Me to My Dreams: You're Fired

Two nights ago I dreamed about Arnold Schwarzenegger. He was being mean to Adam West.

How could anyone be mean to Adam West?

Last night I dreamed about Donald Trump competing in a dance-off/golf tournament in the basement of a comic book store. He got three holes in one. I don't think his dancing was very good, though.

Tonight, I'm tired. Apparently my subconscious doesn't find it restful to repeatedly dream about rich white guys who used to star on "The Apprentice."

Aww, they used to be friends.

Go figure.

My point is, I have all these great ideas for posts I want to write. But I'm too bloody exhausted to write them. Also, they mostly involve taking photos of random stuff lying around my place, and just the thought of framing, shooting, editing, and posting photos is wearing me out.

So I'm going to go to bed early tonight. With the aid of a Benadryl, perhaps I'll sleep soundly and well and untroubled by the wacky narratives my brain loves to come up with just to fuck with me.

Then I can get back to writing about the important stuff. Like how I bought three pounds of old buttons on eBay. Or my ongoing war against drain flies. Or my thoughts on monkey clones.

I just want to get back to normal, is what I'm trying to say.

So good night, my Drunkards. May our dreams shut the hell up and let us sleep for once.

Snakes and Dreams and Whatnot

Last night I dreamed I finally got a pet snake.

In my dream it was called a Grenier's green snake. This is not a real thing. But it was green and looked much like a milk snake with green pigmentation.

Picture this, only green.

In my dream I took my snake to work and let it crawl around my office. I thought it might freak out my co-workers, but for the most part they were very chill about my snake. It helped that he was a very calm, friendly snake. There were no problems as he slithered from office to office, minding his business.

Now, in my waking life, I'm a bit obsessed with spotting snakes in the wild. Whenever I go for a walk, my eyes are trained on sidewalks, grassy areas, gardens, hoping to catch a glimpse of a native Texas snake. So far I've been disappointed.

But in my dream, apparently the presence of my lil green snake attracted others, and soon my office was full of snakes of all kinds. Long, short, skinny, fat...They were all harmless, but you couldn't walk into a co-worker's office or a restroom without encountering a fat, pretty snake. No big deal. No one ever complained. Awesome, right?

Except that I lost my snake. The one who was my personal pet, the one who attracted all the others. Occasionally I would find a different kind of snake perished in a restroom or other place, presumably drowned or starved in such an unfamiliar environment. And I would despair that I would find my Grenier's green snake in the same state.

Eventually I woke up without finding out what happened in my dream.

It happens.

But I can't quite get his dream out of my head.

Dream interpretation websites I've consulted say that dreaming of green snakes indicates a creative resurgence, a transformation, a resurgence. Which sounds wonderful.

Except for the sites that say dream snakes symbolize extreme jealousy and insecurity.

So I don't know.

I prefer the first interpretation obviously, especially because it more closely mirrors what is actually happening in my life.

But I'm not inclined to ignore the second interpretation, because jealousy and insecurity are totally me, as well.

Who knows, actually?

What do you dream about, Drunkards?

What are you inspired to do as a result?

I want to know.

Shallow Psyche Theater, Starring Vincent Price as My Subconscious

I haven't shared one of my stupid, weird-ass dreams with you in a while.

Like this one.

Or this one.

Or this one.

Not one of mine, but could be. Could be.

Last night, I dreamed that I was with my family, by which I mean not actually my family, but a random assemblage of kids and adults that my subconscious threw together. Will Forte may have been one of them. Or maybe Will Ferrell. Also, Bamm-Bamm.

Don't you feel more normal and well-adjusted
already? You're welcome.

So this ragtag "family" and I made the rounds of several places in my dream-neighborhood in a repeating loop, with each visit slightly different from the last. This is a hallmark of my dreams: Continually revisiting places and trying without success to repeat my experiences each time. Because change is inevitable and you can't recapture the past, blah blah blah.

I'm sure I've mentioned how blindingly obvious my dreams tend to be, right?

Anyway, I was not a particularly good person in this dream. We went into a sort of fancy shop and I knocked over a spinning rack of postcards, which scattered everywhere, and I basically said "Sorry about making you clean that up." We went to someone's house and I demanded to use the private bathroom in the back, then had to be shown how to close the strange, elaborate doors so I could do my business.

Not quite that creepy, but almost.

Then there were the ants.

I noticed that everywhere we went, there were ants. Swarms of the little fuckers, crawling around on everything.

Asleep or awake, I am not a fan of ants.

Don't give me that look. You don't like me, either.

Unsurprisingly, my reaction to the swarming ants in my dream was to try to kill as many of them as possible.

In dream analysis, swarming ants represent internal chaos and turmoil while trying to move toward a goal or resolution. And the method by which you try to kill the ants symbolizes how you are handling said chaos and turmoil in your own life.

So let's just pretend for a moment that I myself have been experiencing turmoil while trying to achieve resolution to a personal problem.

I mean, you've read this blog before, haven't you?

The means I chose to deal with the ants in my dream was poison. And I sprayed that shit willy-nilly: where there were children, where there was food, in other people's homes and businesses, without regard to anybody's well-being or opinion of what I was doing.

In my waking life, I have no idea what kind of "poison" that correlates to.

Vincent Price sort of sums it up, you know?

Could it...could it be that the swarming ants represent the emotional difficulty of moving past a divorce and the poison symbolizes my reckless consumption of vodka to handle the transition, even though it's negatively affecting my child, my boyfriend, and my overall quality of life?

CAN I REALLY BE THAT TRANSPARENT?

Oh hell yes.

There were also flies in my dream, but you don't even want to get into the weird shit people claim flies represent.

Once again, gotta go with Vincent Price.

This has been another episode of Shallow Psyche Theater. May your dreams contain nothing but clumsily literal imagery. Good night.

Grammar (Fewer Drugs Than in the 1970s Edition)

If you are of a certain age, you grew up watching "Schoolhouse Rock" in between Saturday morning cartoons. 

Or maybe you ironically checked out the 90s revival.
Still makes you going on old. And awesome.

I'm completely unashamed to admit that to this day the only way I can count by threes is by recalling the middle part of "Three Is a Magic Number" (and picturing the big football player bursting through the wall, Kool Aid Man-style). Or that I can't recite the Preamble to the U.S. Constitution, but I sure as hell can sing it.

Buy me a drink and find out.

But mostly I was into Grammar Rock. Nouns, adjectives, verbs (that's what's happening!)...I did not learn about the parts of speech in any classroom. I learned them between episodes of "Scooby Doo" and commercials for Lucky Charms and the Game of Life.

And they used to wonder why Generation X was such a bunch of snotty, entitled slackers (really, they did). It's because we had "Schoolhouse Rock" and the rest of you geezers and hippies and millennials didn't.

But here's the thing. I just discovered that "Schoolhouse Rock" was totally late to the party when it came to teaching grammar.

I don't even know how I stumbled across this, except that my Internet searches typically take me to the weirdest places on the Web that aren't actually porn or anime (or, of course, both). But when I found it recently, I knew I had to share it with you guys. Because it's super-neat. And because even if you don't think it's super-neat, you love me enough to indulge me.

Goddamn, you guys are awesome.

If Bill Murray says so, it must be true.

Anyway, long story short. Apparently there was a dude who lived in the 19th century whose name was Elias Howe, and he didn't invent the sewing machine. This was a different guy, and he was into music and dancing. Specifically, he liked to make up dance calls - you know, like the square dances you had to do in grade school, but back then people actually enjoyed that shit.

Elias Howe wrote a LOT of dance calls. Books and books worth. Um, you can check them out on Google Books if you really have a hankering to read 19th century dance calls. No pressure.

But I found this one that is truly amazing. It is the Victorian-era version of Grammar Rock. I love, love, love it. It's catchy and perfectly correct, just like those cherished cartoons of my youth, without the sometimes-trippy animation.

It makes me happy to read. I hope it makes you happy, too, whether you're a grammar nerd like me or a fan of catchy verses or just kind of a weirdo who can appreciate a 150-year-old version of a Saturday morning cartoon.

Enjoy. :)

MRS. GRAMMAR’S BALL

Mrs. Grammar she gave a ball
To the nine different parts of speech;
To the big and the small,
To the short and the tall,
There were pies, plums and puddings for each.

And first little Articles came,
In a hurry to make themselves known —
Fat A, An and The,
But none of the three,
Could stand for a minute alone.

Then Adjectives came to announce
That their dear friends the Nouns were at hand —
Rough, Rougher and Roughest,
Tough, Tougher and Toughest,
Fat, Merry, Good-natured and Grand.

The Nouns were indeed on their way —
Ten thousand and more I should think;
For each name that we utter —
Shop, Shoulder and Shutter —
Is a Noun, Lady, Lion and Link.

The Pronouns were following fast
To push the Nouns out of their places;
I, Thou, You and Me,
We, They, He and She,
With their merry, good-humored old faces.

Some cried out “Make way for the Verbs!”
A great crowd is coming in view —
To bite and to smite,
And to light, and to fight,
To be, and to have, and to do.

The Adverbs attend on the Verbs,
Behind them as footmen they run;
As thus: “To fight badly,
They runaway gladly,
Shows how fighting and running were done."

Prepositions came — In, By and Near,
With Conjunctions, a poor little band,
As “either you or me,
But neither them nor he” —
They held their great friends by the hand.

Then with a Hip, hip, hurrah!
Rushed Interjections uproarious —
“Oh, dear! Well a day!”
When they saw the display.
“Ha! ha!” they all shouted out, “glorious!”

But, alas, what misfortunes were nigh!
While the fun and the feastings pleased each,
They pounced in at once
A monster — a DUNCE,
And confounded the nine parts of speech.

Help, friends! to rescue! on you
For aid Noun and Article call —
Oh give your protection
To poor Interjections,
Verb, Adverb, Conjunction and all!

The Golden Era (San Francisco, California) – Jan 22, 1865

Author: Elias Howe

Publisher: E. Howe, 1866

Dream Symbolism for the Extremely Dense

As I grow older, my dreams seem to be dropping all attempts at nuance or complex symbolism in favor of slapping me in the face with the Trout of Obviousness.

It's the one on the right.

Last night, following a bout of imsomnia likely brought on by hours of anxiously waiting to hear that Precocious Daughter had landed safely in New York (she did, after a 90-minute delay), I was delivered a whopping Captain Obvious-fueled dream about my life. Freud would have seen interpreting this dream as an affront to his professional dignity.

"I can't even with this dream. smh. lol" is I believe what
he would have said.

So, I dreamed I repeatedly jumped or fell from a crumbling structure and plunged into deep water, struggling - but always managing - to swim to the surface before I drowned.

Sometimes I was foiling a crime. Sometimes I had sidekicks. There was a sighting of the late Omar Sharif. But that was the scene that played out in my sleeping brain, with minor variations for dramatic effect, over and over until my alarm went off.

My subconscious is being unsubtle. Presumably it's had enough of my nonsense and is reduced to screaming "YOU GOT THIS! GEEZ!!!" from inside my head.

Perhaps you agree with my subconscious on this. I am sounding like a broken record these days.

This one. It's probably a disco record, and it's
endlessly skipping on the Bee-Gees singing
"Ah-ah-ah-ah, st--Ah-ah-ah-ah, st--"

Jumping, crumbling, plunging, struggling, surviving. What does it mean?

Sometimes you gotta hit in me in the head with the message. Or with a door.

Here's another part of my dream: I was invited to a party on a boat. There were two access points: One led to people talking and laughing, the other would allow me to explore a different, but empty, part of the boat. I took the latter. But it turns out that what I thought were two entrances to the same boat were actually two separate boats, and the one I was on came loose from its moorings and started to drift. When I drifted into view of the party boat, my boat capsized, and the people just laughed at me and went back to their party.

I woke up before I could discover whether I survived that misadventure.

But I'm pretty sure I know the answer.

Therapeutic Elixir, I Assure You

Tonight I am drinking until my jaw unclenches.

Bruxism. It's a thing.

Work today was ridiculous.

Last night I got about three hours of sleep. And they were punctuated by horrific nightmares in which my spouse and various dogs physically attacked me and gun nuts attempted to shoot me to death for opposing their views.

So I'm tired. Also, clearly I don't handle working with contractors very well.

Tonight I'm trying not to think about selling my house or getting everything done at work or whether my spouse will try to kill me the way I dreamed he did.

I'm just relaxing and drinking.

My jaw feels much better than it did earlier today. Less clenchy, you know?

Ain't nobody got time for that

Tomorrow I can worry about home repairs and budgets and spouses and contractors and co-workers and ridiculous clients.

Tonight I'm making sure my upper and lower teeth don't grind.

It's a pretty good feeling.

Poll question: How do you de-stress? There's no such thing as too many coping mechanisms, after all.

Share and I'll write about it. Tell me why your method is better than vodka. I dare you.

In the meantime, I'm going to go to bed early and hope for better dreams.

G'night, Drunkards.

The Last Thing I Need Is Tryptophan

Precocious Daughter is on Thanksgiving break. That means she gets to stay up pretty much as late as she wants.

thawats/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

She's a bit of a night owl.

I haven't been on Thanksgiving break. I've been going to work this week (although - woohoo! - four-day weekend coming up). That means I need to sleep at night, preferably for seven or eight hours.

Our schedules have been amazingly incompatible.

arztsamui/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

My schedule is in the red trunks.

The last several nights have gone something like this:

At some point in the evening, PDaughter gets on Facetime with her boyfriend.

I go to bed at a reasonable hour.

I then toss and turn for several hours, half-dozing, half hearing muffled teenage giggles mixed with "Friends" episodes on Nick at Nite.

Eventually I get up and trudge bleary-eyed to PDaughter's room and say, "It's whatever o'clock. Wrap up your conversation and go to bed."

I toss and turn for a while longer until I finally fall asleep, at which point I have weird-ass dreams until my alarm goes off.

Every night, whatever o'clock has gotten a little later, my dreams have gotten much weirder, and I've awoken progressively tired.

Right now I should be getting stuff ready in advance for tomorrow's Thanksgiving dinner. But I'm freaking exhausted. And I have to get up early to stick old Tom Turkey's butt in the oven for the big roast.

FrameAngle/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I find this turkey oddly sensual.
Because of exhaustion. Yes, that's it.

But screw it. I need sleep. Perhaps the Thanksgiving elves will whip up some dishes overnight. Or maybe I'll get up in the morning remarkably refreshed and put together a masterpiece with renewed vigor and surprisingly little effort.

Dear Lord, I'm delirious.

Anyway, I'm going to bed very, very soon. If I hear PDaughter giggling at 2:00 a.m., I don't think it will be Cool Mom who gets out of bed to shush her. I think Crazy Mom will be up at bat.

Or maybe I should try some soundproofing.

Perfect.

FREAKED

Last night I was on an airplane.

Artist's rendering.

And there were little TV screens in the seatbacks. If you had headphones, or were willing to pay the Low Price of $3 for a cheap Vietnamese and possibly toxic pair from the flight crew, you could listen to a wide variety of quality programming from A&E, the New York Times, and the New York City Fox affiliate.

Would you believe this is a real person
and not a "Saturday Night Live" character?

I, of course, had neither headphones nor three precious dollars that I was willing to part with. With which I was willing to part. Whatever. So I read my Nelson DeMille novel and occasionally sneaked peeks at the silently chattering screen before me. I saw previews of Wicked and an interview with Barney Frank and Melissa Clark (above) making some weird British cake thing. Wow, was I sober.

Then "30 Rock" came on the NYC Fox channel.

Let me tell you about "30 Rock." Precocious Daughter and I have been watching it on Netflix for the last month or so. And we are hooked. We typically watch a couple of episodes a night. Tina Fey is my ultimate frenemy: I think she's beautiful and smart and funny and talented and inspirational, and I hate her so much.

I love hate her so. fucking. much.

That's my problem, though.

Anyway. As I sat strapped into my 10th row coach seat, an episode of "30 Rock" appeared on the silent screen of pay-me. I watched it enough to determine that it was one PDaughter and I haven't seen yet. And someone is guest-starring in this episode who looks so damn familiar to me. I can't place him. It's driving me freaking insane. And I do my best to try to figure out the plot in pantomime so that eventually, when it comes up in sequence on Netflix, I can remember it and see who this fiendishly familiar actor is.

Mostly I realized that I am absolutely horrible at lip reading, because I couldn't figure out what the hell was going on, except that Kenneth seemed to be taking Jonathan's place as Jack's assistant.

This is sort of apropos of nothing, but it is PDaughter's dream
to acquire a black-and-white buffalo plaid shirt, red T, and
oversized glasses so that she can dress like Alec Baldwin
in Beetlejuice. As if I could make that up.

I tucked that away in the back of my mind, wondering if the stars would someday align and allow me to actually remember that I had seen this episode before at the time that I actually saw the episode when it came up in Netflix. Remember, I had a 2.5-hour flight delay, and by the time I landed in Dallas, I was so tired and loopy I thought I might possibly be a member of the Kardashian family.

Perhaps Bertha Kardashian, who preferred
a more naturalistic beauty.

Fast-forward to this evening. I had a frantic day of playing catch-up at work after less than five hours of sleep, so I might not even believe what I'm about to tell you, except that PDaughter can back me up, although maybe she won't because she doesn't necessarily wish to endorse my craziness.

After dinner we decided to watch a couple of episodes of "30 Rock" on Netflix. That's what we do when we're not watching a couple of episodes of "Hell's Kitchen" or a couple of episodes of "The IT Crowd" or some really mediocre movie like Odd Thomas that I'm told is not anywhere near as good as the book but does star Anton Yelchin which makes up for a lot if you're 14.

As if I understand 14-year-olds, and yes, this is
another reference to "The IT Crowd."

Anyway. Do I even have to make you guess which episode of "30 Rock" was next in the queue?

YES.

The episode that happened to be rerunning on NYC Fox 12 or 620 or whatever it is the night before, the one that I tried and failed to comprehend via lip reading, the one featuring an actor who was so familiar I wanted to French kiss the screen even though I couldn't for the life of me remember who he was, was the very next episode that PDaughter and I were queued up to watch on Netflix.

The odds of this are approximately holy-freaking-shitload to one against, if you're keeping score.

This seems pretty, said the person with zero understanding
of statistics and probability.

I didn't exactly pay close attention to the show, being too busy yelling "OH MY GOD, WHAT ARE THE ODDS, HOLY CRAP I'M SO FREAKED OUT." But I was able to IMDB the actor who seemed so damn familiar to me. Turns out it was Roger Bart, who played creepy George on "Desperate Housewives" and flamboyant Carmen Ghia in The Producers. Such a huge relief to know that.

But still...how goddamn freaky to see the same episode two nights in a row on completely different media?

Also, does Roger Bart not look like a Matthew Broderick
action figure? Also, did I admit I watched
"Desperate Housewives"?

I know, it's totally just a coincidence. Unless I choose to interpret it as a sign, in which case I think I'm about to win the lottery and also start a new religion that reveres high foreheads.

I love coincidences, by the way, because they prove I don't have to worship a crucified Jew to believe in things I don't understand.

Did I mention I'm still running on less than five hours' sleep?

And that I hate Tina Fey and want to punch her in the pancreas right after I French kiss her and ask her for skin care advice?

I think I've covered tonight's topic in sufficient detail, in that case.

Excuse me while I form a religion that prays to airplane TVs.

Four Words

I have to put this down in writing before I forget about it.

There's a lot of backstory to this post that I'm not going to delve into, so possibly it won't make much sense to anyone but myself. How that would be different from most of my posts, I'm not sure. If you want to keep reading, you're welcome as always. Just know that this one is mostly for me so I can keep it straight in my head.

I went to bed in a very strange place last night.

Well, no.

I mean, not like in a Dumpster or an abandoned condom factory or anything like that. I mean in a strange place emotionally and physically.

I had crossed a line with someone I care about very deeply, and in return I got neither anger nor rejection - which I totally deserved and probably could have shrugged off - but sadness and quiet disappointment. Which sort of broke something inside me.

And this person said four words to me that I'm not going to repeat here. But they were said with so much concern and gentleness that they clung to me all day, like a steady wind that won't stop blowing no matter which way you turn. Eventually you just have to turn your face to the wind and meet it head-on or you'll never get through to the place where it's calm.

Those words were still echoing in my head when I went to bed.

I thought I was tired. I was definitely sober (for once), so maybe I just got the two mixed up. And of course I felt sort of broken. Whatever the reason, I couldn't sleep. So I lay there in the dark, thinking about the future I wanted, wondering if it were too late to get there, and worrying about what might happen if I didn't make it.

That last part, especially.

Gradually I came to feel as if I were drifting in an undefinable place between awake and sleep. I observed myself falling into the long, slow breathing pattern of a sleeping person - but that person couldn't be me, because I was awake and making a running commentary in my head about how this other person was falling asleep.

Occasionally I think I really did sleep for short periods, because I would have a vague snippet of a dream and then wake up, commenting on the sleeping person and the dream she just had.

This weird pattern of narrating my own sleep-state from a place of wakefulness continued for several hours, punctuated by creepy silent musings about whether any of this meant I was dying and whether it was too late to keep myself from dying if that's what it was. In turn, those thoughts produced waves of anxiety. But again, it was more like an anxiety-dream, where you can't run fast enough or fly high enough to escape whatever is chasing you, but the feelings never overwhelm you because nothing in a dream is ever sharply defined enough to feel entirely real.

I should also mention that when I was commenting to myself about what was happening to me, in my head I was seeing and hearing Benedict Cumberbatch. Which should have tipped me off as to the extent of tangible reality I was experiencing, but of course at the time it did not. If Benedict Cumberbatch was that interested in my breathing, he could bloody well narrate.

In time the sleeping-me/wakeful-me entity merged into something like true sleep, in which I had unremarkable, silly dreams where I was alternately away at school, trying to impress my boss, and wondering if I could navigate a flooded alley without my car floating away.

I woke up feeling immensely hung over. How unfair that the beginning of alcohol withdrawal feels so much like the crud that made you refrain from drinking to begin with. Hair of the dog, my ass.

Hair. Dog. Ass. It all goes together.

There's a lot of fear in my life right now, a lot of uncertainty. Also a tremendous amount of love and support, if I don't let the fear and uncertainty crush them. The negative feelings are dangerous, but they're also fragile, and since they're part of me, that makes me fragile and vulnerable to whatever happens to them. The bad feelings need to be protected almost as much as they must be protected against. It's as if the two parts of me need to look out for each other, or we'll never get through this whole.

Maybe that's what last night was all about.

I Have a Dream, Bitches

Here’s my dream:

I’m sitting on a beach. I don’t care which beach. All I know is it’s warm, it’s breezy, and there are none of those disgusting sea onions lying around. I hate those things.
 

I'm sure they're not actually called sea onions.
But by any name they make me want to throw up
if I step on them.

But there are lots of hermit crabs scuttling across the sand. Because I like hermit crabs.

I’m in a lounge chair. I’m in the world’s most comfortable lounge chair. I’m looking smoking hot in a bikini

SHUT UP THIS IS MY DREAM OK?

and since this is my dream, maybe the hermit crabs could be singing. Maybe they could be singing old Dr. Hook songs, because I’m really into old Dr. Hook songs right now.

 

Hook, claw, whatever.

Anyway, the sun is shining, the waves are lapping, and I’m slowly baking to a golden brown in my comfy lounge chair. Am I alone? Why no, I am not.

To my left, Johnny Depp is slicing fresh pineapples with a machete and feeding me the pieces. He’s wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and a Speedo. Also, I’m not having the allergic reaction I often have to fresh pineapple where my lips itch and my throat closes up. My dream.

To my right, Hugh Jackman is reading e.e. cummings poems to me. He’s wearing a tuxedo. I just think he looks sexier that way. Oh, and his Wolverine claw is on one hand, so he can gently scratch me when I itch.

I’m drinking fresh pineapple juice…you know, because the pineapples are right there. No alcohol. Are you kidding? I’m on a beach being fawned over by Johnny Depp and Hugh Jackman – could booze make me feel any better? No. No, it could not.

I couldn't find a picture of Johnny Depp in a Speedo,
so you'll have to look at him shirtless. Sorry.

So the day is fine and the crabs are singing “Sylvia’s Mother,” except when I snap my fingers they fall silent. Because the ability to get complete silence on command is every mother’s dream. Then all I can hear are the waves caressing the shore, and the breeze ruffling the palm trees that line the beach, and sound of pelicans making whatever the hell sound pelicans make. There are no seagulls on my dream-beach. Noisy winged vermin, they are.

Maybe I sleep. Without worrying that I should keep one eye open in case someone decides to rifle through my stuff and steal my wallet. No one is going to do that. Because I’ve got Wolverine right here. Also because I didn’t bring a wallet. I have no need of ID here. I’m nameless, blameless, and shameless. Ask Johnny Depp.

Oh, and I can reach down and pick up passing kittens whenever I feel like it. My beach has kittens. Who never, ever use the sand as their litter box.

Pelicans and kittens. Hell, yeah.

 

Eventually I pick up my left-handed Gibson, and of course in my dream I know more than four chords and don’t have to look at the frets for the changes. I improvise a melody; something a little folky, a little jazzy, a little bluesy – in A, why not. Johnny Depp starts to sing, weaving the words of e.e. cummings into the tune. The hermit crabs add harmony. Hugh Jackman strips to his shorts and runs into the ocean, then swims out with smooth, powerful strokes. I don’t know what happens to him after that.

But now I’m alone with Johnny Depp on the beach.

My subconscious is happy to report that he’s a masterful lover. Very tender, and never once digs a knee or elbow into my side. And he smells like toasted coconut.

And marshmallow? Sure, why not?

Afterwards, we’re looking at a spectacular sunset. You know, when we’re not gazing into each other’s eyes. Me and Johnny Depp, who are snuggled together on a lounge chair and it’s not at all cramped and awkward because it’s the most comfortable lounge chair in the world and also magically gets bigger to accommodate me and Johnny Depp.

Just when I think I couldn’t get any happier or more content, he reaches behind his lean, bronzed torso and produces a handful of Snickers Peanut Butter Squared, which he lets fall on my lap. Then with a puff of smoke he transforms into Bestest Friend, and we spend the rest of the evening eating Snickers and pre-sliced pineapple surrounded by kittens and no men.

I never wake up. The end. 

That’s my dream, bitches.

I Want to Write This Down Before I Forget It

I had a really vivid dream last night.

Like this, only I dream in color.

It was unusually lucid and very cool, so I just want to get it down before I inevitably forget how lucid and cool it was.

Here's what happened: My friend SuzyQ invited me to a concert at her office. So I went over there, where the band was setting up in what looked exactly like a wood-paneled family room.

The band was Rush.

Yep. Except Geddy's hair was shorter, and for some
reason Neil Peart had a beard.

So while they're setting up on a little platform stage in the corner - no roadies, they're tuning their own instruments - SuzyQ hands me a flyer. Turns out this is part of a free concert series she does every week at her company. I don't remember all the other acts on the flyer, but the next scheduled show was going to be Yes.

In the dream, I thought: "Wow."

Then Rush proceeded to do a set there in the paneled family room/SuzyQ's office. No light show, no huge amps, just the band playing their stuff and talking to the audience between songs. And there were about 15 people there, tops, just sitting on the floor and listening. And holding up lighters. It was a concert, after all.

Also, a lot of people were smoking cigarettes. I was vaping. Because that's what I do. And at one point Neil Peart asked if anyone had a cigarette. A bunch of people offered them up - I mean, if Neil Peart asks you for a cigarette, you give him a freaking cigarette - but he caught sight of my e-cig and said, "What's that?" So I showed it to him and told him about vaping. I said he could try it if he wanted, except it was empty. But Neil said that was OK, he would buy one for himself later.

I was going to put in a picture of
a Blucig, but when I Googled it
this picture came up, and it's
way cuter than a Blucig.

So Rush finished their set and started breaking down their stuff. I was hanging out with them while they did it, and we were just chatting. Because it's my dream, and in my dream I totally make small talk with Geddy Lee. Then I followed them outside, where they proceeded to load their gear into what looked like an old Volvo sedan. When I asked them why they had agreed to play a venue like this, they just looked me like "Hey, a gig is a gig."

Then Geddy said, "Well, we've got to get back to our tour," and they all got in the Volvo (I think Alex Lifeson was behind the wheel) and drove off.

And that was my incredibly cool dream.

SuzyQ, you're on notice: If you ever actually do this, I'd better be on the invite list. Just saying.

Herding Cats Is Too Easy

Sometimes I think my dreams are a collection of circles. And all I have to do to make them come true is gather them up and count them all.

Of course it's not impossible. It's just very, very difficult.

Oh, and when that's done, then there's just the matter of pushing out the inny bumps and pushing in the outy bumps. No sweat.

And that's all it takes.

Let me know how that works out for ya.

12 Things You'll Never Hear a Dog Say

And if it's ridiculous for a dog to say it, what makes you think you should?