There are no bad owners, only bad dogs

2004-12-09

Time saving tip: Don't wash your hair -- just put it in a ponytail!

I'm really, REALLY craving dreamless nights nights again. Never will I envy the dreams of others. Never.

So last night's trip into the arms of Morpheus (the god, not the dude from the Matrix) included all kinds of puzzling crap. I seem to be dreaming about buildings all of the time and it's really kind of boring. It's not worth waking up having dreamed about a building and not feeling rested. If I woke up feeling like I'd just battled with a madman over the future of mankind or just tamed a dragon or something worthwhile and I didn't feel rested, I'd feel like there was a reasonable trade-off. This crap...it's not a fair bargain.

Also, head, if you're listening, I do not like the way dreams start in the middle and stop before the end. There's never any exposition or character development, just conflict with no resolution.

Take, for example, my recurring dream about the apartment I lived in when I lived in Buffalo. What the fuck? Why would this be important enough to be taking up space in my head?? In the dream, I always find a mysterious upstairs attic-y area that is furnished in beautiful antiques and art. I find this area when I go upstairs to investigate the leak in the ceiling that has turned into a flood from the ceiling. This hidden area is beautiful, but it's all soaking wet and falling apart. No, I do not pee my jammies when having this dream.

That was the intro last night -- no denouement or reason for being there.

This "segued" (irony) into a dream about my mother, whom I try never ever to think about because it makes me sad and mad and lonely and abandoned. But it was still about a building. My mother was flinging gasoline and oily rags all around some ancient building I'd been trying to restore, then tossed in a match. I was trying to put out the flames with my hands and then she added some sort of Molotov cocktail and drove me out. When I went back to look at the extent of the damage, there was rubble everywhere but some new grass had started poking out, too. Then, suddenly, I was giving Simon Cowell (yes, the American Idol snotty British guy) a manicure and he was holding my hand. I asked, "Am I your girlfriend?" He replied, "Yes."

Then I woke up.

I want my oblivion back.

Greg found a ridiculously cheap airline (ryanair) that flies around Europe. They have a bizarre-o pricing structure that allows you, if you're flexible and play with dates and times, to fly to Nîmes, for example, for 1.99. Of course, there may be screaming babies everywhere and obligatory fruitcake served as an inflight meal, but a trip to Dublin is only like an hour. It will take longer to get to the damned airport than to fly to Ireland. And they have that fabulous whisky there...

Three hilarious tv shows to watch for on BBC America:

The Mighty Boosh: Apparently the two guys who make up almost 100% of the cast had a bbc radio show that they've taken to tv. The production values are hilariously low, but it's so funny that you don't care. Like most funny things, impossible to describe and do it justice.

Peep Show: Out on dvd soon. Like the above, impossible to describe.

Little Britain: If these things are so hard to describe, why am I even trying? What do I think I am, some pompous-assed critic who knows more than anyone else? I just know what makes me wet my pants laughing. I might even start a new rating system, wherein I use little yellow drops of pee instead of stars.

Lunchtime. Off to get a grey sammich from the crapeteria.

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