It was a flatish town that resembled certain postcards I have seen of some old parts of New Orleans but maybe mixed with a little bit more Spanish style architecture that I visited oh so recently. The skies were gray and dramatic, except every once in a while, little bursts of filtered sunshine would muscle their way and peek through thin spots in the bellowing clouds overhead causing the wet roads and buildings to shine and sparkle in a clean, purple and orange light.
It was raining off and on so I spent a while wandering though the little town's steets and alleys pondering all the various styles of umbrellas and why it was that so many umbrellas were so boring and typically black when a myriad of other options should and could easily be made available. As sometimes happens, as soon as I began contemplating the various umbrella possibilities, I began noticing a whole bunch of different styles all around me. Big umbrellas that were designed to look like over grown hats of all different styles popped out of nowhere. There was a big one that looked like a big fuzzy cotton ball, one that looked like a gigantic stove pipe top hat, another was an over blown replica of a newspaper boy's hat, lots of girls had giant umbrellas that looked like big Easter bonnets.
"Duh" I thought, "Of course umbrellas should look like giant hats. Why the fuck didn't I think of that?"
It was surprising to me that all of these various examples of amusing umbrella design already existed when just minutes earlier it seemed the whole world was flooded with traditional boring black umbrellas. Interesting what happens if you just open your eyes and look.
My visit revolved around one Mexican villa style mansion. My host was an impeccably groomed, upper class bleach blonde woman with a chisled powdered face who might remind someone of a 50 year old Gwen Stefani but with a cosmopolitan Italian accent and spunk more reminiscent of Bette Davis or some other spitfire long-filter-cigarette-holding dame from the past. The tour of the house revealed room upon undiscovered room all seemingly remodeled in a fashion by which nearly every era of interior design could be spotted somewhere.
At one point during my visit, the small town was bomarded by air in what, by the reactions of the locals, must have been an all too common event, for no one scurried or screamed. It was so ho hum that barely an attitude or comportment was shifted. After the air raid was over people mulled about, curiously inspecting the damage. The attitude by all, including myself seemed more one of discovery and wonderment than of dismay, regret or horror as one would think it would be after having been bombed by some unknown enemy in the sky. I was impressed by their positive outlook. It's was almost as if it were a holiday of sorts.
In the mansion hosting me, a small impromptu tour began as the holes pierced by the unexploded bombs drew light and attention to neglected rooms and layers of remodel long forgotten. One downstairs kitchen had a big crater that went right through the floor and into the ground where the unexploded bomb had buried it's pointy head in the dirt. My host mused:
"Well look at that, I haven't seen those alphabet tiles in years."
She was talking about piles of shiny, multicolored glazed Mexican tiles that had been dislodged from a long covered layer of the ceiling and scattered face up all over the bombed out floor. They were quite shiny indeed, and each one bore one letter of the alphabet. I too was excited and interested to see all the various layers revealed by the home piercing, hole punching, unexploded bombs. Room upon room was inspected. The bomb holes in the ceilings brought light and trickling water into rooms that were once just dry, static, dark and boring. I spent a long time entertaining myself meandering through the myriad of hallways, nooks and corridors exploring the new visual pathways created by the bombs when they ripped through ceilings and floors. I'd peer through one such newly pierced tunnel to see a face of another curious visitor peering back at me from three floors below. We'd sometimes wave to each other and acknowledge what a wonderous spectacle we mutually enjoyed. As the rain would intensify from a drizzle to a down pour, the house would become a fascinating gallery of beautiful waterfalls flowing over broken tables, tilted chairs, cracked toilets, overturned sofas, muddy beds and all sorts of things one finds in a recently bombed out ecclectic spanish mansion. Everyone seemed to enjoy it. I know I did.
It occurred to me that the best viewpoint would probably be from the roof and as I arrived there it was apparent that I wasn't the only one with the bright idea. As I carefully made my way across the wet, slippery, moss covered, sparcely tiled and quite unstable bombed out roof it became clear to me that it wasn't such a good idea as the structure of the roof was quite wobbly and with all the other idiot people also prancing about the roof, it was like trying to step from one slippery see-saw to the next, never quite knowing when someone else would step on the other end of your see-saw sending you flying. I quickly made my way to flatter, more stable surfaces.
I heard a man scream from about a hundred feet away and I turned just in time to see Jarrod Jennings, one of my long lost childhood friends, grasping at the edge of another slanted and slippery surface. He put up a good struggle for ten seconds or so but he was unable to hold on and I saw him slide off the edge like an egg out of a teflon pan. I heard him yell as he fell what I could only imagine had to be a great distance since I was standing on a three story building and he was eye level with me.
I made my way to the bottom to see if I could find my poor friend but having descended through the curly maze of spiral stairways and hallways, it was somewhat difficult to gauge any sort of direction let alone the exact location of his fall. I soon stumbled upon a hunched over mustachioed man wearing a cliché tan raincoat who I surmised must have been an inspector sent out to examine the scene of the horrible accident. I asked him if he was looking for the man who fell off the roof and I explained to him that the man was my friend Jarrod and I'd witnessed his fall and pointed to where I thought I had seen him holding on for dear life. The inspector turned to me and snidely informed me that my friend faked his fall for some reason obviously involving foul play and baltant fraud. I thought this was an absolutely ridiculous idea but upon further inspection of the area where I had seen him, I could see that the distance was only a few measley feet but obscured from view. The inspector was right. I could even see the escape route. It was along wooden, puddle laden tunnel leading to the other side of town. I chose not to follow it.
I had no interest in finding my friend, I knew that eventually he'd find me and explain what kind of scam he had going and maybe he'd even let me in on it if loot was involved. I excused myself because I didn't want to help the dickhead inspector pin fraud upon my uni-browed buddy.
I strolled down the street and all the conversation was about the obnoxious fraud perpetrated by my pal. At one point I maneuvered into position alongside a group of sharply dressed black people who were loudly proclaiming a guilty verdict and talking shit about my friend. I interrupted them and I said "My friend Jarrod is a good dude. I have loaned him money many times and he has always paid me back". Of course that was a complete lie, I never loaned him shit.
A few minutes later I found myself sitting at a round outdoor table with one of those attached umbrellas sticking out of the middle. My old friend Gayle was there in all her young pseudo lesbian gothiness. She was with another girl and she was really barking up her tree. She kept leaning over to the other girl whispering suggestive things, attempting to arouse and convince her into some sexual exploits. It was quickly apparent to me that her prey was merely a fake dyke because she was stoking my leg beneath the table. We exchanged glances of secrecy about the whole thing. It was obvious that neither of us wanted to crush poor Gayle's hopes of getting laid. I sat and listened to Gayle attempting to convince, at times nearly pleading with the other woman to have sex with her while I enjoyed an over the pants hand job from that very same woman. Yes, it's possible to feel pity and be aroused at the same time.
During this conversation between the two women, I occupied myself with the task of ripping apart some sort of wooden framing debris I picked up on the street. I was working on getting the joints to come loose which were held together with staples. I twisted and bent each corner until they came loose and the original cuts and glue at the joints were revealed leaving two bent staple legs dangling out like the legs of murdered insects. The sex conversation between the women continued, I wasn't paying much attention to what they were saying because it was much more fun just pretending to be preoccupied with my little demolition project while being secretly jerked off under the table. To buy more time, I decided to see if I could take my demolition project in reverse. I lined up the bent staple legs with the holes which contained them previously and slowly tried to work them back into place. The woman giving me the rub down turned to me and said something but I didn't hear what it was due to the concentration needed to complete the task at hand:
"Huh? Sorry, what did you say? "
"You hate Americans right?" She asked.
I turned back to my project and focused on the two little staple legs which had magically transformed into tiny electrodes and I lined them up and said: "Yeah, I hate Americans" just as I slowly jabbed the two tiny electrodes into the bare flesh of my leg releasing one small droplet of dark blood each.
December 31, 2005
December 30, 2005
Crashing Cars, A Bouncing Ball, and The Biggest Bathroom Pick-Up Scene Around
There are some really stupid things that happen with the law here in my town. For example, if you get caught speeding up on the hill that has the giant overpass, the cops give you a choice, you can either pay the 700 dollar ticket or you can surrender your car to them and they will hoist it up the side of the overpass, you know, that long steep pitched part that is all concrete that goes up the side of the hill underneath an overpass, well yeah, they'll winch it up there and when it gets to the top, they'll let you push the release button sending your car sliding down the side only to crash into the road below. It's pretty cool to watch, in a Dukes of Hazzard sort of way, everyone seemed to be doing it -- I mean -- shit, the tickets are like 700 bucks and this shit is free, you get to watch Cadillacs, buses, station wagons, all sliding down a steep embankment and warping and damaging them beyond repair. Seems like a good deal.
Speaking of hills, I found a 2 inch ball of Silly Putty when I was walking around with one of my best friends Kevin Golding. He recently suffered a major stroke and is currently confined to a hospital bed in a somewhat vegetative state so it was nice to see him walking around as if nothing had ever happened. We were at the top of a big hill, which reminded me of the avenues of SLC or telegraph hill in SF. I was very happy to have found this ball of putty because, since I was hanging out with Golding, I had decided to dress up in somewhat of a greaser's attire and a bouncy ball to play with was just what I needed to complete the look. You know, like how Rocky Balboa used to have a little bouncy ball when he trained. Anyway, it was a good idea for the outfit but the temptation to bounce it all the way down the long steep road was very intense and proved to be a little too much. There is nothing like watching a ball bounce all the way down what may be the longest steepest street in history. -- All I had to do was aim it right down the center line of the road running down the hill so that it wouldn't veer off track and get stuck in any bushes or go down any sewer drains and I'd be fine. I was very deliberate with my aim, I gave it a very calculated overhand toss and off bouncing it went. Since I was given the amazing out of body ability to track anything I released with an overhead eagle eye view, it was fun watching the ball bounce all the way down the longest street in the world. Like an eagle I tracked it's path and it was amazing -- well, at least for the few blocks it bounced anyway, It quickly got stuck in a bunch of bushes. Since my eagle vision was only eagle VISION and not eagle tallons with which I could retrieve something like a ball of silly putty out of a bush, Kevin and I were pretty disappointed. I should have just kept it as a prop -- Silly Putty is rad.
I was late for my bus, something important enough that they'd actually hold the whole thing up for me, charitable work I was doing, I mean, I had a clipboard and we all know that only good salt of the earth people carry clipboards. I'm really a nice guy. Anyway, when I boarded the old 1940s era city bus, the rest of the passengers patronizingly applauded me and I wandered through the various dimly lit, wood paneled hallways on the bus looking for my metal seat. It was a mighty big fucking bus, there were like five or six hallways. Truthfully, it was more like horse stables or an old Hollywood set of like maybe a fancy train that had seen it's best years long long ago. It was a long bus ride. The driver took corners a little to fast if you ask me. Where we were going was of no importance, but we were certainly all going there together -- definitely a team mission. Everyone was dressed like it was the old days.
Eventually I needed to pee and I had in mind just the right bathroom in just the right part of town. It was a coed bathroom, I mean both men and women used it, but it was in a section of town that was dominated by sexy rocker women. It was quite the spectacle of a bathroom. It appeared to be an old remodeled theater from the twenties -- yeah, the WHOLE THING was made into a bathroom, you can see why it merited pulling over the entire bus and going out of our way to get there. Like I said, the cool part was that there were basically no dudes in that part of town and the women used the bathroom to pick up on the few men who did pass through. There were rules too. Only a certain amount of either sex were allowed to be in the bathroom at one time -- since there were very few men around there was no line for us, the women were stacked like twenty deep, lined up under the big old theater marquee marking the entrance outside. I went right in, right past the consiglier and although it wasn't exactly the cleanest bathroom, holy crap, what a bathroom it was. It was huge, walls and walls of urinals, some women were using the urinals apparently for the novelty of it. All the women were dressed like sexy rocker hipsters, hot pants, flowy silk blouses, fishnets, pokey up hair-dos, fingernails painted od colors, who knows, maybe they were all just expensive hookers. Being a bathroom I caught several glimpses of women in various states of disrobe, I'm not sure it's appropriate to be a little intrigued by a woman lfting up her skirt and pulling down her fishnets to sit on the toilet and it's not like I was gawking or anything -- I mean, you heard me, there were like a hundred and fifty stalls and none of the women seemed at all interested in closing the doors. I think they wanted me to look, it almost seemed as if they were all vying for my attention while pretending to just be going through the mundane act of peeing. It didn't occur to me that anyone would be pooping -- thank goodness -- I walked past a few rocker dudes that were surrounded by women and I'd pick up snippets of conversation which basically amounted to these women nearly begging the fairy looking dudes for some kind of sexual attention, since there were few dudes, the men were all able to play coy and act shy about the whole thing. Plus, I was really the only masculine man there, maybe the rest were fags, I certainly didn't get any "ain't we lucky" vibes from any of the dudes. It was great. Too bad a scene change happened right here.
Speaking of hills, I found a 2 inch ball of Silly Putty when I was walking around with one of my best friends Kevin Golding. He recently suffered a major stroke and is currently confined to a hospital bed in a somewhat vegetative state so it was nice to see him walking around as if nothing had ever happened. We were at the top of a big hill, which reminded me of the avenues of SLC or telegraph hill in SF. I was very happy to have found this ball of putty because, since I was hanging out with Golding, I had decided to dress up in somewhat of a greaser's attire and a bouncy ball to play with was just what I needed to complete the look. You know, like how Rocky Balboa used to have a little bouncy ball when he trained. Anyway, it was a good idea for the outfit but the temptation to bounce it all the way down the long steep road was very intense and proved to be a little too much. There is nothing like watching a ball bounce all the way down what may be the longest steepest street in history. -- All I had to do was aim it right down the center line of the road running down the hill so that it wouldn't veer off track and get stuck in any bushes or go down any sewer drains and I'd be fine. I was very deliberate with my aim, I gave it a very calculated overhand toss and off bouncing it went. Since I was given the amazing out of body ability to track anything I released with an overhead eagle eye view, it was fun watching the ball bounce all the way down the longest street in the world. Like an eagle I tracked it's path and it was amazing -- well, at least for the few blocks it bounced anyway, It quickly got stuck in a bunch of bushes. Since my eagle vision was only eagle VISION and not eagle tallons with which I could retrieve something like a ball of silly putty out of a bush, Kevin and I were pretty disappointed. I should have just kept it as a prop -- Silly Putty is rad.
I was late for my bus, something important enough that they'd actually hold the whole thing up for me, charitable work I was doing, I mean, I had a clipboard and we all know that only good salt of the earth people carry clipboards. I'm really a nice guy. Anyway, when I boarded the old 1940s era city bus, the rest of the passengers patronizingly applauded me and I wandered through the various dimly lit, wood paneled hallways on the bus looking for my metal seat. It was a mighty big fucking bus, there were like five or six hallways. Truthfully, it was more like horse stables or an old Hollywood set of like maybe a fancy train that had seen it's best years long long ago. It was a long bus ride. The driver took corners a little to fast if you ask me. Where we were going was of no importance, but we were certainly all going there together -- definitely a team mission. Everyone was dressed like it was the old days.
Eventually I needed to pee and I had in mind just the right bathroom in just the right part of town. It was a coed bathroom, I mean both men and women used it, but it was in a section of town that was dominated by sexy rocker women. It was quite the spectacle of a bathroom. It appeared to be an old remodeled theater from the twenties -- yeah, the WHOLE THING was made into a bathroom, you can see why it merited pulling over the entire bus and going out of our way to get there. Like I said, the cool part was that there were basically no dudes in that part of town and the women used the bathroom to pick up on the few men who did pass through. There were rules too. Only a certain amount of either sex were allowed to be in the bathroom at one time -- since there were very few men around there was no line for us, the women were stacked like twenty deep, lined up under the big old theater marquee marking the entrance outside. I went right in, right past the consiglier and although it wasn't exactly the cleanest bathroom, holy crap, what a bathroom it was. It was huge, walls and walls of urinals, some women were using the urinals apparently for the novelty of it. All the women were dressed like sexy rocker hipsters, hot pants, flowy silk blouses, fishnets, pokey up hair-dos, fingernails painted od colors, who knows, maybe they were all just expensive hookers. Being a bathroom I caught several glimpses of women in various states of disrobe, I'm not sure it's appropriate to be a little intrigued by a woman lfting up her skirt and pulling down her fishnets to sit on the toilet and it's not like I was gawking or anything -- I mean, you heard me, there were like a hundred and fifty stalls and none of the women seemed at all interested in closing the doors. I think they wanted me to look, it almost seemed as if they were all vying for my attention while pretending to just be going through the mundane act of peeing. It didn't occur to me that anyone would be pooping -- thank goodness -- I walked past a few rocker dudes that were surrounded by women and I'd pick up snippets of conversation which basically amounted to these women nearly begging the fairy looking dudes for some kind of sexual attention, since there were few dudes, the men were all able to play coy and act shy about the whole thing. Plus, I was really the only masculine man there, maybe the rest were fags, I certainly didn't get any "ain't we lucky" vibes from any of the dudes. It was great. Too bad a scene change happened right here.
December 29, 2005
Ladies and Gentlequeers: Introducing, The Heavyweight Sleep Champion of The World...
Me!
Yeah, so, since all the coolest shit happens while I'm sawing logs, and since I saw logs for 2/5ths of my life, and since I object to forgetting about all the ass kicking, tunneling, floating and flying I do while sawing logs, I decided to start a dream blog that is all about that most ass kickingest 2/5ths of my life.
Since cornering some poor fag and pummeling said fag with last nights dream is about as polite as poking out said fag's eyeballs with a dog dick, I decided to locate this new dream blog a step out of the way and not bother anyone with it on my main blog. Soon it will have a different template than the main one so as to not confuse your soupy brains. But here it is:
I'm going to make every effort to be detailed and honest -- it may be impossible, sometimes there is nothing more vulnerable than revealing the contents of one's dreams.
Fow now I'm going to limit the sidebar links to other dream blogs so if you have one or you know of any good one's make sure to leave a link in the comments and depending on how lazy I am, I might just link it.
That's all for now.
Don't get caught sawing logs metaphorically if you are a lumberjack quite literally. Ha ha, maybe I should have called it "Sawing Blogs", that would have been TERRIBLE.
Your Dreamer of Dreams, Schemer of Schemes and Femur of Femes?,
Foghorn Leghorn III
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