Coo d'État

At the bus stop today, I saw a pigeon trying to eat a hard chunk of bread, but he couldn't break it up, so he gave up and waddled away. Then another, rattier pigeon with a lone, ratty white feather sticking out the top of his head, took a turn at it and had the same bad luck. So, to be helpful, I crushed the bread into small bits with my shoe. Old Rat-face went to town on it, gobbling it up greedily. But then Mr. Original came back and wanted to get in on that sweet, dirty bread crust. At first, Rat-face kept crust blocking Mr. Original with his body, and they both started making threatening angry pigeon cooing sounds at each other. Then, suddenly, they started battling it out, Mutual-of-Omaha's-Wild-Kingdom-style, shoving each other with their chests and smacking their ratty pigeon heads together. Rat-face drove Mr. Original back into the gutter, but before the victor even had time to celebrate his flawless victory, a homeless dude walked up and scared them both away. True story.

Once, at Band Camp...

For most of my adult life, I have had a tendency to pointlessly dwell on the various opportunities that I allowed to slip through my fingers because of my own youthful foolishness and lack of insight. Such reflection would invariably lead to rueful recrimination and endless sojourns in the speculative world of what-ifs, if-onlys, and could-have-beens. Fortunately for me, I have finally reached a point in my life where time and experience have dulled the sting of such recollections and have allowed me to view the failures and foibles of my younger, less discerning self with detached amusement. Now that I am able to lay aside all tendencies toward maudlin, sappy regret, I feel comfortable recounting one particularly amusing occurrence from my youth as a cautionary tale of myopic cluelessness.

In the summer of 1987, before my freshman year at Camelback High School in Phoenix, AZ, I attended the school's marching band camp, which was held for one week at Camp Mingus—a cozy camp facility situated in the woods of Mingus Mountain in Northern Arizona. For the early part of each day, we practiced marching drills, and then it was on to band music in the afternoon, followed by a couple hours of free time before dinner. In the evenings, after dinner, we had a couple more hours of band practice before ending the day around the campfire, singing songs and performing skits. I hated getting up early in the morning and marching in the hot sun and rarefied mountain air, but I did enjoy the free time we had before dinner, and I appreciated the lively campfire sessions most of all. It was during one of those sessions that summer that I made a bit of a name for myself by performing a novelty song called “Ronnie's Rap,” a goofy Ronald-Reagan-themed rap song which I had heard on The Doctor Demento Show, a popular novelty song radio show. I had a spot-on Reagan impression that was an instant hit with the entire group. It was a heady rush to hear the laughter and cheers as I sang:

“I'm the Big Gipper, don't mess with me.

I'm the baddest rapper this side of D.C.,

With my best girl Nancy, as my spouse,

rappin' to you from that big White House.”

Suddenly, everybody knew exactly who I was. I had become a celebrity.

        At first, it was flattering as people I did not yet know approached me and asked me to “say something like Reagan.” It always caught me by surprise, but I was obliging nonetheless. Even though I could never seem to find anything particularly witty to say, they would laugh anyway, because, after all, I really did sound just like the President. Sometimes, I would feel annoyance at being constantly put upon, but I never turned down a request, no matter how I was feeling. I had a gift that made me a hot commodity, and I was going to respect the shtick that was my main claim to fame.

        On the last day of band camp, at the end of our daily practice sessions and just before we were released to our own devices for the day, some of the seniors handed out awards: Most Improved, Best Hair, Cutest Couple, Hottest Guy, Hottest Girl, etc... I was hoping there would be an award for Best Reagan Impression, but, alas, none of the seniors had seen fit to honor my unique talent with a cheap paper award certificate. They also announced that there would be a dance that night. It didn’t matter much to me. I had always hated dances, and never really saw any point to them. I was sure that I would spend this evening alone, outside the recreation hall, trying to hide from the obnoxiously loud festivities—just like I usually did when having to endure such events.

        After the announcements, we were dismissed for a couple of hours until dinner time. After milling about the camp for a while, I decided to break away from the crowd for a change and explore the area a bit. I walked out to the mountain road and headed up the hill toward a scenic point about a quarter mile from the camp. When I arrived, there were already two girls there, hanging out, enjoying the lush view of the valley below, and chatting about whatever it is that high school girls chat about. I recognized one of the young ladies, a saxophone player, but I could not remember her name. I decided to strike up a conversation. She told me that her name was Laura Ingalls, just like the beloved character of literature and television. I mentioned that I had heard one of the seniors constantly referring to her as “Half-Pint.” Laura laughed it off with a shrug. “Yeah. I've been getting that all my life,” she said.

        Slender in build, Laura had a natural, easygoing beauty. Standing close to her, I began to drink in the features of her face. Her long, straight, brown hair was simple and unadorned, and she had no need of makeup to accent her brown eyes or to obscure the sprinkling of light freckles across her nose. I found myself feeling very attracted to her. I hoped that there was some coincidence that would give us common ground—that would bind us together in some mystical way. Almost, as if in answer to a prayer, she told me that her father was a Wesleyan minister. “My stepfather's a Pentecostal minister!” I announced, completely bowled over by such a significant coincidence, but she seemed unfazed by it. She grunted in acknowledgement. “I guess we're both P.K.s,” I said, using an abbreviation for “pastor's kid” that was common in many evangelical Christian circles. Her reply was a bland “I guess so.” I decided to press the point even more. “You know what they say about pastors' kids,” I added, a slight hint of conspiracy in my voice. “Yeah, I'm such a wild child,” she confessed, somewhat sarcastically. I was so excited by our common ecclesiastical status, that I was utterly perplexed by her apparent lack of excitement. I decided to search for more commonalities between us in the hope of confirming our compatibility.

        Being a passionate music nerd, I asked her a question that was, to my music nerd brain, the most important question I could ever ask another human being: “What kind of music do you like?” “Classical, mainly,” she answered, nonchalantly. I felt my heart start to pound. I was positively elated by what I had just heard! She was a classical music lover, just like me! I had never yet encountered such a kindred soul among my contemporaries. “I also like oldies,” she added coolly. “Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper are my favorites.” “I love oldies!” I erupted, perhaps a little too ardently, as I really had never even heard of the Big Bopper—but I did like Elvis, and that was close enough, right? With just these two amazing and important things that we had in common, I was certain that this girl would be mine. It just had to be a work of Divine intervention that we met like this. That was the only logical explanation. 

        Later that afternoon, back at camp, I was filled with that unique combination of giddiness and stark terror that I had always understood to be love. My mind was buzzing with thoughts about the lovely creature I had met that day. As a religious young man, I believed completely in the providence of an Almighty God, who, despite having his hands full keeping every single atom in the universe from spontaneously disintegrating, somehow found time to take a keen interest in the angst-driven hopes and dreams of lowly teenagers like me. In His divine wisdom, He had seen fit to send me someone who was my perfect match. I knew that I absolutely had to talk to her again and get to know her better. I was sure that she would feel exactly the same way once she had the opportunity to see what sort of person I was. Maybe I could even make her laugh with my Reagan impression. That shtick was pure gold. Then, I remembered the dance that was scheduled for that night. That was perfect! I knew I would have to dance with her!

        That evening, after dinner, I showered and put on my best set of clothes. I felt invigorated by the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Tonight was going to be the greatest night of my life! I made my way to the recreation hall. I could feel the bass thumping and braced myself for the sonic assault as I climbed the steps leading up to the entrance. Inside, it was like every other dance I had ever attended—too dark to really see anything clearly, too loud to comfortably converse with friends, and too crowded to move freely about the room without bumping into people. My sweaty classmates had paired off and were shaking their bodies to the rhythm of popular music that was, except for a few occasional songs, completely foreign to me. I scanned the room, looking for Laura, but she was nowhere to be found. That was fine, though; I knew she would show up soon.

        I found a suitable wall to lean against while I gathered my courage. I continued to scan the room, watching the happy faces of my classmates, thinking about the momentous event that was to come. While standing there, attempting to unobtrusively search the crowd for that one familiar face, I heard a female voice ask me, “Would you like to dance?” I turned to see Kelly Roth, a gorgeous sophomore who, earlier that day, had won the designation of “Hottest Girl” at the band camp awards ceremony. She was holding out her hand, her full lips curled into a gentle smile, her head tilted slightly down with her sultry eyes looking up at me in a way that would make most men's glasses fog up. I, of course, was bitterly disappointed when I realized who it was who wanted to dance with me, but I decided to accept her invitation anyway. After all, there was no point in being standoffish to such a nice young woman. I wasn't much of a dancer, but I had attended a couple of dances in middle school, just to see what all the fuss was about. As I had been instructed at those dances, I placed my hands on Kelly's hips as she rested hers on my shoulders. We began to rhythmically sway to the music, just like in middle school, but I immediately noticed that something about this girl was different from all my previous middle school dance partners. Her hips felt...different. They were very round and shapely, and the sensation of their movement was both strange and pleasant to me. “So how did you like camp?” she asked, still smiling and staring into my eyes with what appeared to be sincere interest. I wondered—was she coming on to me? No, I was sure I was imagining things. I answered her with a noncommittal “It was fun, I guess.” She was still smiling. I scanned the room again, but out of the corner of my eye I could see Kelly gazing up at me still. “So, what kind of things are you interested in?” she pressed. I could still feel her hips swaying. I stopped scanning the room and returned my attention to her. “Mainly music,” I offered, nonchalantly. “That's cool. Me too,” she said. We continued to dance, and she continued to ask me questions about myself, which I dutifully, but distractedly, answered. The thought crossed my mind again: Was this girl into me? There was just no way that could be the case. Besides, it didn’t matter even if she was. Laura was the one for me. Still, there was no denying that Kelly was exquisitely beautiful, in a rather conventional way. The song came to a close. “That was nice, thank you,” she said. “Sure,” I vacantly replied as I turned to head back to my observation spot at the wall.

        For the rest of the night, I grew ever more nervous with anticipation. I still didn't see Laura anywhere, and I continued to scan the room, occasionally taking breaks to fetch a cup of refreshing, fruity punch. The night drew on—one loud, unfamiliar '80s pop song melding into another, until I finally realized that the dance was winding down. I had to get out there and find Laura—and fast—or else my hope of dancing with her would be gone forever. I began to make my way through the dark and crowded dance hall, scanning the boisterous crowd on the dance floor, searching the ranks of the wallflowers standing in shadows.

        I heard my name being called and turned to see my friend Andre. We had both attended the same middle school together, and were entering Camelback High School that year as freshmen. “Hey, you know that senior chick, Mary Colts?” he asked, “Well, she's lookin' for you, man. She says she wants to dance with you.”

Why on Earth was Mary looking for me? She didn’t know me. We had never even talked at all, as far as I could remember. She must have seen my awesome Ronald Reagan impression. How could she resist? All I knew for sure was that I absolutely did not want to dance with Mary. I wanted to dance with Laura. I felt a twinge of panic as I suddenly realized that I would have to find Laura before Mary could find me.

        “Have you seen Laura Ingalls?” I asked my friend, almost pleading. He replied that he hadn’t seen her. I thanked him and moved on. I asked another fellow first-year if she had seen Laura, but she couldn’t help me either.

        Suddenly, the deejay's voice boomed over the sound system, announcing that the time had come for the last dance of the night.

        I frantically scanned the entire room, my panic ascending to a horrible crescendo. I could feel all my hopes slipping away as the final slow dance of the night began playing through the speakers.

        Then, in one glorious instant, I saw her.

        In my recollection it was as if the writhing sea of slow-dancing teenagers gently parted, revealing the angelic figure of Laura, hovering ethereally on the other side of the dance floor, bathed in the shimmering light of a disco ball. I began to walk toward her, my heart pounding in anticipation of the moment when everything would forever change for the both of us.

I took about two steps forward when, suddenly, I felt my hand being seized in the surprisingly strong grip of some unseen female force who, with all the ferocious speed of a diving hawk snatching up an unsuspecting rabbit, forcefully whisked me away to an empty spot on the crowded dance floor. In a dizzying blur, I saw the big, frizzy mass of crimped blond hair and the black-mascara-lined blue eyes speeding toward me with desperate determination, and, before I even had time to process what had just happened, I found myself cheek-to-cheek in Mary Colts' overwhelming embrace. I could feel her over-processed coif rubbing against the side of my face like a plastic-meshed dish scrubber, the slightly burnt smell of Aqua Net® filling my nostrils. She held me close and tight, as if we were both tragic lovers soon to be parted, and this was our last moment together.

        I felt all hope evacuate my chest and sighed in resignation to my grim fate as Mary dragged me around the dance floor. Some syrupy '80s love ballad blared from the speakers, but the saccharine romantic sentiments it expressed, combined with the desperately powerful embrace of my captor, only heightened the sense of desolation I felt in that moment. For one last time, I scanned the crowd of happy faces swaying around me, hoping to catch a glimpse of the object of my affections. I did not see her. She had vanished as magically as she had appeared.

        It wasn't until many years later, with the benefit of hindsight, that I was able to understand more clearly what had really happened that summer. Of course, Laura wasn't sent to me by Divine Providence at all. In fact, over the next couple years I spent at Camelback High School, her passive-aggressive behavior toward me was evidence of a deep contempt. What I failed to realize then was that my fascination for Laura was based on a complete delusion—who I thought she was, how much like me I believed her to be, how perfect our lives together would have been—all of it existed only in my mind. On the other hand, there were some very obvious clues that the beautiful, intelligent, and remarkably talented Kelly Roth actually may have been attracted to me, but my myopic obsession with Laura kept me from seeing them. Whatever moment of opportunity I may have had with Kelly was short-lived. She either grew tired of my coolness toward her attempts to gain my attention, or, more likely, she realized just how gorgeous she was and how much better she could do. I don't know for sure, and everything happened so long ago that none of it matters anymore. Thinking about how my life may have been different had I not been so wrapped up in a world of delusions would be to engage in the same counterproductive fantasy thinking that I would be lamenting. I think it is much better to enjoy my own story for what it was, learn what I need to learn from it, and let the what-ifs dissolve into the ether with all the if-onlys and could-have-beens. 

The Swede and the Meathead or: My Case for Stricter Immigration Laws

Yup. Seems like just another typical day at the ol' college, but wait! Oh look! Pretty Blonde Swedish Girl from anthropology class is sitting at the picnic table in front of building B, studying feverishly for today's quiz. Maybe I should offer my help. I walk up to the little square table and sit on the side to her right. We exchange pleasantries. She smiles with her perfect white Swedish teeth. We talk—about the class, about her struggles with trying to learn English, about her education in Sweden. She's still smiling. That's good. She seems to find me a suitably charming conversationalist, and why wouldn't she? I'm brilliant.

I crack a few witty jokes, and she laughs her perfect, feminine Swedish laugh. I give her coupons for Camel cigarettes—her brand. Oh yes. I am awesome, thank you. Wait, what the hell is that noise? It sounds like a flatulent elephant farting into a bullhorn. There, backing into a parking space—an absurdly tricked-out blue Japanese car...with a spoiler. What's with spoilers, anyway? Do they even do anything?

That's not ridiculously obnoxious and annoying at all, I say out loud. She doesn't say anything. Nosiree, definitely not too loud, I sarcastically opine. No reply. Oh well. I go back to studying. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her wave to somebody. I turn and see Manly McStudly getting out of the absurdly tricked-out blue Japanese car with spoiler. He's wearing a tank top to show off his muscles and tattoos. She's REALLY smiling now, a rapturous, trance-like expression washing over her face. He approaches the table, his mouth cracking only the faintest hint of a smile—he's much too cool and studly to bother with a full smile, after all. He sits down across the table from me. They blather briefly about something inconsequential. Sheesh. I've seen this jerk before. This is the second time that Beefcake McHunkerton has decided to step in and interrupt a perfectly pleasant moment between Pretty Blonde Swedish Girl and me. She's already forgotten that I'm there as she dazedly stares deep into his chest muscles.

Now the hunky interloper looks over at me, noticing my awesome Panama hat. Why, yes—it is a nice hat, thank you very much. Have I ever been where? Cuba? No, but I had a friend who once...oh, really? Lots of people in Cuba wear hats like this? Well, thank you for enriching my intellect with that fascinating bit of information.

Meathead and the Swede start blathering to each other again. Why, yes, she would like to get out of here. I check the time on my cell phone. Class starts in ten minutes. I guess I should get going too...wait...where is she going? Class is in the other direc—oh, I get it. They're going to the nature observation spot thingy under the trees. Yeah. They're totally going to make out again, just like they were doing last week when I walked out of building B and right into their blissful, hormone-saturated public display of affection. And, just as she did that time, she'll probably once again rub her pasty white Nordic hands all over his liberally-tattooed arm and chest muscles while staring longingly into his big, dumb, vacuous moose eyes. What the hell is wrong with Swedish chicks? She didn't even say goodbye. Eh, screw it. I gotta get to class—I've got a quiz to ace.

A Quick Note to Self

Dear Imagination:

No. Making slightly lingering eye contact with the bookish, somewhat granola girl on the bus does not mean that the two of you just shared a silent meaningful moment.

Sincerely,

Reason

(P.S.--I'm sorry if the Ben Folds song playing on your iPod at that moment might have led you to think such a thing.)

(P.P.S.--If it's any consolation, that cloud you saw today totally DID look like a chubby cartoon shark.)

My Sports Dream

Actual conversation snippet from a dream I had this afternoon:

SOFTBALL TEAM COACH JASON BATEMAN: Well, here we are. Phoenix.

ME: We're not in Phoenix.

COACH: Well, we're in Kingman. Close enough.

ME: The signs say "Placentia." We're in California.

COACH: Well, San Diego is IN Kingman.

The Dream in Which I Am a Bad-Ass Action Star

I had another weird dream last night. I was trying to get to a college to do something (I can't remember what) by a deadline, but I ended up on some strange university campus on the other end of town. I asking around for directions, hoping to catch a ride from someone, when I met two lovely young single mothers pushing strollers with super cute babies in them. They wanted to find the same college, but didn't have any transportation either. I thought that I should leave them behind and try to go it solo, but their babies were, like, sooooo ridiculously adorable that I decided to let them tag along on my quest.

After wandering around a bit, we began to realize that all the shop and street signs were in Spanish. I thought we were lost in Santa Ana, California, but soon realized that we were stranded in a scary Mexico border town. None of us had a passport, and we were all afraid that we wouldn't be able to get back to the U.S., so we found a trench that we knew would lead us across the border back to home. The trench led to a concrete-walled tunnel. As I advanced through the tunnel, I suddenly realized that my travel companions had vanished. As I began to reach the end of the tunnel, I sensed that something horrible had happened to them.

I was just feet away from the exit to America, but it was being blocked by some creepy Josef-Mengele-looking dude in a white lab coat, and his tough-looking Mexican henchman. I knew that they had killed the young ladies and their babies. I was enraged. Suddenly, I was Danny Trejo (awesome, I know). I'll spare you the details, but there was horrific Robert-Rodriguez-movie-style bloodshed involving an ice pick, a sharpened chisel, and a box-cutter.

I made my way past the bodies of my slain foes and walked through the door leading to Main Street, USA. People lined the streets, watching a marching band in a parade. I made my way through the crowd and on to freedom, but the sweet relief of my homecoming was marred by the horrors that I had faced. I was a survivor. And I was still Danny Trejo (still awesome, yes). Then I woke up.

The Dream About the Moon Cat

I had a dream last night that my friend Ben Stumpf had traveled to the moon and had just returned to Earth. I was quite impressed, but I also found it a rich source of joke material. I made a nuisance of myself making lame moon jokes. At one point, for some reason, Ben was standing in a vacant city lot doing some kind of weird Harlem shake type dance. I thought he looked like a spaz, but other people from the neighborhood were drawn to him, and soon, the lot was full of people centered around Ben, dancing the same spazzy, jerky movements, all without music. I shouted: "He says he just came back from the moon!" All the dancing stopped, except for Ben's. Everybody eyed the writhing astronaut as if looking at a lunatic whose lunacy might be an incurable contagion, and they slowly backed away from him, dispersing and leaving him dancing alone in the vacant lot.

I thought the whole incident hilarious. He did not, as he later made clear in newspaper editorial in which he soundly excoriated me for taking his greatest triumph in life (going to the moon) and somehow turning it into a joke to make him look like an ass. I felt horrible. I apologized profusely and told him personally that I thought he was a total badass because, after all, HE WENT TO THE FREAKING MOON!!! He didn't seem persuaded by my apology and was still visibly upset with me. Then things got much worse.

He had brought back with him the first cat to ever go to the moon. The cat wandered around the neighborhood, exploring its urban surroundings. Suddenly, a huge yellow dog the size of a small horse caught sight of the cat and gave chase. I grabbed a large club and tried chase him down in order to stop him from hurting the moon cat, but I was too late. I could hear snarling and cat cries coming from behind a dumpster. When the dog finally emerged, moon cat blood all over his face, I was filled with a seething rage. I lifted up my club to administer the ultimate punishment. The beast looked up at me, and I immediately feared that I might be next on his menu. He was massive--more like a bear than a dog. I realized that there was no way I could fight such a monster and win, but I was so mad, I didn't care. Then I looked into his eyes. They were filled with such innocence and trust. He had no idea at all what I had planned for him. I felt strange. Guilty. I lowered my club and started petting the bloodied dog. His fur was surprisingly soft, his nature surprisingly gentle. Suddenly, all was forgiven, and we walked off into a serene urban sunset.

The Dream That Turned Into A Cartoon

I had a lot of crazy dreams last night. One of them was a recurring bit with Margo Kidder's Lois Lane trying to find her voice in the world of arts and crafts ("Excuse me. What is 'de-COOP-age?'") in the hopes of making millions and travelling all over the world (because world travel is apparently not likely to happen when you're a star journalist for a major metropolitan newspaper).

My favorite, though, was an X-Files dream. Scully and Mulder were married suburbanites, retired from the FBI. Scully was visibly preggers. They were having a barbecue at their new suburban home, when one of their old FBI buddies shows up to tell them that the "insectoids" are attacking and that the FBI director is sending a car for them. At that moment, in the background, there are 30-foot high green creatures approaching that look like giant Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but with buzzing dragonfly wings. Suddenly, everything turns into some bizarre X-Files, Simpsons, TMNT animated mash-up as Mulder (yellow with blue hair) and Scully (now looking exactly like Marge Simpson) take off in a convertible, dodging missiles and laser beams being fired by hostile giant mutant ninja turtles. Pure awesomeness.

Daydreaming About Miss Gillan

It is 8 years in the future, and I am attending a gala fundraiser for my research team's work toward a cure for the newly discovered zombie retrovirus, Z1N1. Across the room I spy the most elegant and radiant woman I have ever laid eyes upon. My heart quickens as I make my way through the chattering throng of celebrities and wealthy socialites, till I find myself standing next to the stunning, red-haired beauty.

"Well, and who might you be?" I ask.

She turns to look at me, and an expression of dazzled awe crosses her delicate face as she encounters the dashing and distinguished microbiologist before her.

"I'm Karen," she replies, offering her hand.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Karen," I answer. "My name is Frank."

She blushes slightly at the gentle, yet manly touch of my hand on hers as she stands transfixed by my disarming, yet reassuring gaze.

"And what brings you to this event, Frank?" she asks, as a coy smile illuminates the soft, feminine contours of her lovely face.

"I am part of the research team," I answer with a cool, confident casualness.

She is visibly impressed. She senses that she is in the presence of a man whose brilliance is exceeded only by his masculine good looks.

I give her a sly smile. "I must say that it is truly a pleasure to make your acquaintance...Miss...Gillan, isn't it?"

A hint of surprised delight flashes in her eyes.

"Why, yes," she says, "I am Karen Gillan."

"Miss Gillan, would you care to have a drink with me?" I ask, offering her my arm.

"I would be delighted," she replies giddily.

And so we spend the evening chatting like two new lovers drunk with the thrill of having met their perfect matches. She is swept away by my easy charm and scintillating wit and is utterly awed by my encyclopedic knowledge of infectious diseases. I drink in the sweetness of her girlish exuberance and her playful joie de vivre.

And thus are our lives forever transformed.

In Remembrance of a Lost Love

Many years ago, I had an inexplicable infatuation for some bland, unimaginative, buttoned-down librarian type who liked non-kung-fu-related Chinese movies and who thought that rocking out to Aerosmith meant that she had a sassy, iconoclastic "wild" side. She told one of my friends that she felt that I was really intelligent, and that she often enjoyed talking to me because we had deep, interesting conversations, but that I was just too "immature" for her. I responded to this bit of news by telling my friend that this woman probably had cooties and that she was a stupid stinky girl anyway. Also, I may also have somewhat colloquially expressed a desire that she go engage in violent erotic congress with herself. I can't remember. I was a much angrier young man back then.

Not long after that, she married one of the most boring people I've ever met--some over-skinny, humorless, pasty-faced middle manager at the credit card company where we worked. I assume they now have 2.5 beautiful, boring children and live in a boring little house somewhere in Boringsville, AZ where they will live lives of quiet boredom until they can both retire to a boring retirement community in Boring Beach, Florida. Every morning at 5, they will have boring breakfast together, then split off for their boring days. He will go play boring geezer golf with other retired boring corporate middle-management types and reminisce about the various corporate down-sizings they experienced or barely escaped over the years. She will hang out with her boring granny friends and talk about the latest boring episode of American Pop Star, Inc. while knitting socks and ugly sweaters for the grandkids, and unattractive and boring but functional shawls for each other. Every Friday night, they will have a boring soup for dinner at 4, play a couple boring games of UNO, solve the boring newspaper crossword puzzle together, watch a boring rerun of CSI: Des Moines, then retire to bed promptly at 7.

And I will die young and good-looking in a steel cage match with a genetically-engineered velociraptor because I'm awesome and she's not.

Christmas is Dead, Long Live Darth Vader Day!

Since the passing of my mother four years ago, and the repose of my grandmother almost two years ago, the various holidays of the year have lost their luster. Until now, I had never realized how important a role matriarchal enthusiasm played in making holidays vital and festive occasions. I never would have set up a Christmas tree if it weren't for the joyful prodding of my mother every year, just after Thanksgiving. Indeed, I have never set up a Christmas tree in all the years I've lived alone, except for the one year that my mother sent me a small plastic tree with fiber-optic sparkly stars. Christmas trees are just not something most bachelors fuss with.

Now that I am comfortably set in my bachelorhood ("I'm a loner, Dotty--a rebel."), I assume that the holidays will run together like all the other days of the year, except that everyone outside of my wonderfully cozy little world will be seen periodically scurrying about with a frantic fervency that now to me just seems...tiring. I have neither need nor inclination to join in their insanity. I am finally in a position to make up my own holidays whenever I feel like it, and the ritual observance—set by me, of course—invariably consists of a 12-pack of delicious micro-brew, a frozen pizza, and a Korean horror flick of some sort. So to all of you, I would like to wish you and yours a very Happy Friday, or as I now choose to proclaim it, Darth Vader Day.

The Dream With The Feast

I had a dream last night that I was walking around and I came to an open-air eating area. I saw a large, wealthy family eating breakfast at a huge dining table just loaded with delicious food, including plates stacked with thick bacon and mounds of breakfast sausages. I went and sat alone at a different table at a distance, watching them. I noticed that one of the young women at the table was someone I knew (her name's Kayla). I hatched a brilliant plan to gain her attention. I reached into my backpack and pulled out the only food in my possession--a single slice of white bread. It was a crusty end piece, and I ate it slowly, making sure to leave the crusty side visible at all times. I never glanced in her direction, of course, but just kept taking sad bites from my crust of bread.

At this time, another friend of mine, Gary Allen, just happened to walk by and saw me munching on my sad little slice. "What are you eating?" he asked. "A ghetto breakfast bar," I answered. He grabbed it from my hands, took a couple of huge bites out of it, and handed it back to me. While I stood there staring at him, completely dumbfounded at his monumental douchiness, Kayla had appeared at my table. "Hi guys," she said.

I turned to look at her, acting surprised to see her. "Oh, hey," I said.

"My family is eating over at that table," she explained, pointing to the Promised Land of succulent breakfast awesomeness. "We have way too much food so I was wondering if you guys would like to come and eat with us."

Before I could even respond, Gary had launched off like a feast-seeking missile. I scrambled to collect my possessions and take off after him, filled with a heady sense of accomplishment at the effectiveness of my scheme. I am a pathetic genius.

Dreaming of Harry Potter, Japan, and the Blues

Last night I had an epic Harry-Potter-related dream in which there was a movie promotional contest that was actually real and enabled muggles like me to help Harry and his friends defeat Voldemort.

Then my weird brain totally switched gears and I found that I was a former cop working as a bodyguard for an escort service in Japan, supposedly. I say supposedly because I didn't actually guard anybody. Instead, I spent most of the dream discussing handguns with my partner, trying to sort through Japan's complex laws and cultural rules to figure out how to sell a car, and worrying to myself that I would make a lousy bodyguard because I didn't actually have any martial arts skills (but I discovered, much to my surprise, that I was actually remarkably adept at aikido somehow).

Then I switched gears yet again. I was back in America, carrying a badass katana like the one Michonne uses on The Walking Dead. I walked to the entrance of what I thought was a new karate dojo in the neighborhood, and, in order to avoid any unpleasant misunderstandings, left my weapon at the door before going inside.

Once inside, I realized that it was not a dojo, but a sheet music store (apparently, it's easy to confuse the two). I asked the guy if they had any books about the harmonica. He said they only had one or two and pointed them out. One was a book and CD combo of classical harmonica and recorder duets. The other was actually just a religious Chick tract about a harmonica blues man who spends his life in dissipation and either dies and goes to hell or finds Jesus at the last minute and goes to heaven. I wasn't sure which because I didn't actually read the whole thing. Instead, for some reason, I had cut out all the faces from the tract and was trying to meticulously tape them back when I finally decided to just cough up the pocket change and buy the stupid thing. I looked at the price and it was $25.00. Apparently, it was some sort of rare collector's item. Oops.

A Most "Curious" Dream

I had a dream that I was traveling to the desert with Curious George. I stopped off at a convenience store to buy a bottle of booze (just like in the kids' books!). I noticed that the previous bottle of booze I had purchased at a different store was still full, but was missing a cap. I had purchased that bottle at another store in the same chain as the one I was at now, so I asked the manager for a replacement cap. He didn't have one, but told me to go back to the original store and request one. He then handed me exactly $100 in assorted bills (to go buy a replacement bottle?) and sent me on my way.

I hit the road toward the desert, but just before the freeway exit I realized that I was driving around with a big cap-less bottle of booze in the front seat of my car. I decided to pull off into a residential street and take care of things. I pulled in front of a house and opened the trunk of my car. I took a paper towel and twisted it, then folded it in half and stuck it in the mouth of the bottle. Then I positioned the bottle next to the spare tire so that it (hopefully) wouldn't fall over. I noticed that there was an old empty liquor bottle in trunk (because I apparently have a strong affinity for old John Barleycorn). I decided to pitch my empty. I looked around and saw a recycle bin in front of the house where I was currently parked. I lifted the lid of the bin and saw a stack of bottles and cans sitting in the middle of the bin, with lots of empty space surrounding it. Being careful not to disturb the precarious stack, I oh-so-gently placed my bottle on the top. As I gingerly replaced the lid, I heard a loud clink as one of the bottles was dislodged from the stack inside and fell to the bottom of the bin. Just then I saw the owner of the house open the curtains of her front picture window and glare at me suspiciously. I had a strong feeling that she was about to call the police about my suspicious car. I realized that it was time to flee the scene, but then a very dark thought flashed into my head. I had Curious George with me. Curious George was a monkey. Cute, sure, but in reality a wild, brutal beast born in the dark heart of the savage jungle. Perhaps I could turn him loose on the household and let him satisfy the "curiosity" of his primal simian blood lust on the flesh of my enemies. I imagined the horrific, gory carnage for just a moment.

I got in my car and headed for the highway.

Apocalypse No

A little over a year ago, my old man and my uncle Ivan let a couple of female transients stay over at our apartment for a couple of nights. One of them, named Katie, was a Tarot-card-reading, magic-loving schizophrenic who, as she informed my Uncle David, died twice ON THE MOON. She was cool. She knew Harry Houdini's real name and was absolutely delighted when she found out that I did too. She claimed that he was in the living room with us, and that he wanted me to buy a 1.75-liter bottle of rum and share it with her and her traveling companion (Margaret, I think her name was). As epic as a night of drunkenness with a schizoid transient and her eerily quiet friend undoubtedly would have been, I had to decline Mr. Houdini's request due to a lack of funds.

Katie informed me that she had been drawn to Las Vegas because God told her that she was supposed to meet and marry magician Criss Angel (whose magical powers, she assured me, were real). A couple of days earlier, she had managed to find his house and leave him a note in his mailbox before being chased out of the gated community by security guards. She was confident that he would read her note and find her, though.

Katie also explained to me that the end of the world was coming soon, and that my dad and my uncles were going to be "feet" in the coming kingdom. Then she totally blew my mind. She told me that, as awesome as my father and uncles were, I was greater than they. Wow, right? But yeah, really. She said that I was destined to marry Ruth, the woman from the Old Testament, and that in the coming kingdom I would be both a foot and...A HAND! Awesome! I had no idea what that meant, but she assured me that it was a VERY good thing. Also, through her, God told me directly not to "hit on" his "daughter" (Katie) like "the others" (my uncles) did. Even though she was actually an attractive young woman, I had no difficulty complying with this divine edict--it must have been a powerful gift of grace that gave me such restraint. She believed that God had led her to us because she, Margaret, my dad, my uncles, Criss Angel and I were all supposed to go to the Indian reservation in Arizona and wait for "the bombs to drop." This, she explained, would happen sometime in October of 2012. Well, I had forgotten about it until today. Obviously, the end of the world thing didn't happen as promised. I'm not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. On the one hand, the world wasn't destroyed. On the other hand, I'm not going to marry a biblical saint and become a hand and a foot in the New Kingdom. I can't seem to catch a break.

Dreaming about Commies

Last night, I had a dream about an undetectable Soviet battleship that could "float underwater" (not sure how that's different than a submarine, but it looks like an ocean liner with gun ports sailing underwater). In my dream, the Soviets "decommissioned" them all by blowing them up in the middle of the ocean so that their super secret design would not fall into the hands of the Americans. I'm not sure why they were being decommissioned, since it was the mid-1980's and the cold war was still in full swing, but that thought didn't occur to me in the dream. Unbeknownst to the commie government, one of the ships had been stolen by a sadistic rogue Soviet navy captain and a crew of equally sadistic rogue Soviet commandos, who sailed it all the way to America and attempted to take over an American town and hold it for ransom. Since it was the 1980's, they had to call Arnold Schwarzenegger to come in and save the day. The really cool thing about the dream was that it looked like it was filmed in the style of a 1980's action flick. Dialogue, clothing styles, special effects, and even cinematography were all reminiscent of movies like "Commando," "Rambo," and, of course, "Die Hard." Very cool.

An Afternoon Nightmare

I was trying to take a nap. At first I dreamed that I was on a date with a lovely young lady on whom I'd had a secret crush in the past. The date started off badly as I, being unbelievably nervous, forgot to compliment her on how stunningly beautiful she looked. We had just arrived at the restaurant, when I saw comedian Sarah Silverman sitting on a bench outside the restaurant. I greeted her, of course, and she acknowledged my greeting, but didn't say anything funny or awesome that I could tell all my friends about at future parties ("Oh, man, I can totally see Sarah Silverman saying that! That's so awesome!"). My date didn't know who Sarah Silverman was, so I pointed out Sarah's picture on a promotional poster hanging on the wall. My date did not seem impressed. As we approached our table, my mind began racing to figure out how to tell her how lovely she looked and, dear God, don't let her think I'm a jerk for not saying anything at the beginning of the date and what exactly do you you call what she's wearing? That's called a blouse, right? I can't call it a shirt, or I'll look like an idiot--unless I call it a blouse and it's not a blouse, but some sort of special chick shirt with a fancy French name. Should I just call it a "top?" That sounds worse than shirt! I switched my attention to the task of providing an adequate description of her skirt when I realized that I was in way over my head and was going to make a fool of myself no matter what. I resolved to myself that I would make it my sacred duty to learn the taxonomic designations of every conceivable item of women's clothing, as well as the myriad fabrics from which they are made. That's the last thing I remember about the date, as my brain suddenly decided to make a rather jarring change of venue.

Suddenly, I was at the heart of a story featuring the Incredible Hulk. He was saving me from hideous, vivid blue-and-gold-skinned humanoid mutants of such horrifying power and malevolence that all I could think to do was flee. So flee I did, even though I knew that, no matter how far I might be able to escape, if The Hulk lost the battle (and lose he well might), these terrifying and hellish creatures were capable of sniffing me out, hunting me down and ripping my flesh to shreds—no matter where on this vast earth I may try to hide.

Thank you, brain. Thank you so much for ruining my nap with your psychotic powers of imagination.

Another Crazy Dream

I had a dream last night that I was some sort of resistance mercenary in a middle eastern country roaming the town at night setting fire to big box stores with a flame thrower disguised as a vacuum cleaner. Then I was part of some group of American subversives in Vietnam trying to overthrow the government at Hanoi. They chased my chunky butt down with a helicopter, but I somehow managed to lose them. Because of that, we had to scuttle the operation, and we waited for some dude to come to the safe-house in a VW bus to extract us. Also, I was hoping to score with one of the cute female fellow-subversives, but no dice. 

Later in the dream, there was a giant balloon/blimp in the shape of Bender from Futurama that floated down out of the sky and crashed into my apartment here in Boulder City. All I could think was: "Man, I gotta get a picture of this."

This Dream Was Kickass

My dreams last night were a huge, dizzying mess: an old flame, a sexy betrayal, going to prison, working at the FBI, a serial murder conspiracy, an evil and politically-connected industrialist, the military, torpedoes, a speed boat explosion, casino gambling, mind control, and karate. Sometimes your brain just says: "This will make no sense, so just shut up, hang on, and enjoy the ride."

An Apocalyptic Dream

I had a dream where most of the people on Earth had mysteriously vanished or died. A bunch of survivors and I had taken refuge at an abandoned theme park/resort where there was nothing to eat but Chick-fil-A. A five-year-old orphan girl, who was also a mathematics prodigy, adopted me as her guardian and told me about an evil kidnapper from whom she had escaped, and who would stop at nothing to find her. I figured he was probably dead like most of the rest of the world, but then she pointed him out on TV. He was a sheriff, and he and his well-armed posse (now a post-apocalyptic band of marauders) were now headed for our theme park....