It suddenly occurred to me that there are now millions of women who would rather be married to me than Tom Cruise. So there.
Here’s a site where you can make your own comic strip. See my piece of crap here.
I need an interpreter for this one . . .
Last night, I had the strangest dream. I’m in an airport in Colorado. I’m chasing a woman who may or may not be my wife. I chase her outside onto the runways and she escapes by jumping a fence. I turn around and see two young women (a blonde and a brunette) standing behind me.
“She got away?” they ask.
“Well, we wouldn’t let you get away.”
(A good start for a dream.) They tell me there’s a party I’m invited to and they’ll give me directions.
I’m running through a strange park with cobblestone pathways and concrete walls topped with wrought iron fencing. A quivering male voice is half-singing/half-chanting the directions to me: “Two steps left, then run to the right, don’t slow down or you’ll run all night.”
I arrive at what can only be described as a mini-Victorian mansion in severe disrepair. My two new girlfriends are waiting inside the door. We are greeted by a woman whose legs are severed at the knee, and she clomps around on all fours like an ape. She is naked, and has huge breasts that each swing to their own rhythm. She serves us drinks.
Deeper in the house is a strange group. There are three men on the couch. Two look normal. The third, sitting in the middle, has a pale, triangular face and a pair of rat-like fangs protrude from his lips. They nod hello and seem friendly enough.
Next to them sits a man playing the guitar with his feet. He’s playing “Kathy’s Song” by Simon and Garfunkel, only he plays the song as if he’s writing it himself.
“I gaze beyond the rain-drenched streets.” He plays that line, nods, and writes it down.
“To England where my heart lies.” Sings it, nods, writes it down.
“Ain’t that a Simon and Garfunkel song?” I ask like a fuckin’ hillbilly tourist in New York.
A hush settles over the group. The guitarist shakes his head no, and goes back to his work.
Out of the blue, Rat-like Fangs Man asks me, “So what do you think of the Resurrector?”
Everyone looks at me. “You mean Jesus?”
The normal one next to Rat-like Fangs says, “Boy, was that the wrong answer.”
A guttural screaming sounds from a nearby room. It scares the shit out of me. The brunette runs in. I decide to get the hell out of there. The blonde directs me to a laundry chute. I climb in and she follows. As I climb in, I see an immense man in a blue security guard uniform stalking into the room. He’s carrying a knife.
“Go! Go!” the blonde screams. We hightail it up the laundry chute, and through it’s cracks I can see Big Blue Man holding his knife, looking for the right place to plunge it in.
Just as he is ready to stick me, my perspective changes, and it’s my hand plunging the knife. I’ve just stuck the blonde, and not in the good way.
I’m standing outside the house, and I’m in the middle of some sort of cult meeting. Everyone but me is naked and hitting each other with switches. The brunette (did I say she was naked?) comes to me and hands me a book. The title of the book is “Three for Rocks”(no idea where that came from) and the author’s name is Troey (again, no clue). The book is wrapped completely in clear packing tape, and the sawed-off spine of an Ann Rice book is taped to it.
(Now I’m awake.)
Okay, so it isn’t midnight, but it always seems late when everyone else is in bed.
We had an Easter egg hunt for my girls this weekend at my parents’ house. While watching them blaze through the yard, piling eggs into their baskets, I had one of those moments where I say to myself, “Wow. Look at how frigging smart they are.”
My girls are 2 now, and there is something about their rapidly expanding knowledge that frightens me just a little. It is Easter, after all, and in my younger days, when I was a devout Christian, Easter meant a lot of things. I see that Christians are now calling it “Resurrection Sunday” to counter the holiday’s commerciality. I don’t have a problem with that, but it’s a blunt reminder, isn’t it? To those of us who used to believe with all our hearts that He was up there, watching over everything? I remember the year I realized I just couldn’t believe anymore. I remember the next few years I spent believing in nothing, only to realize that I was on the fool’s path. Now I’m on a personal quest for spiritual fulfillment, which means that I go day to day with a lot of questions unanswered.
But not for long. We come back to those two little girls. They more they talk, they more they’ll want to know. They’ll force me to learn things about which I’m ignorant. They’ll force me to confront feelings and beliefs I might want to deny.
Well, I can’t get ahead of myself. There’s no time for that. I’m 35 years old. I’m starting to go to the doctor for problems they say are “age related.” I have a list of things to ask the doctor about, including a twitch in my right eye that is constant now. I heard a quote once, “at my age I’m prepared to take a few things on faith.” And now, standing between lost faith of the past and unanswered questions of the future, that’s going to have to do.
Hmm, now it is almost midnight and I’ve been rambling (now I owe the Allman Brothers two apologies).
As you can see by looking around you, Spring has sprung, and one of my favorite parts of Spring’s return is that it’s time for the ladies to break out the tank-tops, shorts and sandals. Unfortunately, it also means that tank-tops, shorts and sandals are back for the men.
About the sandals, fellas. Unless you’re going to the beach or working in your yard (and I say “you” because I take care of my feet), you have no business wearing sandals. Women’s feet are lovely, polished and pampered. Most men’s feet look like they stomp shit barefoot for a living. Trust me, Bruno, no one wants to see your cracked, gnarled, dirt-encrusted, fungus-ridden dogs at anytime. If you want to improve, I can assure you that there is no law—state for federal—that forbids you from touching your feet with a bar of soap.
Please keep ’em covered. Please.
I sat in my chair tonight before film class (we watched “Aliens” tonight—life is hard, I know) reading Delights and Shadows, a book of poetry by U.S. Poet Laureate and Nebraska native Ted Kooser. I came across this poem that so moved me I just had to share it.
Mid April already, and the wild plums
bloom at the roadside, a lacy white
against the exuberant, jubilant green
of new grass and the dusty, fading black
of burned-out ditches. No leaves, not yet,
only the delicate, star-petaled
blossoms, sweet with their timeless perfume.
You have been gone a month today
and have missed three rains and one nightlong
watch for tornadoes. I sat in the cellar
from six to eight while fat spring clouds
went somersaulting, rumbling east. Then it poured,
a storm that walked on legs of lightning,
dragging its shaggy belly over the fields.
The meadowlarks are back, and the finches
are turning from green to gold. Those same
two geese have come to the pond again this year,
honking in over the trees and splashing down.
They never nest, but stay a week or two
then leave. The peonies are up, the red sprouts
burning in circles like birthday candles,
for this is the month of my birth, as you know,
the best month to be born in, thanks to you,
everything ready to burst with living.
There will be no more new flannel nightshirts
sewn on your old black Singer. no birthday card
addressed in a shaky but businesslike hand.
You asked me if I would be sad when it happened
and I am sad. But the iris I moved from your house
now hold in the dusty dry fists of their roots
green knives and forks as if waiting for dinner,
as if spring were a feast. I thank you for that.
Were it not for the way you taught me to look
at the world to see the life at play in everything,
I would have to be lonely forever.
- We now watch “Peter Pan” or “Cinderella” on a daily basis, depending on which one my daughters request. “Peter Pan” is an old favorite of mine, so it’s fun to get to watch that one over and over. “Cinderella” is one I’d seen once or twice, but I’ve really grown to love this movie. I’ve become something of a film connoisseur, and when I evaluate it’s story structure, script and music, this is really a great movie.
- Speaking of movies, I took a two-day screenwriting seminar a couple of weeks ago with Lew Hunter and Michael Hauge, so now I’m on a screenwriting kick and am going gangbusters on my first script. This is about the most fun writing I’ve ever done. It came at the perfect time, as my novel writing efforts were about to put me in the looney bin. I think screenwriting, like short stories, appeals to my nature to get the story told quick. I bring this up because I came across the Writer’s Guild’s list of the 101 Greatest Screenplays. Here’s a script site where you can probably read most of them. I thought The Usual Suspects was a tad overrated, and to see it ranked above “Taxi Driver” really pissed me off. Let the debate begin.
- A couple of interesting news stories to shake up your view of things. The first, about a new book from the Holy Blood, Holy Grail guys, explores the possibility that Jesus faked his death on the cross. For example, the “vinegar” He was given to drink was actually a soporific drug that simulated death, and that Pontius Pilate and Joseph of Arimethea were in on the plot, as was Judas, who might actually have been put up to his betrayal by Jesus himself. Velly eenteresting.
- Went to see George Carlin last Thursday night. He was vicious and caustic as usual, and he told us two horribly disgusting jokes. He said “this is quite possibly the sickest joke I’ve ever told . . . with the possible exception of the next one.” I’ll post the jokes in the comments with a warning. So, you’ve been warned. Don’t bitch.
- I told my wife I’m now buying lottery tickets because I seem to always beat the odds. For example, at the Carlin concert happened to fall on a night of horrible weather, and the two drunkest assholes at the event sat right next to me. They weren’t in their seats five minutes and I already had to tell them to shut the fuck up. They stunk of alcohol and were just a couple of losers. It’s amazing how some people can still inspire instant hatred. I would loved to have seen them pasted by a city bus. That would have been funny.
- One of my daughters got up from her afternoon nap, and when I went into their bedroom, the other girl was still asleep. They look so peaceful and angelic when they sleep. It dawned on me that I rarely see them sleeping since its usually dark in their room and they’re awake by the time I go in, and they never sleep in my arms anymore. Funny how that wonderful period went by so fast and I never even noticed.