Wanted: Sominex, Ambien, or Valium
My Subconscious Is Getting Bizarre On Me
Dreamt me some tremulous dreams last night. Woke up feeling like I'd been trod upon by a herd of wildebeest. Dreaming may be your brain's method of having a little holiday, but occasionally it wreaks havoc on your daytime psyche.
The worst part is, I can't even blame this one on late night ingestion of Train Wreck Stew, Kitchen Sink Pizza, or just one 'lude too many. Nope, this is one of those clear-as-a-bell persistent memory journeys through la-la land that keep my puzzler puzzling. Wanna hear about it? Sure ya do!
So, I'm driving along with my buddy Connecticut Yankee in his much-abused blue Ford Ranger. For some reason, it's missing the camper shell. Probably flung off the vehicle on one of his many high-speed up-on-two-wheels cornering exercises. We're out in the middle of nowhere, just driving for hours, talking about nothing much in particular.
Suddenly, we come upon a town. It's the bump in the road known as Arnett, Oklahoma, hometown to my friend Rockhauler. I've been to this town only once in my life, just as the sun was coming up on an overnight trip from Denver to Dallas a decade ago. Stopped just long enough to take a picture of the Arnett city limit sign and drive by the high school. Somehow, in the dream, it's all clear as a bell 10 years later.
We pull into a gas station that suddenly morphs into a roadside food stand/motel. All the employees seem to be small Mexican children. Connecticut Yankee insists on getting something to eat off the grill, a disreputable looking piece of cooked dead animal put on stale white bread, which he insists on slathering with mayo out of a gallon jar that looks to have been sitting in the sun for a year.
I tried to object to his choice of cuisine, but he was intent on the snack. I go inside the motel, since I'm sure we'll be there for the night. Place is a dump. Right out of the Saturday Night Live skit 'White Trash Bed & Breakfast', complete with the dead dog in the sink and the car transmission in the bathtub. ("Breakfust?? OK, we got ketchup on white, or ketchup and onion on white!")
The shower curtain is an old bedsheet so torn up, I'm not sure it'll survive a soaking. Connecticut Yankee has a zero-capacity GI tract (food goes in, something HAS to come out immediately), and he and I start arguing over who gets to use the shitter first. It's also behind a bedsheet/curtain. We pull down the curtain, and it's so filthy that it looks like the place has been tarred & feathered, only using hair instead of feathers.
We bolt out of there, and hit the road again. I get the vague sense we're off to see the Limey Bastard in Clovis, N.M., only Connecticut Yankee doesn't seem to realize that LB's in Roswell or Ruidoso or wherever he's moved to this month, and I can't get Connecticut Yankee to change course.
About that time I wake up, with a desperate need to offload that 44oz. iced tea I had with dinner. Betsy Cat is not at her usual perch at the head of the bed, so I've probably been tossing and turning so much she got annoyed and left.
Now, I'm not the kind of person that puts a lot of stock in dream interpretations. There are plenty of books out there that'll tell you that seeing a bunny rabbit in your dreams means you're about to get pantsed by unruly Norwegians, or that seeing a rose means you're about to contract a raging case of piles. For the most part, I think those books make excellent boat anchors.
Connecticut Yankee showed up in the dream, no doubt, since I got an email from him a few days ago, and he's been on my mind lately. Well, not so much him, per se, but the memories his email stirred up have me thinking a lot about our college years and in particular, his ex-girlfriend, The Sock.
She got dubbed The Sock by my friend Rockhauler since he felt she had the personality of a sweat sock. She was a soccer player, a bit of a tomboy, had a serious Star Trek fetish, and was pursuing an engineering degree so she could invent the warp drive. She also had the roundest, firmest soccer balls of anyone I knew.
(Private note to ConnYank: "EMERSON!")
Connecticut Yankee was her first real relationship, and since he & I were pretty tight, I saw The Sock quite often. More so, in fact, than I suspect Connecticut Yankee realizes. See, she occasionally needed advice on the whole dating game (among other things), and since I was considerably older & "safe", I could be the pseudo-father figure that wouldn't go telling stories later.
We spent a good deal of time chatting, and as time passed, I began to realize that it wouldn't take a great deal of effort to proceed from "Tell me what to do when..." to "Let's just show you how to..."
Like Seth Gecko said, "I'm a bastard, but I'm not a fucking bastard". I have just a handful of morals I live by, but "Don't fuck your buddy" is right at the top of the list. As long as they were together, I'd be the perfect gentleman. Once they broke up, though...
Connecticut Yankee, aside from being a Yankee, was no fool. He let me know shortly after they broke up that he wasn't sure how he'd react if I was to start dating The Sock, so I know he'd given it some thought. Hell, for all I know, I kept my mouf' shut about our chats, and The Sock blabbered it all to Connecticut Yankee as pillow talk.
As it happened, I talked to her maybe once or twice after their split, then never saw her again. The age gap was the primary reason I didn't pursue. Sure, she was sexy as a stump-broke sheep, but you've got to be able to talk the other 12 hours of the day you're not mattress-dancing, and there just wasn't enough commonality to ever fill that gap.
I'm kinda surprised she didn't make an appearance in the dream. The Arnett locale was obviously a reference to the mutual disdain between Connecticut Yankee and Rockhauler, and my stress at having two close friends of mine not like each other. The road trip was just wish fulfillment. We've never had a successful road trip with the Connecticut Yankee & the Limey Bastard that didn't end with someone in police custody. The food Connecticut Yankee gets but I object to has got to be his immersion in the frat-rat culture, which I bitched about endlessly, but turned out all right in the end.
The Mexican kids and the no-tell motel? I don't even wanna speculate on that. Sometimes it IS just your brain having a night out at the movies.
OK, I've rambled enough. I've got two comp days tomorrow and Friday, so tonight it's tequila slammers until I pass out. I need a break from my subconscious!
Dreamt me some tremulous dreams last night. Woke up feeling like I'd been trod upon by a herd of wildebeest. Dreaming may be your brain's method of having a little holiday, but occasionally it wreaks havoc on your daytime psyche.
The worst part is, I can't even blame this one on late night ingestion of Train Wreck Stew, Kitchen Sink Pizza, or just one 'lude too many. Nope, this is one of those clear-as-a-bell persistent memory journeys through la-la land that keep my puzzler puzzling. Wanna hear about it? Sure ya do!
So, I'm driving along with my buddy Connecticut Yankee in his much-abused blue Ford Ranger. For some reason, it's missing the camper shell. Probably flung off the vehicle on one of his many high-speed up-on-two-wheels cornering exercises. We're out in the middle of nowhere, just driving for hours, talking about nothing much in particular.
Suddenly, we come upon a town. It's the bump in the road known as Arnett, Oklahoma, hometown to my friend Rockhauler. I've been to this town only once in my life, just as the sun was coming up on an overnight trip from Denver to Dallas a decade ago. Stopped just long enough to take a picture of the Arnett city limit sign and drive by the high school. Somehow, in the dream, it's all clear as a bell 10 years later.
We pull into a gas station that suddenly morphs into a roadside food stand/motel. All the employees seem to be small Mexican children. Connecticut Yankee insists on getting something to eat off the grill, a disreputable looking piece of cooked dead animal put on stale white bread, which he insists on slathering with mayo out of a gallon jar that looks to have been sitting in the sun for a year.
I tried to object to his choice of cuisine, but he was intent on the snack. I go inside the motel, since I'm sure we'll be there for the night. Place is a dump. Right out of the Saturday Night Live skit 'White Trash Bed & Breakfast', complete with the dead dog in the sink and the car transmission in the bathtub. ("Breakfust?? OK, we got ketchup on white, or ketchup and onion on white!")
The shower curtain is an old bedsheet so torn up, I'm not sure it'll survive a soaking. Connecticut Yankee has a zero-capacity GI tract (food goes in, something HAS to come out immediately), and he and I start arguing over who gets to use the shitter first. It's also behind a bedsheet/curtain. We pull down the curtain, and it's so filthy that it looks like the place has been tarred & feathered, only using hair instead of feathers.
We bolt out of there, and hit the road again. I get the vague sense we're off to see the Limey Bastard in Clovis, N.M., only Connecticut Yankee doesn't seem to realize that LB's in Roswell or Ruidoso or wherever he's moved to this month, and I can't get Connecticut Yankee to change course.
About that time I wake up, with a desperate need to offload that 44oz. iced tea I had with dinner. Betsy Cat is not at her usual perch at the head of the bed, so I've probably been tossing and turning so much she got annoyed and left.
Now, I'm not the kind of person that puts a lot of stock in dream interpretations. There are plenty of books out there that'll tell you that seeing a bunny rabbit in your dreams means you're about to get pantsed by unruly Norwegians, or that seeing a rose means you're about to contract a raging case of piles. For the most part, I think those books make excellent boat anchors.
Connecticut Yankee showed up in the dream, no doubt, since I got an email from him a few days ago, and he's been on my mind lately. Well, not so much him, per se, but the memories his email stirred up have me thinking a lot about our college years and in particular, his ex-girlfriend, The Sock.
She got dubbed The Sock by my friend Rockhauler since he felt she had the personality of a sweat sock. She was a soccer player, a bit of a tomboy, had a serious Star Trek fetish, and was pursuing an engineering degree so she could invent the warp drive. She also had the roundest, firmest soccer balls of anyone I knew.
(Private note to ConnYank: "EMERSON!")
Connecticut Yankee was her first real relationship, and since he & I were pretty tight, I saw The Sock quite often. More so, in fact, than I suspect Connecticut Yankee realizes. See, she occasionally needed advice on the whole dating game (among other things), and since I was considerably older & "safe", I could be the pseudo-father figure that wouldn't go telling stories later.
We spent a good deal of time chatting, and as time passed, I began to realize that it wouldn't take a great deal of effort to proceed from "Tell me what to do when..." to "Let's just show you how to..."
Like Seth Gecko said, "I'm a bastard, but I'm not a fucking bastard". I have just a handful of morals I live by, but "Don't fuck your buddy" is right at the top of the list. As long as they were together, I'd be the perfect gentleman. Once they broke up, though...
Connecticut Yankee, aside from being a Yankee, was no fool. He let me know shortly after they broke up that he wasn't sure how he'd react if I was to start dating The Sock, so I know he'd given it some thought. Hell, for all I know, I kept my mouf' shut about our chats, and The Sock blabbered it all to Connecticut Yankee as pillow talk.
As it happened, I talked to her maybe once or twice after their split, then never saw her again. The age gap was the primary reason I didn't pursue. Sure, she was sexy as a stump-broke sheep, but you've got to be able to talk the other 12 hours of the day you're not mattress-dancing, and there just wasn't enough commonality to ever fill that gap.
I'm kinda surprised she didn't make an appearance in the dream. The Arnett locale was obviously a reference to the mutual disdain between Connecticut Yankee and Rockhauler, and my stress at having two close friends of mine not like each other. The road trip was just wish fulfillment. We've never had a successful road trip with the Connecticut Yankee & the Limey Bastard that didn't end with someone in police custody. The food Connecticut Yankee gets but I object to has got to be his immersion in the frat-rat culture, which I bitched about endlessly, but turned out all right in the end.
The Mexican kids and the no-tell motel? I don't even wanna speculate on that. Sometimes it IS just your brain having a night out at the movies.
OK, I've rambled enough. I've got two comp days tomorrow and Friday, so tonight it's tequila slammers until I pass out. I need a break from my subconscious!
posted by El Capitan | 2:58 PM
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