I finally remembered a dream, well, nightmare

I took a brief nap the other day. I despertaly needed some rest and with it came a dream. A nightmare.

A squirrel laid on its back, gasping for air. Its last sounds a cross between crying and screeching; wheezing and screaming; dying and pleading.

Its typical chuckling sound was replaced by something other. Colder. Direr.

Its arms seemed elongated, almost grasping and clawing at its furry chest. The bushy tail obscured its legs. A tangle of fur and imagined bone.

Did I kill it? Was it hurt before I saw that image? Perhaps it fell from the tallest of trees, miscalculating a leap, or it slipped from a wire on a nearby telephone pole.

Blood was caked amid its short hairy belly. A sliver of light reflected as a pinpoint globe of pure white dotted the corners of its black eyes.

Was I supposed to kill it? Relieve it of its misery?

In an ultimate act of ignorance, I simply woke up. It still haunts me.

Ick, unadulterated capitalism and bugs

When it comes to consistency in updating this here blog, I think the adjective "spotty" best describes any sort of new entry I may make to a collection of my intermittent musings. Accept my apology, please. And leave comments (also please).

I'll post a drawing sometime next week, I promise. But let's just start with something that happened to me last night: I took a visit to Longwood Gardens in Kennet Square, Pennsylvania with my girlfriend. Did you know that a plant called dumbcane makes the ideal gift to give disliked and/or over-explanative coworkers? I mean, seriously, it makes a much better Mentha plant to create a high-quality Mojito with than mere mint. The conservatory and the topiaries were definite high points even though the word topiary does not automatically equate to giraffe and chimpanzee shaped shrubbery. That’s in ideal world, I guess.

Since I am reading George Ritzer’s McDonaldization of Society, it became my conversational safety net partly because its so interesting to think about how we, as a society, have become so undeniably “McDonaldized” (which is something that builds upon Weber’s concepts defining bureaucracy) not to mention the many little trivial bits of information such as the Ikea catalog being purported to be the world’s 2nd most published work behind the Bible. Or the story about Colonel Sander’s cussin’ up a storm in reference to what ultimately became of his wife’s once amazing recipe for gravy after he sold his restaurant to the god franchise (we all remember the “special blend of 11 herbs and spices” claim to fame that was a mouth-watering ad pitch of yesteryear. I wonder how amazing it tasted before it was watered down to make its production more efficient). The book has surpassed “Ed McMahon’s Barside Companion” as my most interesting bibliothecal purchase. Ever.

So afterwards, we took a trip to some “McDonaldized” shops to buy her cat a new water fountain. As we walked in the parking lot back to my car (sometime around 8 in the evening), what had to be the world’s largest flying insect I have yet to encounter unexpectedly attacked me. I felt almost like Tippi Hedron in "Birds" since it made a beeline to my chest and stayed there almost as if it were clinging on for dear life. Thank god it wasn’t my hair since it’d be hard to look impressive after screaming like a circa late 80’s teenage girl at a New Kids on the Block concert. Seriously, if it flew in my hair I would have screamed (high pitched and everything). That or cry.

My girlfriend was about to hit me with the item she had just bought (pure instinct) in an effort to shoo it away but thankfully she did not because it would have surely injured me more than the entire shock of being hit with a bug the size of Volkswagen.

And, no exaggeration, that body-building beetle was a big'un (I have no idea what it actually was, I just liked the alliterative effect just now). All I heard was the sound of a crumpling paper bag (its wings were that solid) right before it landed on me. In fact, my gut response was to say “What the fuck” and spin around to see who threw a discarded paper grocery bag at me. I had only noticed it peripherally before it decided to use my chest as a landing pad. My girlfriend had to use her hands to get it off since my swiping at it was about as ineffectual as George Bush at a MENSA meeting. For dear life it clung on, I tells ya. For dear life.

It took a few frenetic swipes to get rid of it, but once it left, we ran back to the car quickly and in stooped manner (so as not to invite more unforeseen insect attacks). Any lessons? Well, don’t wear shoes that are too tight or make fun of the morbidly obese. These illustrative examples have nothing to do with the aforementioned bug attacks but they are lessons nonetheless.

For computer literacy class . . .

I have to make both a personal letter and a business one in Word to demonstrate I know how to use the program. So, here is my business letter, a cover letter to a résumé. Me thinks its funny. Enjoy:


Hammer and Anvil DVD Rentals
1825 Star Alexander Road
Das Kapital, ME 03092

Dear Human Resources Director:

I just read an article in the International Socialist Review about a DVD rental center for the proletariat. I would like to apply for the position of oppressed clerk trapped in a class struggle to advocate foreign and independent art-house films to the masses. A résumé is enclosed for your consideration.

My versatile background — covering over 10 years at TLA Video as well as recreating Jean-Luc Godard’s “Band of Outsiders,” frame by frame, for a master’s thesis — enables me to successfully recall and/ or recommend cherished original versions to their inferior modern remakes. I am dedicated, hardworking, and committed to enabling the great unwashed to free their cinematic minds within my strict set of guidelines.

I would welcome the opportunity to discuss this with you further. You may contact me at the email address listed above or the address stamped into the ex libris of my book, “Hitchcock: Genius or Capitalist Running Dog?”

YOU called the cops on me . . .

Here's a quick explanation: I went out with this woman sometime in March who, quite frankly, scared me. Since rule number one for meeting someone you've spoken with online is to choose a public place, we had selected a bookstore parking lot. Barnes & Noble, actually, because let's face it, who doesn't feel safe in a parking lot to any one of a gentrified America's cookie cutter commerce shopping plazas ?

We actually met inside the bookstore lest you think I'm cool with actually meeting people in parking lots, like some sort of drug and/ or arms dealer lounging by the trunk of my Honda.

"I gots the stuff right here and it's a beaut, lemme tell ya," right? Although the parking lot was very well lit, I wanted to look for some book by Philip K. Dick so why not kill two birds with one stone? Maybe the avian-killing stone was in the shady car trunk deal, but now I'm just being silly.

Since I had never seen a clear picture of her (thanks Craigslist) we had to do the old-fashioned meet-up that relied heavily on the wearing of a particular colored jacket and/or shirt. She should have worn a red rose in her lapel and stood near an old fashioned phone booth with some secret message we could exchange, to make the dealer/cold war espionage analogy an even stronger one.

"Split pea soup tastes best on a cold morning."

"History demands it."

"Glad to meet you, I'm Constantine."

We decided to go to a nearby bar for a quick beer and that's when things started to get, how can I put this . . . abnormal. Yeah. That's a nice word. Since I was not getting a great vibe, I wanted to follow (easy escape) but it was decided that she'd drive and I'd be the passenger. Dana Gould should have popped out in a top hat and tuxedo singing the phrase "Mistake" at the exact moment I agreed.

The inside of her car smelled like an ashtray and the windows had spider-webbed cracks on them (always a great sign). I started to imagine that "debt-collectors" took aluminum baseball bats to it maybe as they were carrying gasoline containers and lighters. Were the cracks from bullets? I didn't want to even entertain that line of thinking.

Then she told me, as we were driving to the bar, that she wanted to avoid driving to and from a bar as much as possible thanks to a D.U.I.

Gulp.

Have you ever met someone over a beer that does the majority of the talking and you have nothing to say to them? Well . . . let me fast forward to the present.

She said something that hurt my feelings in an instant message. I felt down, she felt up.

I told her she hurt my feelings in another instant message, days later. She felt down, I felt up. Well, bummed but better.

After that, I ignored her but she persisted instant messaging me. My solution was to simply delete her from my "buddy list" rather than block her. That was my mistake. Cue Dana Gould.

So last night she asked me to hang out with her which is something she has done many times before. And it met with the same answer or passive aggressive non-answer, like usual. It's something I have always refused or gotten around, in some way/shape/form. She also mentioned an ex-boyfriend she had been trying to contact and actually called last night. He had said some really uncaring things that depressed her such as "I told you I already have plans [and] when I feel like being around you I'll call." Here's were it gets scary, folks.

She started to talk about suicide. It wasn't the cry-for-help "just mention it" sort. During some of the previously mentioned instant messaging she'd say things like "no one likes me" and "I'm tired of it." But this time it came with a very persistent and detailed plan so I became frightened that she'd actually go through with it. It involved slicing her wrists as she videotaped it so her ex would watch it over-and-over again in his head. I kept talking with her in an effort to try and calm her down.

"I would cut myslef [sic] and bleed to death and film it all. thats what I am doing unless you come over."

Was it just a cry for help? A plea for company?

Since she wasn't expressing anything rational for a very long while, I was forced to call a suicide prevention hotline and lie to get her number to give to police (even though she had begged me not to call 9-1-1). I felt bad about asking for her number under false pretenses but, ultimately felt good about preventing her from killing herself.

This morning, she emailed me with a very angry message about how she got charged with possession of controlled substances and paraphernalia and now has a criminal record. Her mother, she said is sick from embarrassment although I'm sure if she had actually gone-through with it and killed herself, her mother would not be able to handle it at all. I saw a coworker die young (I think he was 35 and had only been married for a year). Althought it was unexpected, it was a health-related natural-causes death and I saw, firsthand, how much grief his father, who I also worked with, carried with him. Once again, and I stress this, that was unexpected but natural. Last night was not only preventable but prevented.

If I did something good, why don't I feel good about myself?

Happy birthday to me . . .

It started with a Swedish Fish.

A Darlin Marlin actually.

She held out the crinkly half-sized bag to me with a flick of her wrist. It was already ripped open, its red folded and stapled piece of cardboard used as packaging long since gone. There were books resting on every corner of the coffee table in front of us and a smattering of other bagged candies piled the middle like a bibliosacrifice of the sugarcoated.

Her first words to me were, "Darlin Marlin?" Since I was late to the book club meeting, I was trying much to hard to concentrate on the group discussion, already in progress. I kept my gaze on the group. She held the bag up for me by her side. I looked down to the bag she held on my left and saw Swedish Fish. I took one.

"Thank you."

During the meeting she playfully mocked my faint and nearly inaudible speaking voice. When she did so, it was always with a smile. Always with a glance. Green eyes overflowing with excitement. Coy and inviting.

When the meeting finished she, her friend, and I stayed together for beer and cross-questioning. The following Sunday my mistress of the Darlin Marlin and I had a laughter-filled lunch with greater conversation, expanded to the type of talk that two obviously interested people tend to have. To crave. She was even more radiant than I had first remembered.

"I don't have to worry," I thought as I found myself drowning in the beau ideal of her presence. "Everything feels right. Exciting."

The chemistry sparked in the air was undeniable. From the initial explosion of elation to the more subdued golden sparkles gently showered upon us with each glimpse of one another, like an undercurrent of attraction, chemistry was the ignition.

The next week brought with it dinner and drinks. Smiles and friends. Kisses while ignoring the glow of nearby televisions. Touching skin and embracing bodies. Tracing birthmarks with fingertips.

Felicity.

Wonder.

She sent me two emails on my birthday a week later. One wished me a happy birthday in the morning. It was a different story in the afternoon.

"While I think you're totally awewome and I'm really glad that I met you, I think we're better suited as friends...we're just too different, I think, to date."

The feelings of overwhelming joy had evaporated but the wonder did not.

Here are some things I have worn at work . . .

5 paragraphs to a short story . . .

The print shop is not there anymore. It was a small building.

"Hey," Mike obliviously snapped his gum as he tried to get my attention. "Can I, uh talk to you when you get back?"

He continued to chew, his gaze boring into my skull as he did so, like being in a staring contest with Burt Reynolds. At any minute I expected him to cackle.

"S-sure thing." He caught me off guard with the gum snap.

I could barely sleep on the plane trip from Philadelphia to London so what made me think I would fare any better on the two-and-a-half hour train into Paris? Yet in a single half-awake dream state moment I remembered back to that afternoon years ago.

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So, how is it? Feedback? I think I need to write an outline, but if I put it out there, it lives and breathes. That should force me to write it to completetion if there's interest.