Last Night's [Sex] Dream

I was asked by the F.B.I. to go undercover and help them out with some heavy mafia shit in the tiny town of Las Vegas, NV.

It started with me driving [in the style of Sega's 1980's arcade classic, Out Run] my much older dad around in my cool, red covertible and dropping him off at the DMV or the clinic. Something not fun. He had a cane and was balding.

So I go to pull the job in some casinos and just as shit is hitting the proverbial fan and I'm being followed by gangsters and I'm running around with some pretty Latina, I realize that I am no other than a young Elvis Presley.

I very rarely dream in celebrity.

So there I am, on the brink of intel and espionage and the chase, getting down with some hot chick.

All in all, it was a pretty awesome dream.

My biceps hurt

But I'm glad they're still there.
Actually, the thing/s that surprisingly hurt the most since I started hitting the gym are...my hands.
Apparently, they've been pretty stress-free albeit helping people move.

Last night, I dreamt that me and this nerdy chick that liked me in high school were getting married and we were pretty stoked, staying at a house on the lake with all of our friends, until someone/thing came to stalk and murder all of my wedding guests one by one. My bride, who became hotter and blonder throughout my dream (morphing into my celebrity crush, I presume: Kristen Bell), and I were about to break free in my dad's old 69' Ford pick-up (weird) until we had to cross a flooded bridge. Which, of course, was flooded by the evil, flesh-eating lake, a la Creepshow, from whence the killer no doubt originated. Needless to say, we both drowned and died and I woke up to my groaning/mummering in fear.

Welcome, first day of fall.

So good it should be true...

So last night, I had my first zombie dream. Yah, pretty exciting. I usually dream about the Apocalypse or visiting hell in the style of Dante, just more unescorty and more undercover (Analyze that!).

So I was at a college party on Columbia's beautiful campus (not unlike the one I was at recently). I walked outside to find my self alone, of course. It was pretty late, I'd say post-midnight...the witching hour if you will. Soon enough, the campus morphed into my alma mater, UNM. Which I'm more familiar with and was altogether relieved to be at, until I heard the screams...

Immediately, I knew I was being chased by a group of zombies because a) there were dead people bloodily smeared everywhere, and b) besides stark silence, there were distant screams.

Horrifying, I know.

My heart was racing as I duck and hid and sprinted across the campus, knowing I was home free to some back parking lot on North Campus (where the hospital is) when I turned the corner to see the legion of zombies, covered in blood, but white as ghosts, screaming and howling like a pack of velociraptors (so impressionable I am).

In agonizing defeat, I knelt to the ground and howled in angst as they began to stone me, which was these zombies apparent subduction of their victims.

As a zombie-clenched stone rocketed towards my face, my alarm went off.

Requisite startle included.

Tight pants

and loose morals it is.

The weekend fast approaches and if this week has taught us anything, its that there's nothing to die for and that there's everything to live for.

I made that up. Sorta... Its quite silly if I say so myself.

Not so silly, cervezas. That's right, not beers...cervezas. My love of South-of-the-Border beers has been reinvigorated since my trip to Juarez, Cuidad de Suenos, back in 20 dickity 2. Its really a magical place, full of pan-handling ninos, shady puntas (not a bad word, just don't call your mom that), $2 nachos, and $0.25 Dos Equis. Yeah. It was also blazingly hot. And my troop got to see passed out hobo-penis.

All in all, its a lot like New York, just cheaper and stickier.

Existential Crisis in a Footnote

Have you noticed that it's Existential Crisis Month? Buy your own Existential Crisis flowers/booze/uppers/downers/brunch?

Everyone I know is on edge, for one monumental reason or another, including myself, (being the common denominator). Which is even more harrowing because I'd rather carry the weight than be mine own.

Creation, destruction. Destruction, creation. Or not. It's really shittysweet and altogether romanticized. Like Space. Its supposed to be this large void with purpose and potential...but really, its a large void. Nothing. And yet everything.

Yeah...toldya!

Dinner on the last night: pastrami & bacon w/ cheddar, lettuce, tomato, mayo, and Boar's Head Deli Dressing on a fancy roll...it's a deli sangwich and I did it myself!

Currently listening to: Throw Me The Statue's "Yucatan Gold."

Currently awaiting: Farady's comeuppance and LC's demise.

Wearing: gray pinstripe slacks, periwinkle blue button-up, my favourite Hugo Boss skinny tie, black grandpa cardigan, and my ol' faithful brown wingtips.

Avoiding: work until 7pm.

The Art of Self-Grounding

It's rough. But sometimes man, you just gotta do it. Turn off the cell phone. Log off the net. Listen to some solemn jams and not hear another human voice until your roommate warns you about the smoking steak he has on the stove on a cool Sunday night.

It's good for you because a) you benefit from some serious self-reflection and b)watch some weird cable movies you otherwise wouldn't see.

I did get out and enjoy the first true days of Spring 2009, i.e. backyard. But more importantly, I did some drawerings. Which I oft used to do, but gave up in a blind search for immediate satisfactions.

Go arts.

The Love-Hate Paradox

I've oft found myself criticizing others' hot-cold tendencies as a bad thing. Akin to Borderline Personality Disorder, one of my personal favorite flavours of PD, the oscillation between intense feelings of admiration and intense feelings of degradation only incite one valuable and interesting element: intensity.

This leads me to believe, or rather, self-psychoanalyse, that my boredom with the average has left me privy to a blind affection, and dare I say, immediate attraction, to intensity. Intense hate, love, anger, sweetness, etc. Lukewarm and moderate sincerely disinterest me, but in my late night revelings, I've somehow reacted to ideals of postulated love with, yes...intensity.

I, myself, have come to realize that I am not a mediocre-liker/lover/hater of anything. I either like it, or not. Et cetera. (the fact that i just wrote out etc says a lot about my need for extremity).

This intensity, is short-lived, however. Like, I would never cheat death by bungee-cord jumping or taking a cruise a mile above the dark abyss. Things are just hot or cold with me. Once they've become warm, I simply bore of it and find the next hot thing. This saddens me to no end (see...), mainly because I'm conflicted about my prefernce for room-temperature pizza...pizza that's been left out and isn't cold, nor hot. Just warm.

Me feelings of warmth are under evaluation. So if I seem a pare above, or below, the norm lately...this is why.

Saturday, Cloudy Saturday

And it's dreamy. I oft perplex my fellow imbibers and theologians alike when I say things like, "I don't like sunny days," or "Thank God, its raining." If not for the mere jolt of confusion, then for the self-realization that I am time and again fascinated by people's reactions to bad weather. What I enjoy at a deeper, psychoanalytic level is that these [some] folks also tend to depend their personalities on the waxing and waning of ol' Mr. Sunshine. When in fact, that once pop science go-to, Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), doesn't even really exsist. People are just as sad as they are in the winter as they are in the summer. You're sad. Now move on.

So anyway, I tend to live up such dreary days with complete immersion into the arts. Like laying in bed and watching creepy French films or documentaries about the Bronx. Sunny days do no permit this as friends tend to direct social activities to parks and walks. Blargh. There are exceptions to this rule, of course [re: Colleen's Epic Birthday].

Today's art: musica. I am completely enthralled by the Black Kids (besides liking every Black band that there is, this Black band is actually quite antithetical to the whole Black-as-dark theme). Maybe a tad late in this train, as they were apparently heralded as the band to look out for in 2008. They're deliciously good with upbeat, dance-pants jing-jang jiggles such as "I'm Not Going to Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance With You." Which, if there was ever a self-modified themesong, well, this is it. Accordingly, the Besnard Lakes are my new favorite band of this year. Give "Devastation" a try. I'm just going to start telling strangers that..."no really, tell me what's its like."

A blog about music wouldn't be complete without my concert-going announcement: I will rocking out to Ra Ra Riot next weekend. I'm looking forward to it. Incl: if you don't have it yet, get this track: MGMT's Electric Feel.

Your aura is purple!

So some firefighter dude and his brother sanitation worker were indicted in the ol' Kings County this morn on charges of growing "hydroponic pot." I don't even know what that is, but its out there, kids. Just take my word for it...I don't want to link to the article (although, I did try to find the always irreverent clip from Almost Famous, only to find a plethora of links to some Shakira video about a poem and a horse).

In the dictation of Polonius, this much is true: the NYPD, FDNY, and now the DOS, likes to be naughty. In the industry, we call this reaction formation. Its like when your dad plays video games with you but ends up getting in trouble by your mom, sorta. Or like finding out your boss likes to drink...alot.

This just in, the Nerd Herd needs our help. If you don't help them, then you were cool and popular in high school and are now fat and boring, registering with classmates.com, and seriously considering botox before the reunion.