Another Dream for the Ages

The title says it all, I think. And I think you'll agree from my last dream that you are in for a treat. This dream was a bit more tame, by my standards, and definitely more linear than the previous one I posted but it was still incredibly odd. Let me set the scene...<flashback-y synthesizer music>

There I was standing on a stage, a lone spot light illuminating the space around me, and I could hear the sounds of an audience collectively breathing heavily. I peered into the darkness, searching for a face, a hand, anything recognizable that I could latch onto and ease my troubled mind. As the music began to play, I found a friendly face in the crowd and launched into my performance of Alfredo's aria from La Traviata juxtaposed against the pulsating rhythm of a dub step mix.

Soon the music died out and I was left holding out the final note until my lungs caught fire and my voice faded into nothingness. Standing there, in the light and the stillness, the echoes of my song dying softly, I heard the thunderous applause and I walked off stage and down to my dressing room. Once there, I stripped naked and changed into a baseball uniform and slipped behind a curtain draped over a portion of the wall that led me to an underground tunnel.

Inside the tunnel, someone was waiting for me, someone from my past, and she wanted me to escape with her. I was in imminent danger, she said from the stifling darkness, and I needed to follow her and help her find something along the way. As I didn't see the point in arguing, I agreed and we set off in the musty blackness toward whatever and where ever we needed to be going. The farther we walked, the more curious I became about exactly whom it was I was following. Naturally, I reached out and grabbed at whatever my hands could find which just happened to be hair.

The hair was no good to me, it could be anyone, even a fat guy in wig, so I worked my hand down to the shoulder trying to figure out who was leading me down into the earth. The skin was soft, so I was reasonably satisfied that it was indeed a woman and not some feminine sounding man. Suddenly, a light appeared at the far end of the tunnel, and as we drew closer I could work out more features. 'Twas my old hooker friend Tiffany, and the light we came into illuminated her features and our current surrounding.

She had led me to a sewer. Typical, I thought, now she was going to rape me in the rat infested pipelines of the underground. Once I took in the fact that we were in a sewerline, Tiffany explained to me that we were now on the run from the Nazis and in search of a long lost shoe. Great, I thought, I'm Baron von fucking Trapp. Since we were officially on the run, we did next that which is only logical and stripped down naked so as not to leave any traces that we had been where we currently trod and set about the business of climbing through the muck toward a distant set of confusing pipes.

As we plodded through the foul smelling poop water, Tiffany further explained that the shoe we were after was the mighty and mythical Golden Chuck, a shoe so legendary and powerful that he who held it would wield the strength of 1 million gibbons. I hate basketball, is all I could say. And we pressed on.

We soon came upon a ladder leading up toward a platform, and being the consummate gentleman I let Tiffany ascend first. Once we reached the platform, I spied a small opening in the wall with a faint glow coming from within. I lay down in the grimy, slimy, wetness that coated the rough concrete and peered through the hole. I grew excited, not visibly (that would have proved painful in my present position), and marveled that we had found our quest. As I reached my hand slowly into the breech, Tiffany began humming a tune that was familiar to me but I couldn't quite place it.

With my fingers beginning to fumble with one of the laces of the Golden Chuck, I suddenly remembered the song being hummed behind me. It was Dies Irae, and as the large stone cracked down on my skull, I cursed at myself.

Apologies, This Is Probably Longer Than Your Attention Span

First thing's first, my attempt to avoid any and all trite, over-televised, over-politicized meet-and-greets masquerading as a 9/11 "memorial service" was a resounding success. Even though I did not stay away from the television as I had thought I would (come on, it was opening Sunday of the NFL season), I have a keen sixth sense about when someone is going to do or say something that I don't want to hear and was able to deftly mute any and all who sought to thwart my peace bubble.

I also decided to take an extended hiatus after my last posting to get some affairs in order, namely to finish reading the Vince Flynn novel I had been putting off and rabble rousing with the locals; there was much rabbling, far too little rousing, and a maddening plot that didn't resolve itself by the end of the novel leading to my procurement of the next in the series.

And then today, all day, at least up until about an hour ago, it rained. That's right, rain. That most precious of liquids squirting from the sky and covering the land with what I have always imagined to be God's favorite sexual act. Even with that stunning visual, I still very much enjoy the rain. It makes me happy, makes me wish I was in London, makes me want to prance like Legolas through Middle Earth. And don't try to tell me he didn't prance, he did. "Light of foot" is just a nice way to say prancing homosexual with big, misshapen ears frolicking about in tights....but I am dangerously close to getting off topic.

I love rain. I love the smell, I love the feel, I love that it makes dirt not kick off the ground straight into my eye. As much as I love the rain, and all that goes with it (rainbows, wet dog smell, unemotional self-love with the windows open), I hate what it does to people - particularly in a drought striken area...in the Bible Belt...of Texas. People around here routinely lose their minds when anything wet falls down from the clouds. Of course that's not to imply that they hadn't already lost their minds before, most of them already had done and are batty as fuck. But rain makes their mental disorder that much more apparent. They forget how to drive, they forget how to walk, they even forget how to be civil. And I understand, this year especially, there has been no substantial wetness for the better part of six months around here. Believe me, I understand that - I live here, too. But to completely go bat shit crazy and not be a decent human being is insane. Aside from that I have noticed something that, while not completely categorized as crazy, bothers me for some reason that I don't think I can accurately explain.

Whenever it rains, whether it be the first in a long while or the tenth day straight, the air becomes choked with the same sentiment of praise to God. Granted, I think God is probably praise worthy and I won't ever stop someone from doing so, but every single time that it rains there is a veritable shit storm of the exact same words either IRL or on the book of faces or the annoying bird noise announcement maker. And I can only take hearing/seeing/reading it so many times.

"God is ever faithful"

Hmmm, cute platitude. Shitty cliche. Even shittier basis for praise.  This one is usually in reference to how God is always looking out for his people and taking care of them, faithfully doting upon them and showering them with kindnesses. Interesting thought, but completely weird to me. If he were ever faithful, why let things get into such a precarious position in the first place? Isn't the benefit of omniscence and omnipresence that you can be everywhere, know everything, and take precautionary steps to prevent harm to those whom you steward? And yet, God seems to be some sort of sadist, constantly drumming people and killing them off or slowly torturing them with fire, famine, and fear.

"God answers prayers"

Another cute indoctrination quip. I get that prayer is the tool in which people 'talk' to God, and I understand that God 'answers' prayers in some people's minds. What I don't understand is how people think that the coincidental alignment of what you desire and some arbitrary action that somehow magically precipates this is the answer to a prayer. Especially interesting is when coincidences don't line up, and people throw out the contigency gem

"The answers come in God's time."

What the fuck? No, no, no. Now you're just adjusting your belief system to placate yourself because if you lose faith you think you will die and rot in Hell. Yeah, I do actually think that time has something to do with it but not in how it relates to selfish desires requested to God in the guise of it being beneficial to someone other than you, you selfish twat. To say that things come in God's time also bothers me for one other reason - it's ALL God's time. There is no ownership of time by humanity, no rent-to-own policy, no timeshare. Time just is and you are stuck in it, an insignificant carbon bubble in the stream. Therefore, most things will NEVER get answered and you will die having changed your beliefs and views on God simply to assuage your delicate sensibilities.

And of course, I will undoubtedly have touched many nerves, might even get a couple pieces of hate mail or some lovin'. I prefer lovin' but won't shy away from hate, since hate actually makes me happier to know that I have power over someone. Simple fact is, to me, rain is rain. It comes down, greens things up and I am generally happy about it. I don't think it's the answer to a mass prayer-a-thon, weather patterns change and eventually all cyclical things come back around. I'm not intentionally trying knock people for whatever they think but I'm sick of hearing about your shit. Think what you gotta think to fake yourself happy, but don't fucking proclaim it ad nauseum because I might just stab you one day. Who knows, I could be the answer to your prayer of not wanting to have to go to work every day if I paralyzed you. It could be a win/win.

Fuck September 11

I'm intentionally addressing this subject a week in advance because it is my hope that on the appointed day, I will be cut off from all electronic devices and means of having to hear or see anything to do with that which we all know is going to be a deluge of sentimentality, chest banging, and political jockeying for the 2012 election.

September 11, 2001

I was in high school on that day, and that is all I am going to say about that. I refuse to be a part of the rehashing, but I will address it as there is nothing more I loathe. Do not get me wrong, that day was terrible. Many people lost their lives, families torn a-blah blah blah, rhetoric and jargon of nostalgia. It was something that should have never happened, but since it did we cope, adapt, and move on. Except that we don't, move on at least. How can we when around every corner, every year, there are any number of people and politicians bringing it up and forcing people to remember the terror of that day.

While I do agree it was tragic and that those who were directly affected have a right to remember the loved ones they lost, how fucking dare anyone else dredge up the past and use it as a tool to get TV ratings, get elected, re-elected, or blown by a grieving intern. It is an abhorrence and a travesty that a terrorist attack on the American public be utilized by those weasels and leeches that "protect and represent the interests of its' people." What the fuck gives them the right to falsely empathize with people that actually lost someone that day when they sit behind their desks, raping the Constitution, and pencil pushing American freedom into the paper shredder? And as far as protecting the interests of the people, well let us not start down that primrose.

The fact of the matter is that lives were lost. Lives are lost every day, it's a part of the life cycle - shit has to die. The only difference was on that day, those that died had no control over their own fate and the manner in which they were killed was publicly televised and subsequently used as a buy-in chip to the World Americanization Tour. Because of the grim realization that no one is as in charge of their own fate as they think, the bastards in Washington decided to take it upon themselves to tell us exactly how we were going to "be safe" by following their "guidelines."

Time heals all wounds

I'm a bit off track, but not really. By having a memorial every single year, and this year being the 10th so it's just bigger and more political, there is never going to be a return to normalcy. Yes, "normal" is relative, and yes, "normal" changed forever that day. I've heard the fucking catch phrases, too. But in order that people begin to feel normal, they need to be allowed to move the hell on and not be repeatedly beat over the head with the tragedy that befell a decade ago. That's like having a cut on your arm and just before it has time to close up you rip it open with a box cutter, and continue to repeat that process for 10 years.

While I do think that the event should not be completely written off and forgotten, I don't see why it is the business of govenment officials to annually parade about at memorial services they don't give a shit about, weren't affected by, and only show their face at to make the people that mistakenly elected them think they do give a damn so they can be re-elected to their bloated pensions, tax funded vacations, closet homosexual affairs, and continued rape of American freedom.

So, as respectfully as possible, fuck September 11. Not because I am angry at the bad bad terrorist man for what he did, or because I'm anti-American, or not patriotic. None of that rings true, I have personally moved on. I coped, I adapted, I moved on. No, I say fuck September 11 because the instant those events began to unfold and right up to this very day, the people who died in the planes, trying to escape buildings, or trying to save lives of others became, and forever will be, nothing more than a footnote in the bibliography of every mother fucking liar that sits in a seat in Washington, D.C. The people ceased to exist as people, ceased to matter as people, and instead have become lost in the larger symbollic collapse of mortar and steel that is used as a means to get elected by slimy, low-life, ass hats that do nothing, and care nothing, for the people who put them where they are.

If Dreams Are a Wish Your Heart Makes, I Want a New Heart

Last night, I had a dream. Not uncommon since, according to all manner of medical evidences, we all dream multiple times throughout the course of the night. However, I find that it is a rare occasion that I will actually remember a dream. And in typical fashion, the dreams I manage to remember are of the most insanely off-the-wall variety. Today was no exception. So this, in essence and in pictographic form, was my dream.

Ewan McGregor was walking down the street with me. I don't really know where we were going or where we were, it was a post-modern village that appeared to be made of chocolate covered houses. It was sort of like that weird poem about Jesus on the beach except I could see him and we weren't leaving footprints in the pavement.

Suddenly, out of nowhere there was an opening in the street. A voracious manhole had opened itself and was awaiting the arrival of McGregor and myself. Reluctantly, and because there was no way around the gaping hole, we allowed ourselves to fall into the hole. Not knowing where we would end up or if we would be alive by the end of our plummet into darkness.

As Ewan and I plummeted farther and farther, deeper and deeper, losing our sense of direction and time in the ever deepening darkness, we became acutely aware that something was amiss. Of course, there was no way to know in the pitch blackness, but just as we began to think there was no end to our forever free fall there was a soft splashing sound and the sensation of being both cold and warm; like taking a piss in the public pool. We had finally hit the bottom, and had landed in a mud wrestling pit. Across from where we landed, there was a ninja holding a chicken.

Before we could react to the shock of being plunged into the darkness of an underground mud wrestling pit, Michael Buffer began ushering in the improptu bout with his forever classy baritone.

As the match began, we quickly learned that we were outclassed by our nimble ninja opponent. He was agile, strong, and lightning quick, not least of all because I happened to notice that he wasn't slogging through the mud like we were but was walking atop the mucky goo. In a calculated move, I sprinted left as Ewan feigned to the right and I tackled our ninja, knocking his hood to the muddy floor. I was aghast at what my manuever had revealed, we were mud wrestling dear old JC himself.

I felt a little bit bad about wrestling with the son of God, but not really. He started the whole thing, so I was defending myself. And then, once his identity was revealed, something happened that I did not expect. Not unlike a whiny, spoiled tool, JC up and rage quit. He started throwing mud everywhere and cursing, screaming things I had never even thought of before. I shouldn't have but I started laughing.

Eventually, Michael Buffer came into the ring and delcared me and Ewan McGregor the winners and offered us our tasty prize, a delicious cheesy bowl of magical macaroni. I enjoyed it most, I think, which was unfortunate. For unbeknownst to me, the more you ate and enjoyed the macaroni, the more likely it was that you would be transported somewhere else, somewhere unhappy.

And then it happened. Upon taking my last luxurious bite of victory pasta, I closed my eyes and found myself astride a My Little Pony and flying through the air. The air was stiff and hot and full of fire and I was strapped to the back of this stupid pony, flying faster and faster toward a strangely colored rainbow.

Unfortunately for me, this was no mere rainbow. It was the devil's rainbow, a rainbow so sinister and intimidating that the colors were not colors but the souls of different ethnicities collected as payment for unreturned Blockbuster DVDs. And thanks to my unexpected transportation atop the My Little Pony, I was closing in fast. We slammed into the rainbow and it exploded souls into the air.

All the souls melted together in flight, forming a super being. There before me, was a large golden Buddha holding a tennis racket. Buddha took one look at me and began swinging his tennis racket menacingly, laughing hysterically. The My Little Pony carried me nearer the devil spawned Buddha and I soon began to understand what was to happen, but unsure of eactly how it would come about.

With a mighty swing of his racket, held in a Western grip, Buddha smacked me off the top of my pony. I was hurled high into the air and saw fluffy marshmallow fields below me. I began to descend, rapidly picking up speed and preparing to slam to my death when I was hit once again with Buddha's racket. This time I was sent forward, lightning fast, and a soon passed out from the sheer force of gravity and speed I was fighting against. When I awoke, I discovered that I had entered into the Hotel California which I assume is what hell is really like since you can check out anytime you like but never leave.

...and then I woke up, hungry for a fried egg sandwich which I promptly made and devoured before getting ready for work.