Author, Author

A comedian pal of mine has a joke about how he has bad dreams, but when he says "bad", he means like a bad movie: incompetent production, unrealistic characters, poor acting and dialogue. Thing is, I don't think he's really kidding; the guy in question is also an actor, and I bet any actor with a brain in his head has had dreams of being trapped in an entire universe of that particular entertainmenty sort of badness. It must be a terrible feeling to wish the Mystery Science Theater guys would unload some snark in the general direction of your own unconscious.

I've never had a dream like that, and I also seldom have bad dreams in the traditional sense. The last dream I had that really unnerved me was at least five years ago and I barely remember it; I think the pod from 2001: A Space Odyssey and an old splintery boat dock on an endless lake were involved somehow. I'm just not the kind of guy who does that standard cold-sweat wakeup take. I have to deal with far more subtle agony. When my dreams take on the task of assaulting my mind, they do it in one of two ways.

Bad Dream Type One: The Wondrous Too-Good-To-Be-True

Often I will dream about something awesome. Perhaps I am rolling around in bed with a naked 6-foot supermodel -- naked, that is, except for a pair of buttery tan thigh-high leather boots. Or I find a duffel bag full of hundreds in my shower. Or maybe Ralph, of Ralph's Supermarket fame, calls me on my cellphone and informs me that I have won free groceries for life because I won a contest to see who could masturbate to the most internet porn in a six-hour period. That sort of thing.

Nothing is intrinsically "bad" about these dreams, while I'm having them. The badness descends when I wake up and discover that I am sleeping alone in a studio apartment in Little Armenia and my four different credit card payments were due seven weeks ago and also I am on fire. It's the perfect inverse of the relieved awakening from a horrible dream of monsters and doom, and I find it far more painful. "Thought everything was going to work out, didn't you? PSYCHE!!!" my subconscious seems to say, before laughing maniacally and submerging back into the depths of my brain to continue stabbing newborn lambs with a knitting needle or whatever the hell it does down there all day.

Bad Dream Type Two: The Terrible Trivium

When my mind gets tired of tormenting itself with dreams of success it thinks it will never achieve, it will break up the monotony with a little monotony. Like everyone else, I have dreams about my job; unlike everyone else, I have dreams where I go to my job, work a full day, go home, and nothing remarkable happens the entire time. I will go out drinking, go home to sleep, and have a dream about being hungover and standing in my kitchen -- not some crazy dream-kitchen with pudding for walls and a faucet that squirts ham instead of hot, my actual dull-ass kitchen -- drinking glasses of water and rubbing my forehead and trying to remember
if I did anything I shouldn't. And then I will wake up from that dream, go to my kitchen, and do exactly the same goddamn thing. It's like my subconscious decided that if a night comes along when it isn't in the mood to terrify or mock me, then the least it can do is waste my time.

I suppose I should be impressed with my mind's ability to perfectly replicate situations from my daily life in stultifyingly eidetic detail, but really I'm just irritated. Couldn't the mental energy required to construct a simulacrum of my gray Honda Civic and its various contents be better spent by, I dunno, summoning Jack LaLanne to explain his workout techniques and motivate me to get some good solid aerobic exercise upon waking? Couldn't I hop on the back of a giant manta ray and take a trip to Times Square or the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, instead of driving for 45 minutes on the 101 to my small brown office? Science may never have the answer.

All in all, a dream that seems to be written and directed by Edward D. Wood, Jr. would be a welcome and luxurious change. Bring on the big rubber monsters and transparent excuses for crossdressing. I'm ready.

The Haul

Santa had a mixed bag slung on his back this year. Let's talk about it.

All my parents gave me for Christmas was money. I have no problem with this at all. Getting money as a gift is like getting a gift certificate that is good anywhere, for anything, has no expiration date, and can even help pay off your credit cards. Try that with a Borders gift card. You will be laughed at and your home will be seized.

That was the good half of the presents. The bad half? Well, it was pretty much my fault. My mom asked me, on her brother's family's behalf, what I wanted for Christmas. I started off with the usual, "books, music, movies, whatever." And then I made my dire mistake: I got jokey. "And gift certificates are good. Maybe some gift certificates for food. Maybe just some food. Groceries. Bags of groceries. Has Santa got any of those? Can he stop at the Safeway for me, pick up some vegetables?"

I said this kind of seriously, kind of as a joke, since me and my mom both knew I was unemployed and going rapidly broke and hungry. I did not count on these remarks being taken more seriously than any Christmas gift request I had ever made in my entire life.

Here is the final Christmas gift tally from my aunt, uncle and cousin:

Books:
none

Music:
none

Movies:
none

Food:
One (1) 12-pack of instant macaroni and cheese packets
Two (2) boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios
One (1) "Variety Pack" (24 Chicken, 24 Beef) of Top Ramen
Gift certificate for one pound (16 ounces) of See's Candy

And the worst part was, they really meant it. Have you ever received a present which you were sure was a gag gift, and been about to appreciate it as such, and suddenly realized that it is not a gag gift and you had better be genuinely thankful for it before you hurt someone's feelings? It's a bit like figuring out that the woman across from you at a bar is actually a transvestite, opening your mouth to compliment her on her wig, and then she suddenly loosens her scarf to reveal a completely AWOL Adam's apple.

Nothing is more discomfiting to the traffickers in irony than something that is exactly what it appears to be.

I appear to be thoroughly set for groceries for at least a week.

That Went About As Well As Could Be Expected, Considering The Circumstances

Two days after the previous post, I got fired from my job for writing dirty jokes at work. I immediately went into mourning for this job that I never liked, stopped going out to shows, started surfing the net all the time and pounded depressants into my system for seven straight weeks. All that time, I was still taking my antidepressant, and the fact that I have yet to throw myself under a bus should testify to its effectiveness.

In honor of my return to blogging, please enjoy the Bit That Got Me Shitcanned:

I looked up the side effects of my medication on Wikipedia, and most of the little warning bullet-points were several complete sentences long, like, "may cause nausea after eating but before drinking and if taken before 10 am on a Tuesday, check your Poor Richard's Almanac for the correct time of day to take your dose and avoid projectile vomiting", that kinda thing. The descriptions were very detailed, except for one, which I reproduce here in its entirety:

"Abnormal ejaculation."

End of description. They tell you that and then they leave you twisting in the windy darkness of uncertainty.

Obviously more research needs to be done, and so it's probably a good thing that I've been keeping a log of my ejaculations. Please enjoy the following choice excerpts.

Entry 1: Ejaculated earlier this morning, and am still ejaculating. Had to wear a condom to work and switched it out for a fresh one several times under cover of bathroom breaks.

Entry 4: Was awoken by my own nocturnal emission, which made a loud sharp report like the sound of a Chinese firecracker. I wasn't circumcised, but apparently I am now.

Entry 9: Girlfriend reported a taste and smoothness consistent with Newcastle Brown Ale.

Entry 17: Amount and appearance of semen was normal, at least as far as I could determine in the 15 seconds before it melted a hole through my floor and shorted out the electricity in my apartment.

Entry 21: Sperm emerged cautiously, one at a time, over a period of several hours. I trapped them between a postcard and a drinking glass and released them outside before the cat could start playing with them.

Entry 33: Ejaculated a single 200-foot strand of rubbery stuff with the tensile strength of bridge cable; spent remainder of evening swinging through the city fighting crime.

Entry 48: Ejaculation took the form of a beam of light that projected an image of Ruth Buzzi on the clouds over Silver Lake. Had to close the window and act like I wasn't home when Ms. Buzzi showed up on the street outside, loudly demanding to know who had summoned her.

And soon after that last entry, I started taking the medication. I'll let you guys know if anything ABNORMAL happens! BOI-YOI-YOI-YOINNNNNGGGG! fart.

Good to be back. Merry December Twenty-Sixth to all and to all a good night.