My dilemma

I don’t know if I’ll end up hitting the publish button and reveal this on the blog or not but I need to write about it. If I have published it, know that I expect nothing humorous to come out of this so if you’re looking for jokes I beg you to skip this post and move on.

I’m not going to try to explain here why I hold no belief in such ideas as good or evil or right or wrong. How even the concept of species and the label ‘human being’ are to me, only ideas; only patterns of generalized observation that contain no qualitative certainty. How the only things that exist in my perception of reality are matter, cause and effect, the unique living experiences of each unique living organism and the natural consequences that punish or reward every action we take.

I’m being punished right now.

I have not awakened from a dream in which I brutally murdered a family of innocent people only to suspect that it might not have been a dream and had to grasp the horrific implications of it. Not precisely, anyway.

But I have been experiencing an awakening of another sort for a couple years now and the changes in my life are wildly profound. I’ve been relearning everything I once thought I knew and it was inevitable that this current reckoning would arise.

A couple weeks ago, while driving a long distance and pondering some of the great volume of material that I work with and measuring their great many connections against each other, I stumbled onto the flaws in some beliefs I chose to subscribe to more than twenty-five years ago and the disturbing reality of a 39-year-old habit. I was stunned by intense remorse and I broke down in tears and have done so several times since.

As a teenager I confronted the idea of vegetarianism and immediately dismissed it for three reasons.

1 - I was meant to be carnivorous and had the incisors to prove it.

2 – Life for a beast in the wild is brutal and typically ends in bloody violence. Life for a beast on a farm is surely more pleasant.

3 – If it weren’t for farming, these species would probably not exist but would be extinct or facing extinction for their failings under the laws of natural selection.

These arguments all collapse in the face of my current understandings, except that I really don’t know for sure about the life of a beast on a farm. And – as always – no understandings can be consolidated until I fully experience them with my own five senses.

So I will make no firm decisions about the future of my diet until I can experience the relevant realities. Getting onto family farms will be a cinch. Gaining access to industrial farms will be another matter altogether. And getting into slaughterhouses will be a significant challenge, I’m sure. But I must do it. I have no choice. The chances of finding balanced objective books or documentaries are almost nil. Every author and producer will surely have an agenda. But I’m determined to succeed. An acquaintance works at a Maple Leaf processing plant where killing is done but he doesn’t work in the killing area and he’s a junior person and he’s new there and is unlikely to welcome the risks in breaching his employer’s security. Mind you, I did write the resume that helped him get the job so perhaps he’s grateful enough.

Some interesting things have happened in this two-week period of troubled speculation. One could easily call them signs or omens but I know they are only coincidences. My favorite butcher closed down; went out of business. I was at the library looking for fantasy and sci-fi videos and spotted a DVD titled Earthlings. I grabbed it and immediately sensed that it had to do with the treatment of animals and not spaceships. Of course I watched it and found flaw in almost every word stated. Its agenda is clear. I kept a dinner date at the Keg steakhouse knowing that it might be the last steak I’d eat and allowing a qualified chef to make his case for meat eating. I chose the top sirloin labeled ‘our most flavorful steak’. It tasted utterly bland to me. Whether it was something psychological or because it was prepared unusually rare – I don’t know.

For now I can no longer buy the meat of mammals. My instincts suggest there is almost surely more cruelty behind it than I can tolerate. I will still eat fish and dairy for now; until I’m able to investigate those industries and make enlightened decisions.

The prospect of diet change is a troubling one. I’m generally not fond of fruits and vegetables. Starchy foods are an unwise choice for me. I’ve been living primarily off meat and dairy for some time now. I wish I knew more vegetarians. I could use a lot of advice.

FWG and the Case of the Color-Blind Carpenter

Saturday morning. Busy day ahead. Lunch plans with Aequitas and a few other Nano writers. Dinner and movie plans with Professor Plonk and Captain Vino immediately afterward. And if all goes well, Sunday breakfast with the I.S.

I’ve got just enough time for a desperately-needed haircut before heading off to Hamilton. I’m starting to look like Jesus. Luckily Streetsville is the unlikely hair-n-nails capital of the world with no less than 32 merchants of the hairstylist/barber/manicure trade and it’s a cinch to find one this morning with an empty chair and an idle barber standing by.

“Nice and short on top, buzzed on the sides. The rest is at your discretion.”

“Square back or tapered?”

“I couldn’t care less. I never see the back.”

He does a fine job. I surrender a twenty including tip and then stare dumbly at the coat in my hands. It looks like my coat. Same color; black. Same style. Same label even – except – the fine print reads XL. I could have sworn my coat was an XXL.

I look back at the coat rack where five others hang. None of them look like mine. I pull the keys from the pocket of the coat in my hand and they are not my keys.

“Is something wrong sir?” asks the merchant.

“Yeah. Whoever owns this coat took mine by mistake.”

“That’s not your coat?”

“This isn’t my coat.”

“Hey, that’s my coat,” says the man in the chair who’s hair is being cut by the new barber lady. The lady with foul breath whom I shall never again allow near me.

“This is your coat?”

“Yeah.”

“Your coat’s not there?” says the merchant.

“No.”

“Maybe you wore a different coat than usual.”

“None of these coats are mine.”

“There’s six coats there. There’s six of us in here. One of them must be yours.”

“No. There are six coats here because whoever took mine left his own behind.”

“Aye aye aye!” exclaims the chief barber in perfect Lou Costello manner.

We finally decipher that the puffy blue coat is that of the perpetrator. How he mistook it for my black one is a wonder. I’m briefly assured that he’ll soon return as I detect keys in the pocket. He’ll surely not get far without them. But when I reach into the pocket I pull out a handful of large carpentry nails instead.

The barber wants my phone number. He wants to send me home and call me when my coat is returned. I explain that I am now without any keys. I have access neither to my apartment or to my car and all my weekend plans are now in jeopardy.

He sends me to the nearby Starbucks coffee shop and promises to come and get me the moment the mystery dunce returns with my coat. He even tries to lend me his own coat and five bucks for coffee.

At the shop I order a “Chai Latte – venti” and am immediately approached by a skinny messy-haired older man with hands shoved into jacket pockets and an overall imbalanced look. My first guess is that he’s looking for monetary hand-outs on the way to the liquor store.

He mumbles something to me that vaguely resembles, “How are you today?”

In no mood to contribute to the presumed alcohol fund, I reply, “Not good. Someone took off with my coat.” I volunteer this info because it’s a preamble to the Sorry, bud, my money’s in my missing coat excuse.

He counters with something that vaguely resembles, “Mm bduh-brm nnuh mrnuhm nuhm brsszssrtle brnuhm.”

“I see,” says I, nodding politely, then moving off toward the beverage pick-up zone. I arrive and discover he has followed me.

“I want to say something to you,” he says. At least I think that’s what he said. This guy’s the mumble champion of all time. “And I hope you won’t get mad at me.”

Great. This ought to be good.

“Mm bduh-brm nnuh mrnuhm nuhm brsszssrtle brnuhm.”

“I’m sorry. I beg your pardon?”

“Duhrm bduh-brm nuhm brsszssrdle nnuh mrnuhm blrmnuhm your coat brnuhm.”

I bite my cheek and turn to the coffee boy. “Is that my chai latte?” I already know it’s not but I just need to make contact with the living world again. He shakes his head and casts a worried glance at the mumble champ.

“Lemme purt it thiz way,” he croaks, “When a window of oppruhtoonity clozes, anozzer window ‘foppruhtoonity openz.”

Great. I’ve apparently lost the opportunity to drive my truck, enter my own residence, or visit some of my most important friends but I’ve gained the opportunity to receive priceless wisdom from the High King of Mumbletown. I guess I should count my blessings. Where-oh-where is my giant pet pterodactyl when I need one. If something doesn’t swoop down and snatch this man up and fly away with him – or devour him – either way – I shall have to scream. I mean – I’m normally very patient and kind to those less fortunate or to those playing the role of the less fortunate for the purpose of financial gain. But today I’m so very not in the mood.

Nothing else he says can be interpreted. I nod occasionally, accept my drink when it comes, nod some more and then, at a convenient break in his nattering, announce, “Well, it’s been nice chatting with you. So long, then!” I reach out to shake his hand. He looks down at it, wide-eyed. Then, over his shoulder, I see the face of an angel. It is the man who sat next to me in the barber shop twenty minutes earlier. He’s wearing a puffy blue coat and holding a black one in his hands. I walk away from Mumble King and accept my coat. The gentleman falls all over himself apologizing. I assure him repeatedly that all is well and “Thanks for returning it so quickly… No, no. I already have a coffee but thanks anyway… No really. It’s quite alright. It’ll give me something to blog about… Nothing. Nothing. It’s an internet thing. Never mind. Have a good day.”

I know. I know. I should consider getting a spare set of keys copied. I know.

Poetry: Leaving the Cage

He was born
With a beating heart
And limited time
With rare and fabulous attributes
Eyes with which to absorb the light of the world
Ears with which to absorb the symphonies of sound
Senses with which to meld with all other things
And a mind with which to make order of it all
With the capacity for pleasure
Or for pain
Or for rage
Or for terror

He was born into captivity
A household; a society
A great sphere of imaginary borders
Made real by mass subscription
A society of rules to which he’s demanded accountable

No one asked him if he wished to come out and play
But they’ve allowed no choice, no space for him unregulated
No place for freedom

Not in a world of arrogant pride
Of armies and slavery and systematic training
Of concentration camps and mushroom clouds
And ideas of grand design
And promises of immortality
Not in a world of pretending

He learned to crawl on four limbs
And then to walk on two
He ate his meat and drank his milk
And grew up strong
Among endless voices unordered
And as trained he pretended to make order of it all

Only when he dared to stop pretending, did he discover
The mind’s capacity for joy

Joy

And with it peace
And with it freedom
And with it pity

Joy known to so very few
Though it sits awaiting all

And he grew stronger still


They are born
With beating hearts
And limited time
With rare and fabulous attributes
Eyes with which to absorb the light of the world
Ears with which to absorb the symphonies of sound
Senses with which to meld with all other things
And the minds with which to interpret it all
With the capacity for pleasure
And for pain
And for rage
And for terror

They are born into captivity
In pens; in barns; in factories
Windowless walls; solid cages; cold steel

No one asks them if they wish to come out and sacrifice
For them there is no freedom

Not in a world of selfish interest
Of fire branding and severed limbs
Of electric prods and bolt guns
Of slit throats and mechanical houses of horror
And blood-red Japanese shores
And blood-red Canadian snow
Not in a world of domination and cruelty

They learn to walk on four limbs
And then are forbidden to walk

What’s so grand about such a design, he cries
What does it matter that my teeth are sharp
What does it matter these ideas of eco chains
What does it matter would they exist if but for us
When there is no joy in cruelty
When there is no joy in pain
When there is no joy in terror

But when there is joy in kindness
When there is joy in mercy
When there is joy in loving
Joy known to the very few
Though it sits awaiting all

He put aside his meat and put aside his milk

What a joyful place
A place of freedom
Where the strong may pity the weak
And love the vulnerable*

* “We enter as lords of the earth bearing strange powers of terror and mercy alike. But human beings should love animals as the knowing love the innocent; as the strong love the vulnerable.” - Joaquin Phoenix, film: Earthlings (largely, if not wholly, taken from Dominion: The Power of Man, the Suffering of Animals, and the Call to Mercy by Matthew Scully). Photo yanked from www.heiferfoundation.org.

Superblah

I’m normally very appreciative of the very competent defenses you see in the NFL but not so much at Superbowl time. I found the game a bit of a snoozer.

I was delighted with the ending though. Was rooting for the Patsies to lose. We hates them, don’t we, Smeagol? Yes. We hates them. A perfect season equals nineteen wins and a superbowl. Eighteen wins and a superbowl loss? Nice. But not perfect. Bully for trying.

I’m very happy for Mr. and Mrs. Manning who must be thrilled to have their son and daughter both win superbowls and MVP’s in consecutive years!

Although I don’t think they should have even awarded the MVP this year. I didn’t think any player stood out. Maybe they should have given it to the chief groundskeeper. He did an excellent job with the field. I know because I could inspect every individual blade of grass on Uncle Joel’s 70-something-inch high-def TV screen. I could even see how clean or dirty the receivers’ fingernails were as balls sailed by them uncaught. And you could even tell when Tom Brady farted. You could pick up subtle disturbances in the air behind him and on pause mode you could even see the tiny poo molecules.

Or they could have given the MVP to half-time hero Tom Petty who managed to croak out the oldies while simultaneously spooking out the front row fans with his new Saruman look. Very nice.

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Day 86

The evil trinity of malevolent interlopers remains and has given no clues to its purpose. I summoned the courage to lift it off the floor to vacuum beneath it. It remained docile, allowing me to do this. Then it hit me - the danger I'd put myself in. I curled up in the corner and trembled like a leaf.

On the subject of clutter at the Grotto of Cool and my own passive-aggressive endeavors to battle it (I assume Steve-o checks this blog as he knows I occasionally quote him here), I've started attaching "CHRISTMAS IS OVER" tags to various Christmassy layabouts.

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The trophy, by the way, is Steve-o's beer-drinking trophy. He consumed 24 beers in six hours and lived. It's the major part of his contribution to the living room decor. He contributed that, a kleenex box, four houseplants, the hi-fi gear and a small mountain of video game controllers.

Novel: The Alchemist

(1988) Paulo Coelho

This book is labeled ‘a fable about following your dream’. It seems fables are not intended to be subtle. This story is strictly told, not experienced. It reads much like biblical scripture. And in fact the content is often biblical in nature – concerning God and souls and such.
A young shepherd, Santiago, has a dream and then encounters omens directing him to follow his dream. The journey is a fascinating one filled with arcane mysticism and life lessons.

Key are such concepts as the Soul of the World and the Universal Language.

I must assume that Coelho has more on his agenda then the spinning of a tall tale for the sake of a story (though I can’t rule it out). And I must assume that he doesn’t actually believe in the mystical explanations he gives for everything – at least not at face value. The alchemic formula preached here collapses utterly in the light of reality. However – the actual advice, according to my living experience, does hold up. Furthermore we can treat the story metaphorically, substituting the philosopher’s stone for matter; the elixir of life for cellular organization; God for enlightenment; fate and destiny for cause-and-effect and natural justice and so on and so on. And in doing so the allegory works for me.

But allegories are slippery and devious. For all I know Coelho may have intended an allegory that mirrors separate concepts entirely. And another reader might map it to something different yet again.

Regardless, to me it begs the question, Why does an author choose allegory? I know why I would. I would do it to trick the reader into accepting my opinion on an issue by mapping all of its elements to a different issue on which I’d base the story. There the enlightened opinion would be obvious and would map favorably back to the original (covert) issue. Though I’ve been tempted, I’ve never yet done this. It strikes me as devious.

It so happens I’m currently working on a relatively short novel that is all about life lessons and finding peace etcetera. But I was never tempted to filter my story through a mask of spirituality or mysticism as I’ve witnessed respectively in The Five People You Meet in Heaven and The Alchemist.

So let’s assume for the moment that The Alchemist’s formula is allegorically based on Coelho’s authentic wisdom. Why does he choose allegory rather than spit out the real deal?

Is it that the real deal doesn’t make for compelling story material?

Or is the real deal simply too much for the average reader who isn’t inclined toward the intellectual tenacity required to work through it all? Is it thus too much for the average person to access? And rather than have them despair in their failure to understand, we masquerade realities in the robes of gods or wizards or alchemists or such and in the light of the supernatural it’s okay to not understand? So the dull masses can accept the guidance that concerns the ruling forces of their lives without stumbling through all the fine print? Because gods and stars and such cannot be questioned. You simply subscribe and obey. Faith and trust. Easy peasy.

Is that the purpose of priests and poets? To paint over our stark cold realities with shades palatable and incomprehensible so that everyone else can concentrate on keeping the big machine running and not be distracted?

I’m not saying that’s how it is. I’m just throwing out the question.

I recommend the book by the way. Another quick, easy, compelling read.

Some marvelous quotes:

We are afraid of losing what we have, whether it’s our life or our possessions and property. But this fear evaporates when we understand that our life stories and the history of the world were written by the same hand.

I would add reputation to that list, as well as the human connections we addict ourselves to. Here’s another:

So that [only] those who have the responsibility for understanding can understand. Imagine if everyone went around transforming lead into gold. Gold would lose its value.

My favorite:

When you possess great treasures within you, and try to tell others of them, seldom are you believed.


FWG

Scammers

Not sure what I was searching for when I ended up on poetry.com by mistake.

But I saw that they were awarding prize money for a poetry contest and there was no fee to enter. So I thought - what the hell. Threw a poem in called Blinding the Mind of the Beholder and then promptly forgot all about it.

Next thing you know I'm getting emails galore from Howard Ely, editor of Poetry.com and the International Library of Poetry in Maryland, U.S.A. and they're just falling all over themselves with praise for Blinding.

Well golly gee, I've been awarded the Editor's Choice Award! Hoo haw! And look - I can purchase an editor's choice award medal!

Um. No thanks.

Oh, look, I'm a semi-finalist!

Ooh! Now I'm a finalist!

Oh and now Blinding is being published in a prestigious anthology and I can pre-order a copy for $60.00! Oh or I can buy it on a CD or mounted on a plaque! And I can choose to have an about-the-author blurb added for a mere $25 fee.

Um. No thanks, no thanks, no thanks and no thanks. No way in hell I'm paying someone else for the privilege of publishing me. They can damn well pay me.

So I looked them up on Wikipedia and sure enough - they're predators. Aparently they publish roughly fifty anthologies a year - each around 500 pages containing six poems per page.

That's 150,000 poems per year! Yeah. Real prestigious. What an honor. Even if they milk just one copy of the book per poet on average - without the sales of medals, plaques etcetera - that's nine million dollars in earnings right there. Their payout in prizes? One thousand per month as far as I can see.

I wasn't able to remove the poem from the 'contest' but I was able to edit it. Blinding the Mind of the Beholder has now become Blinding the Mind of the Scammers.

I urge you to go to my contest page and vote for it!

http://www.poetry.com/voteforme/poemvote1.asp?PID=12834170

And in case they got wise and removed it by now. Here it is:


Blinding the Mind of the Scammers

money grubbers money grubbers
I hope you choke on pencil rubbers
you ugly scamming bichbasterds
at poetree dot com

cheaters cheaters punkin eaters
ten fer ten on the scumbag meter
you filthy little criminals
at poetree dot com

Maryland's a fairy land
Full of imps with hairy hands
My pterodactyl's commin ta kill you all
at poo-tree dot com


Brilliant I know - but hold your applause.

FWG

Children Underground

Just watched Children Underground; a Docurama production. A film crew of three took up residence in a Bucharest subway station, as houseguests of a group of five Romanian street kids for – I forget how long. Long enough to contract tuberculosis, lice and scabies from them, anyway.

My first observation was, “Wow. What an ugly bunch of kids.” They looked downright misshapen. Three of them, in fact, were girls so uncomely that I had to learn one by one, amid confusion, that they were in fact girls and not boys.

I sense a lot of integrity and sacrifice went into this project. And did it ever pack a punch.

They adapted a non-interference policy, which I can understand is necessary if you want the film to be effective and serve as a catalyst for societal change. But they broke that directive on at least one occasion. A boy bearing a strange feature – a heavily lined, scarlet-red left forearm suddenly demonstrated the reason for it; a habit of self-mutilation. When his companions failed to restrain him the crew stepped in and desperately tried to calm him as he attacked himself with his own bloody fingernails. Of course, I only caught glimpses of all this. It was too much for me to watch.

My capacity for pity seems to be growing and growing these days. I can’t hear a horror story without feeling deeply compelled to act out against it; to take some action. But in each case it’s really hard to find a way to make a meaningful difference. It’s not like a poor uninsured family’s home has burnt down and a finite sum of donations will rebuild it. The problem is – the capacity for humans to hurt other humans is not at all finite. It’s not me these kids need help from.

They need help from the older boys who extort younger ones into begging for cash. They need them to help by not throwing them off the second floor of a construction site when they fail to return with enough.

They need help from the subway station worker who is sick and tired of listening to a young girl constantly crying. He can help her by declining to kick and punch her. Apparently a good kick in the ribs is not an effective way to ease a young girl’s tears. Who knew?

They need help from the father who says he can’t imagine why his small son would say he won’t come home because he’s terrified of him; who can’t understand why his son would run away from home with a collar and chain around his neck. He could help by not shackling the boy to a radiator. Oh, and maybe see a psychiatrist too.

They need help from all the passers-by who blame the kids for their own circumstance and huff at their disgusting paint-sniffing habit. They could help by asking why they do it. And finding out that that’s the only thing that makes them dream that they’re not hungry.

I know how I’d like to help. I’d like to gather the whole goddam population of earth on my doorstep and say, HEY! Here’s the fucking rules, people. Love your kids. Keep them safe. Don’t beat them up. Okay? Got it? We're all in agreement?

By the end of the film the kids didn’t seem at all ugly to me anymore. They looked like pretty beautiful creatures by then. What a difference an hour and a half makes. If only more people would give them that much time – and see for themselves.

FWG

Meet the Steve-o

Random quotes from the roommate. Songs in italics:


Nobody likes you, Winter.
Except for penguins and polar bears. And things that flourish in the cold.

Midgets! The world is being taken over by crazy midgets, biting the heads off chickens.

Who’s got the funk?
Steve’s got the funk!
Who’s got the funk?
Radulov’s got the funk!
The Mexicans…
The Mexicans are coming…

That doucher. I should have dropped a biscuit in his purse.

I like this parking lot. It’s not like our parking lot. DUM DUM DUMMMM! The parking lot of doom!

No. Don’t worry. I won’t drop you any purse biscuits.

Scotch scotch scotch
I love scotch
Scotch scotch scotch
I love scotch…

What’s with that cashier? Did you hear her freak out on that guy? “SIR! SIR! You don’t have to put both cases on the belt! Just one, please! My arms are getting bigger than my husband’s! I squeezed his dick right off! Popped it open like a Pez dispenser!”

GRUYERE! AND CRACKERS!
GRUYERE! AND CRACKERS!
THEY’RE ONLY A DAY AWAY!

Welcome to Doctor Youseff’s Biopsy Buffet. Get two meals for the price of one.

What do you mean, ‘Could I please be marginally less disgusting during the dinner hour’? You ask too much of me.






The preceding sentiments are not endorsed by FWG or anyone with taste. No artificial cadavers were harmed in the making of this article.

Ladyhawke

One of the core purposes of my existence in the world is to watch every heroic adventure/fantasy movie ever made; as insufferably bad as most of them are. Yet somehow I've managed to miss this one for the entire twenty-two years since its release. Until now.

There's very little you need to know. Here it is:

1. The soundtrack is seventies porn/disco.

2. Matthew Broderick does his own stunts. Which mostly consists of him running around waving his arms like a little girl.

3. Dustin Hoffman and Mary-Lou Retton play the king and queen.

4. I'm kidding. Dustin Hoffman and Mary-Lou Rhetton do not play the king and Queen. But they could have. In fact it would have been just the thing to to lift this flick from just-plain-bad to cult shtick. Well. That and if they got rid of the horses and banged empty halves of coconuts together instead.

5. I'm sitting here blogging instead of paying close attention to it. What does that tell you?

6. Broderick and Michelle Pfeiffer are showing no signs that they're going to get it on. There's still an hour or so to go but honestly - I haven't even seen a nipple so far. From either of them.

7. Even if you wanted to see this for some bizarre reason - you'd probably never find it at your local video store. I found this VHS copy at the library where old movies go to die.

Random dialogue:

"I fell in a hole and followed my nose."

"Serves me right for getting involved in this nightmare. Nightmare? Daymare. And then a night without day. A day without night. What's that supposed to mean? Makes about as much sense as the rest of it."

"Looks like a big one, Captain. We're gonna get soaked."

"Do you know that wolves and hawks mate for life?" [Editor's note: Presumably not with each other.]

"This hole's not big enough for the two of us."

"Damn you! Damn you to hell!"

Oh thank goodness. It's over. Some random credits:

Attiene Navarre: Rutger Hauer

Bishop's secretary: Venantino Venantini

Italian Horse Wrangler: Sergio Casedei

Stand-by Painter: Romolo Siani

Italian Unit Runner: Marco Pugini

In Loving Memory of: "Little Pasta"

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Evil trinity of… malevolent interlopers… of evil… portent… or something…

Day 65

They lurk over there.

There. In the Corner of Doom.

I don’t know how or why they arrived here last autumn. I know not their vile purpose.

I have tried moving them to the rarely-used hallway; that other magnet for evil in the otherwise pleasant Grotto. But soon after they appeared again in the Corner of Doom. I moved them to the kitchen counter. They appeared instead on my nice chair in the dining room – by the back entrance.

There they sat and glared their unholy glare at all who entered the Grotto. I moved them back to the kitchen counter. Again they vanished and appeared instead in the Corner of Doom once again.

They are some unholy trinity. Not the ghosts of Christmas past, present and future. No. Not the evil trio from Krypton who followed Superman to the planet Earth.

No.

They are Orvil Reddenbacher Popcorn, Lipton Powdered Chicken Noodle Soup and Tim Horton’s English Toffee Cappucino in a can.

Every day I glare at them as if to say, “This is my house!”

And every day they glare back at me as if to say, “Come play with us Fwig! Come play with us… Forever!”

I presume they are responsible for Sylvie Ruel’s tragic disappearance.

Whatever they are – beneath their insidious disguises of common household food products – they are evil and powerful. Steve-o is completely under their malevolent spell. He dares not confront them.

I’ve tried to locate that little witch from the Poltergeist movie to see if she can help me but no luck.

I presume it is only a short time before they drive me to utter madness.

God have mercy on my soul.

Me and David

Had one of my epic dreams last night. It’s been a while. This one lacked the common Bradbury/Orwellian atmosphere and was much less surreal then usual but It was sinister and it dragged on forever.

So as not to bore the rare brave soul who hasn’t already bolted from this post – I shall note only the brief highlights:

I’m in some building after hours and stumble upon some sophisticated crime in progress (I’m hazy on the details). Being a witness, I’m to be killed but I do some quick talking and am led to ‘the boss’ where I pretend to have intentionally sought him out, seeking employment.

The boss is none other than David Bowie. In my dream world he looks and sounds the same but is not a famous musician; just a plain old crime lord.

He takes me on as one of his henchmen but is very sly and mistrusting of me and constantly tests me and promises I will die if I fail to carry out any of his orders successfully. It seems as though he intentionally orchestrates my failure through sabotage or through separate orders that ultimately conflict. I’m a resident (prisoner) of his compound and always accompanied on my criminal excursions by other lackeys who clearly hate me and look for an excuse to off me. Somehow I find tricky ways to pass these tests, complete my jobs and survive.

Fast-forward – We’re in a new and bigger compound and I have climbed in rank to Bowie’s right-hand man. We behave as confidants but there are sinister undertones to his intimate gestures. The others are diplomatically friendly and respectful but I sense that underneath, everyone would rather I was dead. I’m still biding my time, looking for a way to escape the whole mess.

Bowie makes startling confessions to me as he is changing his clothes in his palatial bedroom. I’m watching, confused, suddenly unsure whether he is actually a man or a woman (I’m not making this up, I swear)! This concerns me because I’m beginning to sense he (or she) has some (gulp) romantic interest in me, which might even be fueling the repressed hatred that I detect. His confessions concern some kind of substance addictions for which he desires treatment and his wish to end his life of crime. In essence he wishes to be captured by authorities but without warfare. He cannot admit this to the others and risk a lethal mutiny.

He sends me on a mission to deliver a thick envelope bearing confessions, evidence and a plan for his surrender to the authorities. Apparently there is no phone or internet in my dream world! But as I leave the compound I’m detected and an entourage is forced upon me – ostensibly for my own protection because I’m such a big-shot now.

As we drive away in some SUV limo or something I begin to panic. I realize that the package I’m carrying will make it look like I’m a traitor acting against Bowie. I’m convinced that I’m trapped and will be killed by my own men and am left wondering whether this was Bowie’s plan all along when I awaken to the alarm clock.

If anyone subscribes to dream theories I’m curious what you think this means. And if it means that I’m a psychopath or sex pervert then by all means – let’s hear it!