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Saturday, June 01, 2002
Someone needs to make some sort of device wherein I could record my dreams. I don't mean one of those lousy 'dreamcatcher' net-hoop things, and I don't mean a 'dream journal'. I mean a device that can record my dreams in some sort of AV format that I could either a) post on the internet or b) could be used as evidence against me in a trial for a crime that I didn't commit.

Of course, posting my dreams on the internet would be a big fat bandwidth hog, and require some sort of mongoloid mishmash of Shockwave/.mpg/VRML. My latest is a doozy.

Ever do something right before you take a nap or go to bed, and that thing winds up being in your dream? That's part of what happened in this one. I think. See, before I took said nap, I was reading the news archives on Something Awful. Something Awful is just that -- a collection of 'awful' things on the internet. Not necessarily offensive things, not necessarily evil things -- things that are awful. Goth kid homepages with bad poetry. Nutjob conspiracy sites. 'A-Team' slash fiction. Plushie how-to sites. Things that, really, no one ever asked to be put on the internet, and, now, we have to live with them.

So, into the dream:

This was one of my 'watching' dreams, not one of my 'actually part of the situation' dreams. X-E's Matt was living at home with his family. His sister and two of her friends were running a porn website, and that was taking away from what he wanted to do on the internet. So, he decided to become a goth and write 'disturbing' poetry, and demonstrate his angst by drawing a red slash on his chest with magic marker so everyone would know that he was filled with angst. His mother was all shocked and stuff, but, hey, that's the way things are when you're a goth who can't update his website because of his sister's porn site in the basement. Then, I got a call from my friend Jason's son, Trent. Trent wanted to know when I was coming to Colorado to see them. (Jason and his family no longer live in Colorado. They live in Biloxi, since Jason is in the Air Force. Trent is 2. He knows how to say 'Huskers', 'No', 'Yes', and 'Pee-pee'. He doesn't have conversations with one of his dad's friends who he's only met once.) I told Trent that I was going to come out on my vacation. (This conversation is happening while I'm watching the goings-on in the angst house) Trent wanted to know what kind of TV shows I liked. "Do you like 'Shogu' and 'BattleBots'?" Sure, I told Trent. I like those shows. (BattleBots is OK, but I'm fairly certain that Shogu is something Trent made up.) "Good," said Trent, "because those are the only shows we get." After assuring Trent that I would be coming out to see AND interact with his family, not just watch TV, I remembered that Trent probably shouldn't be able to speak that well. Then, Paul Harvey came on the radio, and I was transported some sort of William Gibson-style neo-cyberpunk-Victorian-era or something like that. It was supposed to be the past, but there were a LOT of cars and electric wheelchairs. Paul Harvey was giving a 'Rest of the Story' type retelling of what happened when the Dewey Decimal System was developed. Did you know that it caused as much of an uproar as the Monkey Trials? I sure the hell didn't. Didn't stop it from being in my head, tho. Part of the controversy stemmed from how to categorize Batman 'slash fiction'. Apparently, I was in a wheelchair, too. One that could be navigated using my Microsoft Wheel Mouse. But, it was a special wheel mouse -- I could turn the wheel mouse's wheel to the left and right, not just up and down!

Thankfully, I woke up when Paul Harvey started describing the slash fiction in question.


It's the anniversary of my parents today. They've been married 28 years (My dad thinks that it's 29, but, then again, he thinks my birthday falls on the day before it actually does.) I tried calling them, but, that plan failed. Probably because I don't have long distance, and Dad couldn't find my phone number. Probably. Or, perhaps my dad is harboring some sort of grudge against me, and, when asked if he would accept the charges, screamed into the phone "I HAVE NO SON!", hung up, and then chuckled malevolently to himself. "Now, let's see that bastard try and talk to his mother. There's no way she'll love him after he didn't call on the day she got married. Heh, heh, heh." Then, he'd probably watch The History Channel. That's just the kind of crafty trick the old man would try to pull. Always trying to make the family interactions more dramatic, that guy. (I just noticed that my verb-tense agreement is way funky. I'll justify that by remembering that spacetime is relative. I don't care how you justify it.)





Comments by: YACCS