart raced and it seemed almost a nightmarish burden to have to have known people… a weird, inexplicable and irrational thought first thing in the morning.
Not a blast from the past, but also as I was walking along Queen Street yesterday I saw that lead singer guy from Sum 41. He’s as short and funny looking in real life as he looks on tv. I’m sorry, but it had to be said.
I will strive to make more contact with these people I knew, and of course I need more diligence in communicating with the people I do know. I have a package or three of heartwarming entertainment to send some friends, and I have some emails to write as well. Maybe tomorrow. Tonight, it’s an out of work social, which may sound weird but will sure be fun.
Saturday was spent moving my sister and her boyfriend into their new house up in Barrie “snow capital” Ontario, a city where people are allowed to drive their snowmobiles on the side walk (and if they aren’t allowed, they do it anyway). Much physical exhaustion ensued, but, even still, I wound up having the waking hours of 8am - 2am that day (thanks to a rediculously silly train-wreck of an episode of Knight Rider).
When I rather quickly zonked out to sleep I guess the bite of that Starbucks Cappucino Brownie I had half an hour before took effect because, dude, my dreams were PHucked up!
I obviously don’t remember them all but what I do remember, I remember in quite vivid detail.
In the first dream my contact lenses were bothering me, as every time I would blink the lenses would shift out of place, obscuring my vision momentarily. I was at the house I grew up in in Fort William (south end of Thunder Bay), at some sort of intimate party being held in the living room by strangers.
I’d keep looking around the room but everything would only be in focus momentarily, until I blinked and it all blurred out of distinguished existence.
I realized the rental truck I had for the weekend was due back and I had to excuse myself from the party. My contacts seemed to stabilize once I got outside in the chill air. I hopped in the Ford Escape (the vehicle I rented to go up to Barrie) and headed for the rental centre. But as I started driving my contacts started shifting again, and once again the world melded into a blur of colours and brightness. If I leaned my head down, pressing my chin into my chest, and looking upwards, I could sort of see clearly, but I couldn’t drive like that. Then I noticed the chair we had bought (more on that later) was still in the back and I needed to get it out of the vehicle before I returned it.
I pulled a U-turn and started making my way back to the house I had left, advancing the vehicle by gunning it for short bursts then breaking hard.
I would briefly see clearly the shapes of humans standing on the side of the road or oncoming cars, and I’d try to distinguish them as my vision went blurry again. It was rough riding but I made it back okay, without hurting anyone, but the vehicle was going to be late, and I’d have to pay for an extra day. I threw those contacts out once I retreived them from my eyes with much complication.
This makes me wonder about something… anyone else with bad eyesight out there? Do you dream in clarity or in blurry vision land? Of this I am curious. Do the blind dream images or darkness. Do the deaf dream sounds or a mute world? Do the skinless dream of sensation? Ponder…
The cold sweats in the middle of the night were more than telling. I’m sick.
I was hacking up things that grossed even the cat out.
I woke up dizzy, but not from the previous night’s alcoholic escapade. I was thirsty, but my throat hurt way too much to drink. I forced some vitamin C (tripleing the threat with a glass of oj chased by a lime tesan) before having a bath with my sushi-bubble bath from Lush (an early christmas gift from Emma).
I relaxed in the fragrant tub with my new Sandman: Endless Nights hardcover, stimulating my mind while letting my body lilt.
Emerging from the tub I decided to plug away at my top 20 songs list over at Dirty Monkey Bugspray Fun, gathering together all the 2003 releases I own, along with compilations donated by friends, and slowly progressed through the pile crafting a list that, having listened to a Real Jukebox assembly of them repeatedly, I’m more than satisfied with.
I tore through three episodes of Lexx season 3, doubtless to Emma’s chagrin. It’s a goofy little show but it’s frankness and flagrant sexuality is really quite charming. Three cups of hot stuff and a number of glasses of water later it was off to bed, wherein Delerium took hold of my mind in Dream’s playground.
I dreamt a number of things, first of them that I was the key holder to the Lexx, and, as I learned from episode 3.8, it really enhances the sexual regions of the brain. I dreamt I was horny, but in reality I wasn’t, which is quite odd to say the least. This dream of being a Lexx crewmember interplayed with another ongoing dream all night long.
It started in bed with Emma. I awoke to the muffled smashing of glass. I sat up in bed and realized that our bedroom was in my parents house in Thunder Bay. We were housesitting. I wore my pyjamas to bed (which is a rarity) last night, so I had no reservations about getting out of bed to investigate the noise. But if it was a burglar, I’d need something to protect myself with.
There, beside the bed, was an empty Christmas wrap tube.
I stepped out of the bedroom, eked my way downstairs to find the kitchen in disarray and a racoon invading the cupboards. I confronted the little bastards with my tube, banging it on the ground, it’s hollow echo a dire threat to the poor creature. I thought that this creature was pretty bold to bust into my folk’s place and ransack it.
I took the tube to it.
It put it’s paws up on its head, and cried “Ow,ow,ow, stop.”
To which I replied, “No.”
TUNK. TUNK. TUNK.
I propped the tube on a dinged tin can on the floor and wedged the end of the tube under the rodent’s body. I gave a mighty shove down on the other end and the raccoon flew across the kitchen smacking unconscious into the corner of the wall. It was then that I saw a shadowy figure lurking in the dark.
I turned quickly to see who it was, my eyes fully adjusted to the moonlight, and only caught the leg of the invader fleeing.
“Bust into my parents’ house will ya, ” I said to myself, tearing off after them with my slightly dented cardboard tube. I realized that it was the burglar who busted in and the racoon entered only out of opportunity.
I chased the burglar down as we ran in circles around the house, until the burglar turned the tables and pulled out a gun… I in turn pulled out a flashlight to protect myself. The burglar chased me around until I noticed outside the movement of two flashlights in the backyard. My flashlight beam began toying with the two beams until the officer arrived, with the burglar in handcuffs. The officer put her in the car and talked with me a little about the damage and stolen items. As far as I could tell there were none.
The police left, just as the raccoon returned, visciously… I cornered it, forgetting that you don’t corner animals, for that’s when they get wild. As it lunged to attack me my flashlight belted it out through the garage door enterance which I closed behind it, then pressed the button and opened the exterior garage door.
All of a sudden it was 15 degrees below and frost crept inward. The racoon had a sad look on its face. But I was stern. I pointed my flashlight at it, and it said “well, if I must go…” and it slowly lumbered out.
I closed the door again, and woke Emma up to tell her my story. She was half impressed and kissed me passionately, falling asleep again just as it ended. The next morning I went outside to check the damage, but boats and trucks were okay, just the den window was broken. Looking in I couldn’t figure out why they broke in. Just then my folks arrived, and my Dad was proud of what I did, my mom was concerned about my safety, which I shrugged off.
My dad made mention that my grandmother’s christmas gift, a computer, was missing. I turned him around and said “that computer there” and he laughed. “Oh, good,” he said.
My cousin Adam pulled into the drive in his sister’s jeep. He was wearing no shoes, but had vibrant white socks pulled over his long feet. He congratulated me on my big burglar bust-up, and we went inside to talk. We sat down on a bed and he began to cry, telling me about a remote earthquake or volcano eruption he had caused, and I rubbed his socked feet kindly, saying that earthquakes and volcano eruptions were natural occurrances and that he had no part in it all. He seemed to be content with that and then asked me for shaving tips. But I didn’t have any.
Then Kyan from Queer Eye For the Straight Guy showed up and began to deride us both for our heteroness, before I returned to the Lexx and began to tell Xev that her hair was trashy and she needed to straighten it out or something… right before she put my hands on her boobs… all 8 of them… 8 hands and boobs. Then it got weird…
To dream that you are a superhero, indicates your above-average talents, ideas, and abilities you may not realized you possessed.
and I was sitting in my wheelchair (this is pre-Morrisson X-Men for the comic geeks out there) in front of a large bay window, when all of a sudden
To dream that you or someone is handicap, symbolizes your own weakness and neediness. You are confronted with many challenges and need to utilize your full potential. Consider which part of your body is handicap and its symbolism. Alternatively, it suggests that you are becoming too arrogant for your own good. You need to be more humble.
To see or dream that you are in a wheelchair, suggests that you need to stand on your own two feet and stop depending on others. Perhaps you are feeling helpless. Alternatively, it indicates that you are literally letting others push you around. You need to start standing up for yourself.
a huge, red-gloved hand crashed through and grabbed me out of my seat. It was Magneto, and he was now 70 feet tall.
To see a giant in your dream, signifies of a great struggle between you and your opponents. This may prove to be a major and overwhelming obstacle for you to overcome. Alternatively, a giant may be symbolic of an issue or feeling that is dominating you.
He was using his powers of magnetism to keep my fillings stuck together, and thus I could not move my jaw.
To dream that your jaws are tight, indicates unexpressed angers and other powerful feelings which you are holding back.
I wanted to scream but could only do so through clenched jaw, and so I did. I screamed a muffled scream which eventually woke me up
To dream that you are screaming, symbolizes anger and fear. It is an expression of your powerful emotions which you have kept pent up inside.
If you try to scream, but no sound comes out, then is suggests that you need to immediately confront some situation. Perhaps you are unable to pinpoint your fears or feelings.
HMMM, there seems to be a pattern in there.
To me, it sounds like I’m… ANAKIN SKYWALKER!!!
The bleak, coming-of-winter doldrums have been getting me down as of late, though it is, in fact, bright and sunny today and it has been quite warm for this time of year (around 13 degrees celcius the past few days).
I’ve been getting a steady stream of headaches, restless sleep and some sinus troubles, plus this problem with my throat I get from time to time where it feels like its collapsing in on itself (yeah, not a fun feeling).
Tuesday night I had a dream that I was Professor X from the X-Men, and I was sitting in my wheelchair (this is pre-Morrisson X-Men for the comic geeks out there) in front of a large bay window, when all of a sudden a huge, red-gloved hand crashed through and grabbed me out of my seat. It was Magneto, and he was now 70 feet tall. He was using his powers of magnetism to keep my fillings stuck together, and thus I could not move my jaw. I wanted to scream but could only do so through clenched jaw, and so I did. I screamed a muffled scream which eventually woke me up… or perhaps it was Emma shaking me awake that did it.
The odd thing, this is a reoccurring dream. What’s it mean? Probably that I should be writing X-Men comics. Of course, if I was really Professor X I wouldn’t need to scream, I’d mentally summon my students and they’d rescue my hairless head.
So anyway, to alleviate some of this anxiety going on in my head I decided I needed a good-ole tyme out. So, last night with my friend Sara, I ventured to the Reverb for the Planet Smashers gig. Now, if you don’t know the Planet Smashers, you’re missing out on damn fun music. They’re an atypical ska band, playing music derived from the punk-raggae tradition but infusing it with light, charming, and absurd lyrics and a heavy pop sensibility.
I first caught a Planet Smashers gig back in 1997, even though I wasn’t sure I liked the music (the whole ska scene at the time was pretty lame) when a friend of mine said I should really see a show before I completely wrote them off. What I saw was 5 guys on stage who really, really enjoyed their music and knew how to have fun with the audience. They’re what you would have called a college band, because they’re a hyper good time.
Fast forward almost 7 years later, and really, not much has changed. Sure, some of the band members have left and been replaced (mostly in the trombone/saxaphone section) but they’re still having a great time on stage and they still love their audience… their ever youthful audience.
I’ve noticed this, that as the years went on, the age of the Smashers concert goers declined, probably because of their typically punk touring mates… and there’s nothing outcast teenagers love more than punk. This level of interest in the band hit its absurdist heights last night as Sara and I were, very apparently, amongst the 10 oldest people there. Sara pointed out that not only would she be too old to have babysat most of the kids there, but the kids she babysat likely would be too old to babysit them.. It was a young young crowd.
But that didn’t stop me from having a good time. No way! In fact, I probably had a better time because of it. First, who cares what a bunch of kids 10 years your junior have to think about you if you want to dance, and secondly, these kids are a lot less uptight than your regular Toronto crowd. These kids fucking moved!!!
I’m afraid of what things would have looked like had this not been an all ages event. A smaller group of 20-somethings standing, arms folded, head slightly nodding… yeah, fuckin’ hipsters too afraid to let the music move them because, hey, the entire crowd is watching them because they have a cool ringer tee, a ironic beard and a vintage trucker cap. They have to set a good example.
Thankfully the younger generation was a lot less reserved. Skank circles formed, there was a mosh pit, and when the Smashers wanted crowd interaction, they got it (during Surfin’ in Tofino, Matt asked for 2 feet down the center of the room, so the kids scattered to one side or the other, and the he asked for all hands up in the air, and literally all hands, mine included were up in the air, and then he asked, on the count of ten, for one side to join the other, “5! 6! 7,8,9,10! make some friends! Surfin’ In Tofino!” and the kids rushed into each other, the band and the crowd loving it both). I’ve never, ever seen a Toronto crowd sustain a hand clap throughout an entire song before. Lazy hipsters tinitis - from to much computers/playstation - doesn’t afford them such endurance.
The show was hype, everybody, and I mean everyone was moving (even the Hidden Cameras can’t claim that), included the only few people older than Sara and myself (there were kids parents there, one guy pushing 50 had, of all things, a dookie gold chain, a sideways baseball cap and a sports jersey on… like he was 50 Cent or something. Too funny. The kids were body surfing (which I havn’t seen done in ages), they were getting up on stage to dance (which was tolerated as long as they didn’t get in the way), and even when one of the skanksters accidentally fell into the microphone stand and smashed (no pun intended) Matt in the face (which obviously hurt him), they cracked wise, picked up the song from close to where they left off and carried on like the pros they are.
So I got out some anxieties through skanking, enjoyed some great music, wached as the darling barely-teens carried on as only care-free teens can and thoroughly enjoyed myself. My tired-ass legs (having walked home from work two nights in a row, and biking to work this morning before climbing six flights of stairs) are thanking me for it.
Yeah, so, anyone familiar with King Missile?
No? Yeah? Maybe?
Years ago this guy sent me a mixed cd as kooky and crazy as any I’ve received (it was entitled “captain tracktor boatshow hour”) and it contained a King Miss song entitle “Detatchable Penis”.
Kinda silly, but played straight. Very amusing.
So you see where I’m going yet, with the title and the what not?
Yes, in my dream last night, I had, mmmhmm, a detatchable penis.
I’m sure nobody actually has a detatchable penis (strap-ons don’t count) and I’m not talking about reversable penis’ here (a whole different conversation), nope, we’re talking about my penis, regular and fully functional, only detatchable.
When detatched… well, we won’t go into those details… all questions asked will be answered though.
So I have this detatchable penis, and I think in my dream it was a new development, as I was worried that once I took it off and reattatched it, it wouldn’t work anymore. I was so stressed about it, I actually woke up(!) to check to see that my bits and pieces were actually still a part of the whole (and, yes, thank-you, they were).
The strange thing is, I don’t think this is the first time I’ve had a detatchable penis dream before, but I think this is the first time I’ve fretted about it so much.
But just what function would a detatchable penis serve anyway?
Mr. Bobbit, would you like to answer that one?