So I Had This Dream.....

I am not given to nightmares (maybe one every twenty years) or bad dreams (maybe one every five years), but I had a disturbing one last night...

I dreamt that a modern-day President of the United States was confined to a wheelchair. He did not rely on an ever-attending aide who carried 'the football', a briefcase that gave him launch authorization for America's nuclear arsenal. No, he had that capability secretly installed on a console on his wheelchairs. I say wheelchairs 'plural' because there were several, which were maintained by about 5 good-spirited military engineers.

I was one.

I dreamt that a console unit had a communications problem that stumped me, so one afternoon (against every regulation) I took it to a hotel and continued to work on it there. While listening to news radio, I learned that hostile forces had landed in Center City Philadelphia (don't ask me why). Plugging into the phone jack (dial-up! I was using dial-up!!) I used the console's modem to tap into a surveillance satellite for a real-time picture of what was happening. It was clear that the hostiles had outmaneuvered the US troops sent to contain them and were pushing outwards.

Fearing what would happen if they did, I activated a low-yield tactical nuke, targeted them and launched it. The missile successfully took-out the hostile threat - as well as nearby American troops and civilians and destroying most of the 30th Street area.

Rather than this being seen as a good thing (obviously), it sent the world into a panic. The President did not order the missile launch and every American intelligence agency was scrambling to find out how it happened.

The weight of what I had done finally settled on me. I couldn't tell my colleagues without forcing them to turn me in or make them accessories if they didn't. I was a nervous wreck and the last thing that happened before I woke-up was seeing that the Secret Service had traced the modem call back to the hotel switchboard. It was just a matter of time before they learned where the call originated from, and who rented the room.

Now...that's where the dream ended...but I have an idea what happened next...

I imagine that rather than face-up to what I did, I compounded my initial cowardice by 1) snatching a bargaining chip by going back into the secure network and locking-out EVERYONE, leaving me with sole access to America's nukes and 2) going on the run with the console, not realizing that this makes me a target for both friendly and hostile interests.

On one hand, I woke in a panic. On the other, I wanna write the hell outta this story :) Tom Clancy can kiss my butt.

The Family that is Chosen

So I'm sitting in the back of the memorial service for the woman that was very nearly my mother-in-law. I will not impose my presence, as this is a family matter and I'm not blood. A woman who is blood, a daughter of the departed, comes over and sits beside me in the back.
This is also the same woman who was very nearly my wife. Our personal history isn't important, especially today. She is the child paying her last respects to her mother. I am here to support her. Because she's a person in pain. A person who happens to be a friend.
When sentiments are solicited, there is a reluctance on the part of some to speak. It is not that they have nothing to say. It is not that some are not comfortable speaking in public. It's because the reality is weighing heavily, and overcoming their composure.
I get up and walk to the podium. The woman who was very nearly my wife looks surprised.
I thank everyone for coming, and identify myself as the one here who knew the departed the least. So far as details and facts, anyway. I relate to them a story of how the departed and I did not initially get along, but it got better with time and exposure. I recalled how she talked to me, encouraged me and fed me. How through the time we spent together, I learned something more real about her than details or facts.
I learned of her humanity.
I did not labor the subject, and sat down quickly.
The woman who was very nearly my wife held my hand.
Some appreciated my remembrances of the departed and thanked me for sharing repeatedly. I'm thinking - in some way, on some level - maybe I spoke for them.
Maybe.

As the service ended, I went to the device that contained the earthly remains of the departed and touched it. I realized that though I'm not blood, I may just be family.


There. I said it.

The Ballad of Big Tittie Dawn

It was around 1981 or 82. A good time to be young and horny on my Southwest Philly block. One of the many perks was a family of sisters who grew up rather quickly and helped you to do the same. Eldest among them was Dawn, a bossy sort who bloomed early and fully.
Dawn and I were known to keep company from time to time.
One day, Dawn gave me the word that she would be babysitting the young children that lived directly across the street from me. She said that I could come over after their father went out to the bar.
The father of the young children was a good man, but would often take the edge off of life with a drink or two. That night would prove to be no different, except that he would introduce me to the term ‘functional alcoholic’.
So there I was, skulking on my enclosed porch, the scent of imminent nookie in the air.
The father eventually emerged from his house, fumbling with his keys and getting in his car.
It was night and, in my eagerness to get my swerve on, I completely misjudged my stealthiness in the visible light.
10 seconds. I couldn’t wait the extra 10 seconds it would’ve taken for the father’s car to clear the street.
The father saw my dark figure dash across the street in his rear view mirror. He thought that odd and circled our block. He parked his car and was about to enter his home, but decided to peek through the window first. In the short time it took him to do all this, Dawn and I were already shagging like weasels on his living room couch.
I can only imagine his thought processes, especially the ones that led him to cross the street directly to my house.
I can only imagine how the conversation went when he knocked on my door and my mother answered.
“Sue,” I suppose he said to her, “There’s something I think you ought to see…”
I can only imagine what went through my mother’s mind as she crossed the street and peered through the porch window to see what the young children’s father had already seen: my eager, ashy butt flanked by Dawn’s meaty legs.
I did not have to imagine the knock on the door, though I kinda wish I had. I rolled off and hopped into the dining room, pulling up my undies and jeans.
There are only three times in my life when hearing my mother’s voice made me want to die on the spot. This instance is at the top of the list.
“Quentin!!! Get yer damn clothes on and get yer narrow ass across the street right now!!!”
You may find this hard to believe but my ass was quite narrower back then.

That night, my mom uttered the ever-popular ‘we’ll discuss this tomorrow’ and for her, that was that. For me, it was long night.
The next day, my unusually quiet and even-tempered mother sat me down and spoke to me with gentle, soothing words. I knew right then that my life was over.
“As a woman,” she started, “There are certain things I can’t teach you about manhood.” She then informed me that she had volunteered me to sit under some of the local older gentlemen for instruction and wisdom. When I realized that she meant the neighborhood ne’er do wells and drunks, I wished that she had just beaten me savagely.
“They’re expecting you,” said she.
“Now?” I responded.
“Now. Go.”

I walked to the other end of the block and there they were, watching as I approached. Like hungry vultures patiently waiting for their dinner to die. There were about seven or ten old fellows, the youngest of which had to be about fifty-something. Surely they had seen a fair bit of life and I might actually learn something, but I really just wanted to be somewhere else.
“You know why you’re here, dontcha, boy?” the alpha fellow said.
“Yes, sir. Yes I do.”
“Well, let’s have it. What happened?”
I thought his question odd. Wasn’t I supposed to be lectured based on what my mother told them about last night? That’s when it dawned on me: These older gentlemen weren’t going to give me a talk on the birds and the bees. These pervs wanted the juicy and sordid details of what transpired. So I spoke in the vaguest, non-incriminating terms describing last night.
“Well, who was it?” the alpha fellow inquired.
“I really can’t tell you that, sir,” said I.
I tried to hold my ground. But I was young, kinda intimidated, ashamed and badgered. I at least made them press me for several minutes before I caved.
“Just tell us, Quentin. We ain’t got all damn day!”
“It…She was…it was Dawn, sir.”
It was like I just identified who was on the grassy knoll. A few hoots of total disbelief and catcalls later, the alpha fellow had composed himself enough to speak.
“You mean Big Tittie Dawn????” asked he, clawing his gnarled hands a DD cup’s distance in front of his chest.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well…what was it like, boy?”
I’m not certain how long they kept me there, but I can tell you that they learned more about sex from me than I did from them.

There. I said it.

The Water Fountain Epiphany

So I'm walking with a coworker down a corridor when I see a bank of water fountains. I wasn't even particularly thirsty but but I felt compelled to take a sip, if only to see if it had that mineral-saturated public school fountain taste. As there was no one in the immediate area and I'm just that kinda rush-rush type, I moved ahead with purpose. This purpose made it hard for me to hit the brakes when I noticed a female coming out of the ladies room behind me. She had an open water bottle (in a bathroom???) and was also heading toward the fountain. I took a quick sip, just to get the taste, and rejoined my coworker.
Two footfalls later, it hit me. The realization that in the not so distant past that could've cost me a sound thrashing or maybe even my life. Whether I was drinking from the whites only fountain or doing anything that would make a white woman feel 'unsafe'.
My coworker saw I was struck by something so I shared it with him. We agreed things are better but we still have a long way to go. His guage was when these injustices were so fare behind us that we could forget them.
But for me...I don't want to forget.

25 things About Me

01 - I still own, and still use, a bottle of White Out that I bought in high school... 23 years ago. Swear ta gawd.

02 - I've never suffered any broken bones.

03 - I've held a loaded gun to my own head.

04 - I've ALWAYS known Captain Marvel could kick the ever-living snot out of Superman. Friggin' poser.

05 - I do not cry.

06 - My siblings and I share a birthmark of the same size, shape and location. It is the inherited remnant of an injury our mom suffered in her teens.

07 - I have a Messiah Complex.

08 - Each of my legs can press upwards of 350 pounds.

09 - I was heavily involved with a religious cult.

10 - In grade school, I sharpened lead pencils with my teeth.

11 - I became licensed to ride a motorcycle first (two wheels) and then fly an aircraft (three wheels) before an automobile (four wheels).

12 - I've driven across the country.

13 - I write exclusively in capital, block letters. I only sign my name in script.

14 - To one degree or another, I have fallen in love with every women I've ever met (but I'm sold-out for Rachel Maddow :) ).

15 - My normal body temperature is slightly higher than average.

16 - I've had a loaded machine gun leveled against me with intent to be fired in anger.

17 - I LOVE watching deleted scenes of movies and TV shows.

18 - I've jumped off of a moving train.

19 - I knew the names and registrations of all the Constellation Class starships when I was 8 (ST: TOS).

20 - I'm allergic to shellfish.

21 - I've been stabbed with a knife.

22 - I look like my mother.

23 - I love the taste of lemons.

24 - Thinking I was the only black male teenage Duranie in Philadelphia, I meet a very good friend who just happens to be a black male teenage Duranie. Checkmate, Siegfried and Roy!!

25 - I've been engaged to be married 1.5 times.

Obfuscation of Shame

   So my mind's wandering while I'm strolling up and down the snack aisle.  Maybe a random note progression or component from the Muzak triggered the firing of a recessive synaptic connection.  I dunno.  But I realized something while I was deciding between regular and low-fat Ritz Crackers.  I realized that I have a massive problem dealing with shame.

   I know.

   This coming from the guy who appearantly has no shame.

   But it shows itself in certain situations, like the low feeling you get when you know you should have done something fairly important, when it was on your mind and within your power and capability to do it.  But you didn't.

   I feel that all the time over whatever act of omission in whatever area of my life.

   To be honest, this self-revelation probably came during my face-to-face with my friend Joanie, detailing to her things I didn't think were important but were nice to know items to her (No, we weren't talking STDs.  Grow up, people).  Talking to Joanie was probably just the tip of the iceberg in how in the dark everyone was.

   Had I not felt so ashamed, I might've told everyone that I was out of work for four straight months last year.  Or that the only reason I didn't come home then was because Susan asked me to stay.  Or that I had truly hoped the pnuemonia she gave me in April of 2006 had killed me so I'd be irrevocably rid of her.  Or that I started posting videos rather than my thoughts so I wouldn't have to reveal any of that.  Or that I had been fired again from my job in Spokane.  Or that I get to be the unemployed 40-year old guy living with his parents.  Or that, after negotiating 2500 miles without a hitch, I ran up on the back of a SEPTA bus.

   I could probably think of more, but you get the idea.  I have a problem with perception.  That if I'm not seen to have my ducks in a row, I get all weird about it.

   Technically, by posting this, one could argue that I'm moving past it.  No.  Not even.  You see, I'm staying with my parents, probably until well into the Spring.  And if they didn't destroy my sense of self and emotional well-being during my stay last time, then they're looking to finish the job this time.  The best part is, not only don't they know what they're doing, but I was programmed to agree with them decades ago.  I saw this coming when I was still in Washington, and overstayed as long as I could, in the hopes that I could land my own place or a gig so I wouldn't have to be up under the Ancient Ones.  I failed to accomplish either, and when the opportunity presented itself again to escape Washington, I had a choice:  Continue my slow death a little bit everyday in Spokane Valley, or die a little bit everyday in Lansdowne.

   The choice was simple, because at least there's a Popeye's at 69th Street.

   You're probably thinking, 'why don't you just talk to them?'.  Well, you talk to reasonable people, not control freaks.  And if that's the price I had to pay to be back on native soil, well, then I have to dig deep into the psycho-emotional pockets, don't I? 

   But that's the point, being back on native soil, where I can commune with Them that are Groovacious.

   Part of the problem is the heavy-handed way I think of myself, that if I fail in any way, then I deserve what misfortune befalls me, regardless of the severity.  I would never, ever put that on anyone else, but have grown accustomed to doing it to myself.  Hmmm, where on Earth could I have gotten such a ghastly notion...?

   Regardless, that has to relax, if not stop altogether.

   Just so you know...From here on out, if I go five straight posts without saying how I feel or what I'm thinking, it's a safe bet I'm hiding.  But I stated in The Bunnytail Express post that it would end, and I meant it.  Let me know how I'm doing.

   And for those who were curious, I got the regular Ritz Crackers.  Fuck that low fat shit.

   There.  I said it.