my brain is, like, a motherfuckin DREAM FACTORY
I ell asleep drunk on a futon in my parent's basement and had simple dreams. I went to the corner store, bought some eggs and soda,walked back, cooked an omelette and drank some Pepsi. I woke up hungry and sick. My breath tasted like vomit and there was no way I could hold down an egg.
A few nights before that I dreamt that I was on Myspace. Not only was I on Myspace, but Facebook, setting up an account, and looking through friends of friends of friends' friends. A whole night's sleep spent on the computer posting bulletins and blogs. I've never woken up more depressed, especially when I realized that I still needed to post some of those bulletins and blogs all over again. The dream even keyed me in on how to shape some of the things I wanted to say. It was as prophetic as it was pathetic.
I'd like to think that when you repeat an action enough times, it sinks into your subconscious and eventually your dreams, but I don't think this is the case. I rarely shit in my dreams, rarely jerk off, barely eat and never work out. It’s probably one of those unfortunate byproducts of age, having nightmares about paying bills and dreams where I’m guilt tripped by my friends and roommates. Hack me up. Make me climb a mountain of my dead friends with a flamethrower because they’re all zombies and I’ve had to kill them all, have my father chase me around the backyard with a chainsaw because he thinks I’m trying to steal my mother from him. Torture me in ways I couldn't even comprehend with my eyes open but please, please, please don't make me hear aout forgetting to clean up after shaving when I'm asleep.
There was a girl. I was in love with her. She didn't realize it, or pretended not to, and we shared a bed together on nights when we were too drunk or too tired to go back to our own homes. One night, I dreamt we had sex. I woke up fulfilled. 'This is going to change everything!' I thought.'I wonder how she'll break up with her boyfriend.' I turned over and felt the empty space besides me in bed. My brain was starting to click, I grit my teeth in overbite. 'I didn't even see her last night, did I?'
The Myspace dreams are worse.
I have a favorite dream, from the early nineties. If you grew up like I did, in Chicago, in the eighties, there were only two radio stations you could listen to: B96 or Z95. This was before the Bear became Q101; before the Blaze became Rock 103.5 became R&B became oldies; and before 106 JAMZ brought “Geto Boy” radio to the public conscious (and quickly folded thereafter). Both stations played cheeseball rap… MC Hammer, Vanilla Ice, Tag Team, and Snow.
Where B96 cut their inoffensive Hip Hop with cookiecutter House, Z95 tempered their inoffensive Hip Hop with nonconfrontational rock. When I went to bed, I listened to Z95.
I'd fallen asleep to one of my favorite songs: the B-52's "Love Shack" and when I woke up, it was still playing
I was in a diner that could have come out of a calendar, or Pleasantville, sharing a malt with an older, redheaded girl in a poodle skirt. I was in love, that pristine powerful love I felt in dreams when I was a kid. The B-52's were playing on the jukebox. Everything was going great, until the most vile villain of the 1980s showed up, worse than Darth Vader and Reagan combined, it was the Shredder. That's right, the Shredder. The Super Shredder even, and any enemy of the Ninja Turtles was an enemy of mine.
He went straight to my table, scooped up the girl and flung her over his shoulder. Watching the scene, I was paralyzed. The milkshake spilled rolled off the table and broke. He ran out through the kitchen. I pulled my skateboard from under my stool and followed suit. Soon I was outside. The air was cold, and the night was windy. I saw him, on a skateboard of his own, girl still over his shoulder. He had no henchman to help him, no gadgets or traps. He wanted a chase and I was going to give it to him.
It was downhill the whole way. I grabbed lightpost, spun around weaved and jumped over foamy Doberman pinchers, mailboxes and streetsigns, we were nearing the bottom of the hill, where a small crowd had amassed. I had to do something, I eased to a squat my board which was now racing, scooped a rock off the ground, skinning my knuckles and threw it at him. It was a terrible lob but the rock caught itself under one of Shredder’s back wheels and he flew into the air, she flew into the air, the board flew into the air. I leaned forward and caught her in the air; her long, red hair covered my face and I felt myself losing balance. The board came ot in front of me and I fell hard on my ass with her on top. We kissed, and the crowd, who held the Shredder under citizen’s arrest, cheered. One of the Turtles showed up, Donatello I think. He shook my hand in his hard three fingers. I was surprised to notice that he really smelled like a box turtle, like my friend Kevin had in a tank in his kitchen.
That was a dream.
[song currently stuck in my head - "9 to 5" by Dolly Pardon]
A few nights before that I dreamt that I was on Myspace. Not only was I on Myspace, but Facebook, setting up an account, and looking through friends of friends of friends' friends. A whole night's sleep spent on the computer posting bulletins and blogs. I've never woken up more depressed, especially when I realized that I still needed to post some of those bulletins and blogs all over again. The dream even keyed me in on how to shape some of the things I wanted to say. It was as prophetic as it was pathetic.
I'd like to think that when you repeat an action enough times, it sinks into your subconscious and eventually your dreams, but I don't think this is the case. I rarely shit in my dreams, rarely jerk off, barely eat and never work out. It’s probably one of those unfortunate byproducts of age, having nightmares about paying bills and dreams where I’m guilt tripped by my friends and roommates. Hack me up. Make me climb a mountain of my dead friends with a flamethrower because they’re all zombies and I’ve had to kill them all, have my father chase me around the backyard with a chainsaw because he thinks I’m trying to steal my mother from him. Torture me in ways I couldn't even comprehend with my eyes open but please, please, please don't make me hear aout forgetting to clean up after shaving when I'm asleep.
There was a girl. I was in love with her. She didn't realize it, or pretended not to, and we shared a bed together on nights when we were too drunk or too tired to go back to our own homes. One night, I dreamt we had sex. I woke up fulfilled. 'This is going to change everything!' I thought.'I wonder how she'll break up with her boyfriend.' I turned over and felt the empty space besides me in bed. My brain was starting to click, I grit my teeth in overbite. 'I didn't even see her last night, did I?'
The Myspace dreams are worse.
I have a favorite dream, from the early nineties. If you grew up like I did, in Chicago, in the eighties, there were only two radio stations you could listen to: B96 or Z95. This was before the Bear became Q101; before the Blaze became Rock 103.5 became R&B became oldies; and before 106 JAMZ brought “Geto Boy” radio to the public conscious (and quickly folded thereafter). Both stations played cheeseball rap… MC Hammer, Vanilla Ice, Tag Team, and Snow.
Where B96 cut their inoffensive Hip Hop with cookiecutter House, Z95 tempered their inoffensive Hip Hop with nonconfrontational rock. When I went to bed, I listened to Z95.
I'd fallen asleep to one of my favorite songs: the B-52's "Love Shack" and when I woke up, it was still playing
I was in a diner that could have come out of a calendar, or Pleasantville, sharing a malt with an older, redheaded girl in a poodle skirt. I was in love, that pristine powerful love I felt in dreams when I was a kid. The B-52's were playing on the jukebox. Everything was going great, until the most vile villain of the 1980s showed up, worse than Darth Vader and Reagan combined, it was the Shredder. That's right, the Shredder. The Super Shredder even, and any enemy of the Ninja Turtles was an enemy of mine.
He went straight to my table, scooped up the girl and flung her over his shoulder. Watching the scene, I was paralyzed. The milkshake spilled rolled off the table and broke. He ran out through the kitchen. I pulled my skateboard from under my stool and followed suit. Soon I was outside. The air was cold, and the night was windy. I saw him, on a skateboard of his own, girl still over his shoulder. He had no henchman to help him, no gadgets or traps. He wanted a chase and I was going to give it to him.
It was downhill the whole way. I grabbed lightpost, spun around weaved and jumped over foamy Doberman pinchers, mailboxes and streetsigns, we were nearing the bottom of the hill, where a small crowd had amassed. I had to do something, I eased to a squat my board which was now racing, scooped a rock off the ground, skinning my knuckles and threw it at him. It was a terrible lob but the rock caught itself under one of Shredder’s back wheels and he flew into the air, she flew into the air, the board flew into the air. I leaned forward and caught her in the air; her long, red hair covered my face and I felt myself losing balance. The board came ot in front of me and I fell hard on my ass with her on top. We kissed, and the crowd, who held the Shredder under citizen’s arrest, cheered. One of the Turtles showed up, Donatello I think. He shook my hand in his hard three fingers. I was surprised to notice that he really smelled like a box turtle, like my friend Kevin had in a tank in his kitchen.
That was a dream.
[song currently stuck in my head - "9 to 5" by Dolly Pardon]
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