. . . it's here . . .
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4:54 PM
As a general rule, I hate posts that start off, "Oh, man, I had this crazy dream" (though I'm willing to put that aside when it's my own post and my own dream). Like, ultimately, who cares? Unless it has a really funny narrative--and on the off chance it does, then it's probably not the dream you actually had, you've probably done some heavy embellishing, 'cause, like, when was the last time you dreamt a goddamn romantic comedy, start-to-finish?--no one's going to give a shit but you. See, the problem is, dreams don't translate. I can't explain to you the weirdness of trying to sneak away from a speech being given by a deranged, shotgun-toting George Bush, Sr. on the White House lawn and--even weirder--Bush pere subsequently calling me out by name, trying to shame me into staying. Nor can I convey how fucking terrifying it was to step out into the Barataria Swamp to protect my dogs from a rabid jackal. (A jackal? Do they even exist anymore? WTF?) The stories, the images, can't be shared with others--not even the colors, since I myself tend to dream in shades not seen since Missle Command was a hit at your friendly neighborhood arcade. I can, however, tell you how great it is to be able to remember subconscious scenes, tableaux. I can imagine how my boyfriend would have growled at me last night (if he were here) when I stumbled from the bed at 4:00am, lurching to the study in search of a pen and paper to write the shit down. And I can laugh at myself like I did this morning, trying to decipher the gibberish I scrawled in my half-sleep: "fishing rodeo w/cats." I mean, did I really think I'd be able to remember that crap? In other news, it's time for a redesign. Maybe.
8:23 PM
In the living room Three hounds and one cat Our house is on stilts Water sprays outside
12:16 PM
Last night I had the strangest dream. No, I did not sail away to China in a little rowboat to find ya'. You spoke naught of laundry, nor of anyone holding you. In fact, you weren't there at all... It started out kinda weird. See, I thought I had a vagina. I was sitting at home--or what looked like home, except I was in a recliner, a type of chair I covertly adore but which I'd never have the nerve to display in my own house--and I looked down, and I wasn't wearing any pants, which is kinda strange, 'cause, like, personally I think wearing a t-shirt with no pants is just wrong. Anyway, I looked down, and there it was, plain as day: a big hairy muff. None of the equipment I've grown accustomed to seeing between my thighs over the past thirtysomeodd years. It was, to say the least, somewhat disconcerting... After the initial shock wore off, though, I took it in stride. I knew I was in a dream, and I was ready to have some fun. And I was all like, "Hot damn! I'm gonna go out and fuck me some straight boys tonight!" (Not like I can't do that already with a quick trip to Bourbon Street, but whatever.) So just as I was getting all revved up about the possibility of seeing the average American heterosexual male up close and personal, things changed. For some reason or another, I suddenly realized I wasn't a woman after all, I just needed to whip out the clippers. It was like my subconscious said, "Hold up there, boss. We ain't ready to go down that road just yet. Hey, Lenny! Change the reel!" The next thing I knew, I was in one of the butchest dreams I've had in my whole life--which may not be saying much, but, you know, anyway... So there I was, same place I was before, sitting at home, when all of a sudden the manager of the Atlanta Braves was standing between me and the TV. He was hustling me out there door and into the car, and by the time I realized what was happening, I was in a bullpen--you know, like at a baseball stadium--and I was warming up my arm. The Atlanta Braves were playing in the World Series, and I was called in as the relief pitcher. I played a lot of baseball growing up: left field, second base, third base. I was an all-star shortstop. But one thing I never felt comfortable doing was pitching. So all the time I'm in the dream, I keep thinking to myself, "Man, I throw like a girl." Which, a few scans back in the R.E.M., I was. And then I woke up. My dreams never achieve closure, as the therapists and 12-steppers say today. It's rare for them to have a plot. In fact, I'm surprised when I can even remember them. What does that say about me, Mr. Freud? In other news, happy birthday to the inimitable Jeanne Moreau (not to be confused with the similarly inimitable, though lately deceased, Jean Marais.) Bonne fete!
5:15 PM
I'm back from New York. I saw some good stuff, lots of bad stuff, and many handsome, hilarious, hirsute, huggable, heckling, hotsy-totsy, higfalutin', hyperbolic, hunky, hair-hoppin' homo sapiens--including some reformed bloggers, a couple of blogfolk I didn't know, and a very sassy luddite/author/teacher/friend who recently penned one of the best novels I've read in years, (and I'm not just sayin' that 'cause I'm biased). And I have no pictures to show for any of it, despite the fact that I brought a digicam with me for exactly that purpose. Anyway, like I said, I'm back. And what did I learn from the whole experience?
In other news, youknowwho is fine, the hounds are alive, the cat is still a spiteful, loveable wretch. And my bio-mom and sister are total foxes!
11:22 AM
conundrums of travel 1. I have too much on my plate to leave New Orleans, but I am not in New Orleans. 2. I should be at home busting my ass for an upcoming theatre festival, yet I do not like some of the participants (a certain reader of this weblog definitely excluded). 3. I do not enjoy the cold, yet I have traveled to a cold place. 4. I do not necessarily love New York, but I love many of the people of New York. (You know who you are.) 5. I have much work to do here, but I spend most of my time thinking of him.
1:02 PM
So, I have these tics, these things I do. Nothing noticeable, mind you, nothing that would make you stop on the street and say, "Hey, man, watch out! That guy's got a tic!" Just little things, things I do that you can't see, subtle things. Like when I get really irritated or fed up with people, I write acronyms. Yes, acronyms. In the palm of my hand. So, let's say, for example, that I'm working on a design project--a brochure, for the sake of argument. And let's say the mealy-mouthed, purple-prose-loving client suddenly changes her mind and says, "Oh, you know what, I'm having second thoughts about the cover. What if we just moved all that copy inside and put a big fuzzy shot of my puppy on the front?" This, after we've had numerous discussions about the cover and the general lack of space for copy and the irrelevance of a puppy in a brochure meant to advertise modern dance. And as the invisible steam starts pouring from my ears, I take my right index finger, and in my left palm I trace the letters "F-O-Y-C-S-W-A-L-M-D-M-J." Which, of course, stands for "Fuck off you cum-sucking whore and let me do my job." And really, who's hurt? I get to vent without brusing those feelings she wears so brazenly on her rayon sleeve, and the idiot gets to speak her mind without...well, without her cosmetically altered nose meeting my fist. So everything works out fine. One day, though, I know I'm gonna snap. So if you're talking to me and my eyes glaze over and I start tracing stuff in the palm of my hand, you might wanna look around, make note of the emergency exits, and hide any stray cups of hot coffee. Just, you know, in case you're the one.
7:16 AM
File under "Richard Is Always The Last To Know": when the hell did this come along? Why wasn't I told? Was there a memo? Perhaps it didn't reach me. Perhaps it was made of chocolate and one of my choco-holic coworkers--I won't name names--downed it in a moment of choco-tragic glory! (That would be par for the course, given said office-mate's affinity for chocolate decadence, death by chocolate, and other morbid confections.) Or perhaps yon memo was written in Sumerian cuneiform! I only have four eyes, people! I can't read cuneiform! For godess's sake, when there's a memo to be passed around, please make sure it arrives on my desk written on paper and in English. Or elementary French. Or perhaps a rebus. Take your pick... Jeez... Yikes... Pant... Pant... Pant. ...Maybe consuming five slices of king cake for lunch wasn't such a hot idea. Anyway, I've been listening to internet radio all afternoon to get my ass in the Carnival spirit in anticipation of several visits from several of you this holiday season. (You know who you are--it's too late to back out now).
4:49 PM
11:28 AM
Lest you think I've been sitting on my ass, boozing it up, and generally wallowing in depravity this holiday season, I'll have you know I've managed to get a few things done--including this craptacular article I wrote for nominal financial gain. So there... Oh yeah: HAPPY NEW YEAR! (Photos of last night's punk rock karaoke New Year's Eve party to follow.) P.S. New Yorkers, I'll be seeing you in a week.
10:39 AM
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