Just found a message I’d sent to J-money back in 2008 wherein I chronicle a dream that I do NOT remember having. Figured there’s no better place to share it but here. I added my own editorial voice for the sake of my own reputation.
In my dream, I was part of this show choir thing at Disney World. And the two main people in it were me and this one girl. So, the dream spanned years, and we had this reunion special at Disney World in present day, and it was basically just me and her, and she was this royal diva bitch, and George Carlin was one of our old writers who came back for it, but now owned a jewelry and make-up store. It was crazy. And I ended up having to improv a song about everyone I was seeing until she got her bitchy ass back on stage, because she saw some old friends of ours who still worked at Disney World, and took off with them for a few minutes. It was crazy.
Sidenote: I wrote “It was crazy” twice in that passage, and I really think I could have changed that after a proofread.
And then, I don’t know if I woke up and fell back asleep (likely) or just continued sleeping, but I somehow realized I was dreaming, and then was still dreaming about actual real life, and [in this new dream] I was telling some of my friends about the crazy, awesome dream I just had.
And then I was moving my boss, Dave, out of this house, and he tricked me into dry-humping this dude and totally doing a reach-around until he got off. Which happened, and then I was all pissed at myself, and wondering why I would do that.
The guy seemed embarrassed, too. It was so weird. I liked the Disney part more. And there was this film student there, at Disney World, who was shitting himself over seeing Steven Spielberg, and kept taking pictures of everything Spielberg was doing, and it was funny, because he was so NEW to show biz.
Ahh, days gone by.
Since my last post, I’ve had many dreams I’ve wanted to write down, but the problem is usually that I don’t wake up with enough time to fully write them before I have to go to work. I then refrain from sharing them with people, since I expect to write them soon. However, I never end up having time to do so, and so these dreams just get left behind since they naturally fade away when I don’t think about them.
SO. Here are snippets of dreams I’ve been having that I’d like to at least get down in some small way…
I’ve dreamt that salt was mined from outer space, erupting in massive, screaming plumes of yellow sulfur.
I’ve dreamt that I was a Cinderella-esque younger brother in a family that owned, operated, and lived in a Chinese restaurant.
I’ve dreamt that Bri brought me White Castle burgers teeming with whipped cream and bacon.
I’ve dreamt that I was a stranger shooting at white soldiers in Apartheid South Africa, surviving behind a green, steel riot shield.
I’ve dreamt that I was a jet-setting upper management type, learning life lessons by working in the dredges of customer service with my poverty-line employees and our inner-city clientele.
I’ve dreamt that I was being bowled through a room full of Heartless Monkeys (from Kingdom Hearts), spinning tightly like Sonic the Hedgehog.
…Those are all I can now remember. Sad face. But, it really helps me to write out my dreams after they happen, so thanks for being an audience.
Not enough time nor memory for much detail, but last night, I dreamt that I, along with Meredith Baxter, was asked to speak at a non-existent local university on my experiences as a gay actor. It was stressful and enlightening.
So, I am not a Christian. There are many words one could use to describe me, but Christian isn’t an accurate one. Despite that fact, in my dream last night, I found myself volunteering for some church’s membership drive. I don’t remember what compelled me to help this particular church, and I believe that even in the dream, I couldn’t remember. All the same, I didn’t mind that I was doing it. Clearly, I thought, this church does honest, decent work that I approve of–as I’ve known some other churches in my lifetime to do. So, the lot of us are standing around in the church’s administrative office (which was sizable and looked like a school office), when the pastor/reverend/preacherman enters holding a clear, plastic candy-bucket that’s full of whitish-grey, twig-like things. He passes the bucket around, explaining the protocol.
He explains that we should take several of the nails (they were nails) and grab a hammer from the pile near the door. As we walked through the town, we’d find a prospective church member waiting at every church in the area. These prospective church members were fully informed of what’s expected of them and eager to fulfill. Our task, I learned then, was to crucify each of these persons. At first, I thought this couldn’t be like what I was imagining, that he was talking about doing some sort of simulated crucifixion, and the nails we were being armed with weren’t actually going to pierce these peoples’ wrists and ankles. But this hope was dashed when the pastorman continued to elaborate upon the best system with which we should approach these very real crucifixions.
Repulsed, I left, and I found myself at this sort of…youth mixer? I don’t know, but it was populated with many people from MI, specifically the NB, and even more specifically, people who graduated from high school after me. I was trying to share with people the general fuckedupedness of what I had just experienced, but the music was too loud for any of us to hear each other. We held our plastic cups of pop and stood around with vacant smiles, bouncing absently to the beats, and after not long enough of that, one of the sets of doors in the dance hall burst open, and there was the pastorman and his revelrous gang of volunteers, ready to join the party.
I was finally able to share with my friend, Meghan, exactly what was bothering me from earlier, and she jumped right on board with my righteous indignation, as I knew she would (she being sensible, generally). So, while Team Crucifix was cavorting about and enjoying the company of all our schoolmates, Meghan and I stood sternly by the drink table, furrowing our brows and shooting venomous looks in their direction. Ultimately, he made his way toward the drinks, hoping to sate his thirst, but we would not move. “Excuse me,” he said, and at first, I felt obliged to yield. I remember moving slightly out of his way and thinking for a moment that I was overreacting about the whole thing, and that it wasn’t my place to speak out against this man and his actions. But Meghan looked at me questioningly, and I realized that no, I was super not overreacting. I stopped moving, looked him in the face and began to loudly decry the crucifixions. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I know the word “appalling” was used. Or maybe “appalled.” Like, “I am appalled.” I think that one.
Anyway, shit starts to go down, and I realize we need to get out of there. I jump into a car with Meghan, Marisa, and several dudes I went to high school with whose names I don’t remember. There were too many of us in the car, and the guy driving was zooming through town like a mad man. I was in the backseat with a guy seated directly in front of me, like on a motorcycle. It was very intimate, and my face was smashed into his hair. He didn’t seem nearly as concerned with our safety as I was, so I was left to fumble with the seatbelts alone. After we were strapped in, I at least felt a little more secure, if not exactly safe. I had my arms around him and all I could smell was his scalp, and I noticed he had flakes, and I thought about talking to him about those when we got out of the car, which was moving in directions that defied physics’ laws.
However, I woke up. I then snuggled up against Jeff, who does not have flakes in his hair.
FABLE 3 TRADING POST
HAVE: Dragonstompers (several),
Sandgoose, Tannar’s Glory, Tenderiser, Arkwright’s Flintlock,
gold,
will do things that require co-op for achievements with you
(marriage, children, business partnership, Mistpeak Demon Door)
WANT: Elliot Portrait, Scythe Tattoos,
will also take other portraits and Cook’s Hats
Can I gift you with a sliver account
No sir, I don’t think we can trade if you have only a silver account
I also need help with long distance relationship and cross-dimensional conception
I had a strange and sort of depressing dream last night.
It started with me and someone else (I can’t remember who) during the Renaissance, walking along the terrace of a beautiful estate, full of lush, full-bodied bushes and bright flowers hanging in stone bowls. Seated at a table were two high-class gentlemen, but they were frozen in time. My companion and I were walking around them, analyzing their features and trying to figure things out about them. Suddenly, they came back to life, in the middle of a conversation, and my friend and I at first thought we were going to be noticed, but they stayed in their own little world. The first gentleman was discussing something mundane, but lengthy, when the second gentleman interrupted him by saying, “Marry me.” The first man laughed incredulously and looked down. “I mean it. We should be married.”
“No,” he replied. As it came out, he sounded sincere, but he continued to let the word trail off and fizzle down to the ground, like he might be swayed with more insistence.
“Why not?”, the second gentleman asked. The first came back with a bevy of reasons, all societal. Their status, their families, the lack of precedent, the disdain of the people…”Those things don’t matter! In all ways but in name, you are my husband!” (I remember that line very clearly) The first gentleman grew angry and stood, shouting, “We will not be married! Put it out of mind!” With that, he turned around and walked down the terrace and through a door into the estate. The second gentleman sat alone in his chair, looking after the first. He let out a sigh and looked down at the table, then the floor. Then he was frozen again.
So, I joined the local gay men’s chorus.
It’s really not that different from any other chorus except that it’s made up almost entirely of middle-aged queens and every other statement made is a dick joke.
Yes, it’s okay to admit that you’re jealous of me.
I came home for some dinner yesterday before heading back up to Improv/the desk, and I got around to making something I’d been thinking about for a few days. The idea had first come to me in the grocery store on Sunday when I saw these nice, green, hard avocados. I bought two of them, and then got a few more things to use, and I let the notion stew for the few days after that. Don’t let the italics fool you into thinking I just made some sort of food pun. There was no actual stewing involved with the meal; those italics were just for emphasis.
So, from the meal’s inception (Christ, am I ever ready to watch that movie again [which I keep saying, but have I taken any steps to make it happen? No. So maybe I should just stop]), I knew I wanted to use chicken. However, at the store, I was worried about whether chicken would be in the budget. See, I have committed myself to only buying organic meat for several reasons which are unimportant to the actual story I’m trying to tell here, and organic meat gets a little pricey. Fortunately, the grocery store I frequent sometimes stocks organic, boneless, skinless (so they say ಠ_ಠ) chicken thighs! And they are DIRT cheap. Well, reasonably cheap. The packs of four thighs hover over and under $4.00. Hell yes. So, I got the chicken, avocados, and a bag of frozen, organic mango pieces (so convenient!), and I was ready to go. Oh. Also green beans. For the side.
So, while the chicken was defrosting yesterday (I–as previously mentioned–don’t really trust microwaves, so when I need to defrost something quickly, I prefer to massage the item in a pool of lukewarm water. …that said, I used a microwave yesterday), I took out an avocado, peeled it, pitted it, and diced it. Also, I started cooking a cup of jasmine rice (it was on sale again!), and for the first time in my life, I put some butter in the rice water. I’ve always just been an “eat the damn rice” kind of guy, but I don’t know, butter just felt right yesterday. So, where was I? Yes. Rice: cooking. Chicken: defrosting. Avocado: diced and bowled.
Hmm…narratives are all well and good, I suppose. But I’m getting bored, and I feel like you might be too. So, here’s the meal basics, if you’d like to make it yourself. Which you do!
Blackened Honey Thighs
Ingredients
THE MEAT
- Four boneless chicken thighs
- Blackening spices, enough to use liberally
- Honey, enough to use liberally
- Garlic, minced
- Olive oil
THE TOPPING
- One avocado, still firm, diced
- 1 cup diced mango
- 1 tsp Chili Garlic Sauce (from those jolly Vietnamese folk who brought you Sriracha sauce!)
- 1 tsp minced garlic
- A little bit of olive oil
THE SIDES
- Rice (I like Jasmine, obviously, but whatever. It’s your barbecue)
- Green Beans, however many you damn well please
Process
- Start cooking the rice. Preheat large frying pan on medium-high heat with olive oil and garlic (THE MEAT garlic)
- Oh, also, prep your green beans. If you’re doing this with green beans. I did. You don’t have to. Listen, just back off.
- Spread out each chicken thigh and place it in the frying pan. Spread blackening spices liberally over chicken. Then, spread that honey, just as liberally, over all that chicken. Let it cook for about ten minutes before flipping. Once you flip, repeat the horrible cycle of liberalism.
- After you flip the chicken, turn your attention toward THE TOPPING. Combine avocado, mango, chili sauce, and garlic in a bowl. Stir. Toss with a little bit of olive oil. Specifically, the little bit of olive oil listed in the ingredients section. Cook in a small frying pan over low heat.
- If you’re taking the green bean route, here’s what I did:
- After chicken side2 has cooked for about five minutes, scoot all the blacken(ing) honey thighs into the center of the pan and toss the green beans along the perimeter. Cover and cook for five minutes.
- Flip the chicken once more just to crispen glover the first side that got cooked, then remove when it’s all done. Stir the green beans in the blackened honey thigh remnants, cover, and let cook for another 10-15 minutes.
- Oh, when the chicken finished, you should have also removed THE TOPPING from heat and combined the two in the way that seems most logical. If you’ve let the topping cook this long, I’m sorry. You should have read the whole recipe first. I mean, c’mon. That’s 101 kind of stuff.
Aaaaand, boom! Once those beans are done (and the rice should be done by now, too), just plate that fucker up and have yourself a meal!
BLACKENED HONEY THIGHS! It’s also really fun to say.
First off, I know. It’s been a brass while. I don’t know. I have no good excuse. But! I can say that I have not had any dreams in the last month that have been as nutso or readily remembered as this one. So, at least you know I’m not just producing filler.
The absolute beginning leaves me now, but I was in a crowded grocery store. The only person I knew who was in there with me was Clark, but I don’t know if we were there together or not. I think we weren’t. WAIT. I REMEMBER
In the beginning (well, closer to it, anyway), I was at home, watching an episode of Law & Order: SVU with someone who had never watched it before. The “bad guy” in the episode was the serial killer character from the first season of The 4400. He looks like this. Still with me? So, in the show, there was this Asian international student living in a house with other international students, and she had received a very suspicious phone call from the serial killer heavily implying that he was on his way to do horrible things to her. Not being genre blind, she immediately called the police, and SVU swarmed on the place with questions and rapekits ablaze. It was while I was pointing out to my co-viewer Benson’s penchant for making snappy comments and always making a face like she smelled hot garbage that suddenly, the serial killer appeared! He had this cocksure smile and was holding a noose while leaning on the patio doorframe. It made me jump. The police squad all took out their pistols and fired indiscriminately at the door, just narrowly missing him (for a long time). THEEEEENNNNNN we were in the grocery store. My subconscious has never been one for smooth transitions.
So, we’re in the store, and the first thing that’s interesting about this place is that along the outer walls and in some of the inner shelving units, there are lockers. Like, straight up middle school lockers. Some even have a lock on them, but most do not. Food available for purchase is placed above and around these lockers, and there are sometimes long patches on shelves where there just aren’t any lockers, but wherever they are, they’re painted yellow and open into more storage for whatever product they’re near.
I don’t remember how he first made his presence known (whether it was by loudspeaker or loud voice), but the serial killer burst in through the front door with a few cronies, bolted the doors in such a way that no one could get out, and just started MURDERING PEOPLE. They were all close-range killings, so as long as you could stay away from them, you’d be alright. Well, you’d be not dead, anyway; whether you could also be described as “alright” would be pretty subjective at best. So, I’m doing my best to keep away from the serial killers by sticking to the perimeter of the store. I see that they’re opening a lot of the lockers, so I don’t want to bother hiding in one. It’s best that I just keep moving. My movement around the store was very strange and taxing. I was gliding across the floor and moving my body as if I were roller skating, but I was absolutely not roller skating. In fact, in the dream, I remember lamenting my lack of roller skates because, if I had them, these movements would not only be a hell of a lot less exhausting, but they’d be loads more effective. Anyway, as I’m going along the perimeter, I keep looking down the aisles and catching views of new people getting murderfied. I don’t know what happened to their bodies after getting killed. Either dream logic swept them away or the goons took them all upstairs in the giant elevator that also existed in this place. I see Clark hide in a locker near the milk, and I hope he’s making the right choice. We were both aware of each other’s presence in the place, but I think we were just in full on “Lookin’ out for Number One” mode and knew it wouldn’t benefit either of us to actively work together.
After like, twenty-five minutes of trying to elude the murderers, my legs are on the verge of buckling and flirt with the idea every so often. However, I do notice that the number of living bodies has drastically lowered, and I don’t see the serial killer anywhere. When I look down the aisles, it’s just survivors freaking out or coping. I figure he must have gone up the giant elevator to his newly established lair, which I immediately understand exists. Seeing this opportunity for respite, I climb in a locker that’s surrounded by large boxes. It takes me an unreasonable amount of time to choose my preferred place amongst all the boxes and yellow doors, and I remember getting frustrated at myself in the actual dream about how long I was taking to pick a sanctuary, especially since in the immediate area, no spot held any real advantage over any other. So, I climb into a ground-level locker, and I make sure there are empty boxes tumbled over it, to further conceal my location. I breathe. My legs really need this time to relax and rejuvenate.
TWO AWFUL THINGS HAPPEN. Well, I take that back. Not that they didn’t happen, but the whole dream has been nothing but awful things and there are more than two awful things that have yet to happen. I only wrote it like that because the NEXT two do happen in short succession, but then, so do pretty much all the awful things that happen after them, so why don’t I just pretend this entire paragraph so far hasn’t happened and get to the awful things already? A large bus arrives! One of those “we’re traveling across a state or two and only make one stop throughout the night” deals. From the slits in my locker door, I can see straight ahead the long way toward the store’s entrance, and this bus full of retirees wanders into the grocery store, completely oblivious that they are now trapped inside with a maniacal serial killer and his crazy death squad. Then I hear the killer’s voice on the loud speaker start talking some shit, like, “Oh ho, ho, ho! Come on in! Welcome to hosdilakd;fliad…” I don’t remember what–if anything–he called the place, but he definitely welcomed the newcomers to it. I see Clark run out of his locker to go help the new people, or at least explain the situation to them, because they are clearly all very confused, and then the place starts flooding.
Flooding, I said. Water starts coming from who knows where, and sloshing around people’s feet, ankles, knees. It’s rising unrealistically quickly for a space with such a massive surface area, honestly. The waves are crashing against my locker door, but I am too petrified to make a run for it. I mean, where would I go? Elsewhere? But, as the water continues to rise, I hear the killer on the speaker again, and this time, he’s calling out to me, all sing-songy like. “Oh Deeerrrrrm? Dermatological Zoooooooo?” But you know, with my real name. “Derm, you’d better get over here, buddy. There’s this sweet young thing just lying here in this flood, and wouldn’t you know it? She can’t move a muscle. Well, I’m sure she’d like to move a muscle, but it’s hard when you’re a brand new quadriplegic. Think you can help her out, Derm? I understand if you can’t; it’s just that, if you don’t, she’s gonna drown.”
Right? Embarrassingly, I do still hesitate a bit, but I can see the woman he’s talking about. Down near the entrance, he’s set up this high platform of fence. Like, the normal, metal fence with all the thick wires twisted together. One of those, but flat across four six-foot poles. The woman is young, with platinum blonde hair and beautifully make-up’d eyes, but she’s lying prone on the fencing, and it’s clear that the only muscle control she has is of her eyes, which are darting about in horror as the water begins to slosh through the fencing and up her side. Despite my own desire to just go home, it’s clear that I can’t do that. Plus, I couldn’t let this lady die just because I didn’t want to be here. So, I burst out of the locker and super swim down the aisles to the lady (seriously, I was doing that butterfly stroke thing? Where you don’t even use the arms, really? I’m not sure what it’s called, but it was crazy; especially since, in real life, I hate swimming and do my best to avoid it). I get up onto the platform as the water has just started to splash into her mouth despite her best eye-moving, and I lift her up. Clark, I see, has been put in a similar situation and is on another nearby platform, helping an equally physically disabled person survive. The rest of the store-inhabitants are treading water around us. The killer makes some taunting comments toward Clark and I, and then we’re both treated to fire being shot at our feet. The fence platform now has three fence walls around it, with all but the broadside facing into the store walled up. Underneath the platform and along the sides of the two short-side walls are flame-throwing jets all of a sudden. Clark and I are expected to climb up the fence wall, carrying our other persons. If we aren’t climbing fast enough, we will be showered with fire from three sides. Impossible, you say? Dream, I say back! While climbing, I remember trying to figure out why this guy was so interested in Clark and me. Clark and I kept looking back at one another, encouraging each other to carry on, that the top wasn’t too far ahead, that the quadriplegics we were carrying weren’t as heavy as they seemed. The sounds of the vast room were four: The water mixing and slamming below, the fire blaring out of the jets in an unpredictable rhythm, my own fierce, fevered breathing, and the supportive cheers of all the others underneath us. Clark’s and my faith in one another, the survivors’ faith in us, and the need to get to the top of this store to fucking kill this guy all came together to get our morale burning and our bodies moving.
Aaaaand…hate to say it, but that’s as far as I remember. The shit was CRAZY. In my head, I sort of see the end being Clark and I reaching the dude, and instead of having some ridiculous final fight to the death, he would just kill himself, since all he really wanted was to see if we could do it. I don’t know why that’s what I picture. Maybe that’s what actually happened in the dream, but I honestly couldn’t tell you. The last part I distinctly remember was the climbing, the flames, and the support. So…yay, happy ending.
I’m now pretty sure that someone is consistently urinating in the stairwell.
That morning that I had mentioned the stairwell smelling like sweet yellow rain proved to be the first of many such mornings. Most days, the scent is accompanied by a suspicious-looking puddle on one of the landings. I love this place. I mentioned it to Laverne at the desk today, and she was visibly upset by my news because I was apparently the second person to raise these concerns, meaning it was something she was going to have to actually take care of. I do not pity the staff of this apartment complex. I do not pity them one bit.
dermatologicalzoo 