Dream A Little Dream

I've been so busy at work. Like ridiculously busy. Lily looks at me with the hot hate of a latch key kid when I come home. There's about seven hundred dirty dishes in my sink right now, and instead of cleaning them I am going to blog instead. Not because I love you, but because if I spend one more minute thinking about work my brain will start to seep out through my ears.

When first got The Bed, the sales lady told me it might take a couple of weeks for the bed to "loosen up." Well, we've reached those couple of weeks, and bed is as loose as the quiet guy from work after a couple of cocktails. The bed is sleeping phenomenally. And filling my most blissful sleep have been the most amazing dreams. Recently, I awoke from such a great/bizarre dream that I sat up and was like I have to blog about this. (Then I cried because seriously? It doesn't get any nerdier than that.)

So I give you my inner conscious' deepest thoughts (in stereo where available);

It begins with me walking down the streets of downtown Minneapolis. I'm totally stoked because all my friends are getting together to watch the MTV Movie Awards, and it's going to be one bitchin' throw down.

So I hop in my car and head out to the party. I want to get a head start because I want to make sure I get to New York City in time to mingle with all the super hot party guests.

It takes me about an hour and a half to get to NYC from Minneapolis. (In dreams you either move super fast or you can't move fast enough)

I walk in the front door and no one's there. Except my main man Hugh Hefner. Oh, me and the Hef go way back. We chit chat for awhile, (the Girls Next Door were not home, but he informs me that they are doing well) and then Hef tells me that the MTV Movie Awards are in fact not in NYC, not LA.

D'oh.

We go out into his backyard and catch fish coming out of a drainage pipe. Hef tells me that this particular fish was thought extinct, but in actuality it just had been our old friend evolution at work. It's then that I realize that if I ever play Trivial Pursuit I'm definitely picking Hugh to be on my team. He's wicked smart.

I apologized to Hugh for not being able to stay longer, but I need to get to LA in time for the awards. He tells me that he understands, and that I shouldn't be a stranger. So gracious, that Hef.

When I get in my car, I figure I should call all my friends to make sure they know that the Movie Awards are in LA, and not NYC. My friends are all like no shit Sherlock, and when they said "watch the MTV Movie Awards" they meant watch them from Minneapolis.

Right.

When I get to Minneapolis the party is in full swing. Although we’re in a giant and sprawling mansion, the entire party is packed into the teeny tiny kitchen. Ridiculously packed.

Then this dude who was vaguely familiar (which isn't everybody in dreams because hello, it's your own sub conscious) came up beside me. He then starts to bump and grind all up in my junk. He starts to grunt (which in fairness could be me snoring at this point). I start to get skeeved out.

And guess who comes to my rescue? No, not Hugh Hefner he's in NYC, silly. It's Charlie! He gets the Vaguely Familiar Dude off of me, and he's about to kick his ass when out of nowhere a giant animatronic leprechaun appears. (Yeah, I know it's the what the fuck moment everyone has in a dream.)

Mr. Leprechaun is supa pissed. Apparently someone ate all his cocktail weenies because he's stomping around smashing all the booze. NOT COOL.

Charlie flies in from stage right to save the day (and the booze!) with the ol' lighter and can of hairspray trick – originally made famous by Rob Lowe in St. Elmo's Fire followed by Kristy Swanson in Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I believe I mention this little known fact, and people are so disgusted by it that they up and leave the party. Everyone.

This leaves only Charlie and I to go out back and catch fishes out of a drainage pipe.

Then I woke up.

My radio was playing an NPR story about fish – once thought extinct – along the Nile River, which explains the fish. The other stuff? I don't know.

Interstate Love Song

This weekend I loaded up a rental car and headed to Milan.

Milan, Tennessee, that is. It's pronounced all country-like (My-Laaaaaan), not all foreign-ish like the city across the pond (Meeeeee-lan). What on earth is in Milan, you ask? CHARLIE! And fried chicken, but that's another story for another day.

As Lily and I rocked the Mid-South in my pimpin' Malibu Maxx, I realized I might live in perhaps the ugliest part of the country. Seriously, exciting scenery equaled a change from boring trees to less than boring trees. But fret not because as it turns out driving for hours along the Eisenhower Interstate System allows one plenty of time to compile a fetching entry for a blog. (I'm not saying that this one is it, but saying that at least the time was there to compile one)

So besides the trees here's what else I happened to notice while cruising along:

1.Traveling gives Lily gas. Hot, stinky, vile gas. She slept for nearly all seven and half hours of the trip, which apparently did nothing to slow down her digestive system. Every now and then she would sit up, look around and then cut the cheese. Satisfied with herself she would then return to her nap. It was like traveling with a truck driver. Bad Lily.

2. Since I was traveling with a dog, I had to take "advantage" of rest stops so we could both tinkle without separate stops. Now everyone knows that some rest stops are better than others, but something that is found in both of The Fancy Just-Across-the-State-Line Rest Stops and The Rickety We-Put-This-One-Here-Because-You-Haven't-Seen-A-Building-In-400-Miles Rest Stops is The Super Flush. Where are the rest stop toilets flushing to that they have to flush so violently? One toilet at a rest stop in Arkansas bid the contents of my bladder such a fond farewell that the commode nearly shook the foundation.

3. Why is it that I become bored with the mixed CDs that I burned specifically for the road trip after about twenty minutes? Some selections left me scratching my head, was I smoking The Crack when I put this playlist together? Did I really think that Debbie Gibson would see me through Arkansas? And this unfortunate phenomenon leads directly to number 4…

4. Adult Contemporay/Easy Listening/Listen While You Work radio stations have the same frequency across the country. Inevitably anytime I ejected above mentioned Crappy Music, the radio was blasting all of yesterday's favorites from the 80s, 90s as well as all of today's hits. Indeed we should all take these broken wings and learn to fly again, little Miss Can't Be Wrong.

5. Another note about the radio, without a shadow of a doubt The Song that you have been dying to hear, the one that will MAKE your road trip – perhaps when you hear it you exclaim, Fuckin' A that's what I'm talking about! who knows – will begin the SECOND you get out of range of above mentioned stations. If you're lucky you'll get in one good chorus before it fades quietly into oblivion. If luck's not on your side, you'll get the dueling radio frequencies throughout The Song. It's then you're left with, "I'M FREEEEEEEEEEEE FAAAAAALL – shish crrrrruh shish – dribbling down mid-court the Turtle Bum high school kids seem to be in control – shish crrrrurrl shish – a good girl, crazy 'bout Elvis…" and so on until you give up and move on.

6. Audio books frustrate me. Either I get far too involved in them that I suddenly look up, and realize Wha? How did I end up in North Carolina? Or I'm far too concentrated on the task of driving that I end up completely lost. Wait a minute who is sleeping with the vicar? What the hell is vicar? Also I am the only one who is a little disheartened with the fact that a book can be read in about 3-5 hours? Why does it take me like three weeks, how fucking slow do I read?

7. I love to imagine what people's lives are like in the small towns that I drive past along the interstate. What do you think is the most exciting thing to do in Earle, Arkansas? Because frankly, it sounds like the most boring town in 'Merica. Like you just have to sigh and flatly (sans emotion) say "I'm from Earle, Arkansas ho hum." On the flip side there's Cumby, Texas. Which I like to think is pronounced like "come by" because I'm dirrrrty. And the neighboring towns of Friendship and Hope, Arkansas put a smile on my face. (Double Jeopardy fact: Hope, AR is the birthplace of Bill Clinton – I nearly stopped to snap a picture, which nearly makes me exactly like my father) And Hooked on Phonics clearly worked for the town folk who were in charge of naming Daingerfield, Texas – "Spell it like it sounds Phil, Daiiiiiin-ger-field, duh."

8. I'm also FAS.CINATED. by the taglines of cities. As if to answer the nagging question in the back of my head, Milan, TN proclaims itself to be "A Good Place to Live"** So color me confused when I discovered that Arkadelphia, AR is "A Great Place to Call Home!" Exclamation point to really drive it home. And to top it all off Paris, TX had the AUDACITY to announce to the world that is "The Best Small Town in Texas," and between you and me I think the research must have been shady at best. Then there's Texarkana, TX. Emblazoned across their water tower is the fact it is "Twice as Nice." But given the fact that the city name cleverly combines all three states that it borders – Texas, Arkansas, Louisiana – into one geographical ménage a trois, it seems like it would make more sense to go with "Thrice as Nice."

9. I wish that life had "SLOWER TRAFFIC KEEP RIGHT" signs.

10. There's no finer end to a long day's drive than being scooped up into your boyfriend's arms and planting a kiss that's been 6 weeks in the making right on his deliciously bearded face. Well, nothing except maybe a Sonic Sweetheart Blast.

**Or "Jesus is Lord Over Milan" depending on what sign you decided to believe.

Is This Burning an Olympic Flame?

Do you have it? The Olympic fever!

To quote Ashlee Simpson: I "L-O-L-O-L-O-V-E, L-O-L-O-L-O-V-E!" the Olympics. (hells yes, I just quoted Ashlee Simpson, suck it) I don't care if it's the Summer or Winter, but every two years I get all caught up in that competitive spirit and unbreakable courage that is the over-produced and over-hyped world of the Olympics. I cry like a baby every time they do one of those segments on what it's like to grow up in Russia/Serbia/Trenton, NJ with only some bread/your orphaned brother/million dollar sponsorships and your measly figure skates to get you through all the hardships of life as an athlete.

I'm such a sucker.

And I don't know if it's the fact that I didn't grow up around winter sports, but whenever I watch the Winter Olympics most of the time I think to myself: Dude, I could totally do that.

Speed skating? Sure no problem. You should have seen me in the 7th grade when my shuffle skate was second to none.

Luge or Bobsled? Pfft, riding on a sled? Yeah, I got that one down. You see, I'm from the south, and when it snowed down here we grabbed whatever we could find to use as a sled. So I've flown down many a drainage ditch on inner tubes, air mattresses and even cafeteria trays ten times faster than some fancy high tech luge.

Curling? Ha, don't make me laugh. I'm proud to say that in my long and illustrious career on the Tour De Dive Bars, I have only been defeated once in shuffle board. And well, curling is just shuffle board on ice – so go ahead and give me the GOLD.

Figure skating? What do you need grace, beauty and athleticism? Hell two out three will get you a silver medal, just ask Tonya Harding.

Ski Moguls? Bounce bounce bounce? Sure I'll take that one too.

And then I remember the first time I tried to ski. And the fact I can't even stand up in figure skates without breaking a hip. And I refuse to participate in any sport that requires a bodysuit for a uniform. (Those things are flattering on exactly no one. And my eye is usually automatically drawn to one's down there delicate area.)

But still, the luge? C'mon.

See you in 2010.

Too Cute Not To Share

Alternative Title: Humliation By Owner










She's sporting Charlie's favorite-est shirt of all time. Seriously, just ask him.

Happy Valentine's Day!

It's Raining Grackles and Sparrows

On any morning that I drive to work I park my truck about a mile and half from my building and then walk. Walking is so completely foreign to Dallas that I have people who exclaim in shock, you walk to work? A half! mile! every morning? And when I respond that I walk that far any day that I don't take the bus, it starts a whole new conversation about the utter craziness I'm exhibiting when I ride the bus by choice. (Sigh, it a vicious cycle.)

Most days the walk is rather uneventful. Although, I have to be on high alert because Dallas drivers are all like, "Whuuuut's a peee-destri-ayun?" while they're turning left at ninety miles an hour without bothering to notice that SOMEONE'S IN THE CROSSWALK.

But pissy drivers have been the least of my worries because for the past two weeks it been something else. Something strange. Strange, as in two dead birds. The first bird was a half eaten carcass that could have been easily eaten by animal. I thought nothing of it until I saw this week's bird in the exact same spot as last week's. This week's bird was a grackle, or rather what was left of a grackle – the head and wings. There was a neatly severed head just lying on the sidewalk like when you would ripped off your Barbie's head. Then there were its wings which appeared to be ripped off at the shoulders. (do birds have shoulders? Whatever.) All of it was displayed ritualistically, although I am not an expert on rituals so how the hell would I know? Either way it was a little creepy.

My first thought was man I need to buy some more Street Wise newspapers because the homeless people are killing birds. My next immediate thought was how the hell did they cook the bird, I mean it's not something you can just walk into a restaurant with and say, I'll take this blackened with a side of mashed potatoes. (I cannot balance my checkbook, but I can have this entire conversation with myself in less than two blocks – go figure)

And then suddenly it hit me. They're back. The dead birds have found me.

You see a little over a year and a half ago I was confronted with more dead birds at my parents' house in Tulsa. It was 4th of July weekend, and I was hitching a ride with Travis, his wife Cyndi, and Nikki to Minneapolis. I was headed back to Mpls for my last quarter at Miami Ad School, and they were going for drunken debauchery.

They were scheduled to pick me up at 8 a.m., and for the first time in the recorded history of Travis giving me rides he was on time. Instead I was the one running late, and oh, I still had some packing to do. So there I was running around, apologizing profusely for my lack of preparedness, when I look down and see a dead bird on my porch. I was MORT. TIFIED. This was the first time anyone had seen my parents' house, and now the impression they were going to walk away was that we were the kind of people who just left dead animals to rot on our porch. Shocked and deeply embarrassed, I blamed the cat. I was nearing the end of my Oh-My-Goodness-My-Cat-Must-Like-You-Guys-Because-He-Gave-You-A-Dead-Animal Speech, when I glanced at Nikki to see that she was giving me the ol' shifty eye that says dude, look all around you.

Then in one of those slow-mo pans that only happen in movies, I looked out across my yard and saw it. The carnage! I counted about six dead birds in my front yard. SIX! My cat is good at catching live things, but he ain't that good. At this point I did what anyone would do – I went straight into denial. I was like, Okay, nothing to see here, ready to go to Minneapolis? Whoo hoo!

Along the 10 hour car ride when anyone brought up the fact that there were SIX! dead birds in my yard, I was immediately "TURN UP THE RADIO! Alright, I'm sorry I can't hear what you're speaking of."

Somewhere in Iowa, I alerted my mother to the ungodliness that awaited her in our yard. She called me the next morning and told me that they had found over 17 dead birds in the yard. AND ONLY OUR YARD HAD DEAD BIRDS IN IT.

Did you read that? Seventeen dead birds. My mom saved them and took them to the health department for inspection. The health department said nothing was wrong with them, oh and not to worry. Easy for them to say because they didn't have SEVENTEEN dead birds in THEIR yard. (Right then I swear I saw Robert Stack doing a story about me and the dead birds)

And now they're back. Following me. I've moved about 5 times since the initial dead bird bonanza, and clearly the dead birds have had to follow a few change of address forms to find me, but THEY HAVE.

Is it a plague or pox (singular pock?) or whatever that man upstairs can put on people? Is he up there right now going, "Yea, and I shall rain down on thee a plague/pox of thine winged fowl whom have touched death's door. And lo it will be weird?"

Or is it a string of unrelated causes like bird flu and a serial-killer-in-training (albeit hungry) homeless man?

Which begs the question, which is worse?