2025/3/6, 2025/3/14, 2025/4/29
Inspired by Moonpr1sm's excellent dream diary, I decided to record some of my own dreams....
He assumed that he could simply clog the toilet and bolt, but I had other plans! I loaded the potato gun, settled into a folding metal chair before the bathroom door, and waited.
That PTA meeting was a fiasco, but the contiguous sex was spectacular; we were the only ones who really enjoyed ourselves that night. It was the first evening since her colonoscopy when I felt fully joyous and serene.
After my autographic session concluded, Peter and I evagated about and by fortuity met Dan Jurgens at a booth. He was very old and clearly infirm. I paid $60 for an autograph, but mostly to tell him how much I'd enjoyed his run on the Superman titles during my preteens. He replied that he chewed gum as chain-smokers smoked back then, then touched his jaw gingerly, clearly pained for some present ailment that was mnemonically recalled. His left index fingernail and right pinky were missing. I inquired how, to which he glared at and shunned us.
Finally, I met Shunji Iwai at a reception introducing the rerelease of newly-remastered, 4K Swallowtail, but he was coming down with some sudden illness, and his assistant (who was appareled in an incongruously recherche ensemble) informed me that he couldn't meet anyone else today. I whined that I'd flown thousands of miles just to meet him; he consulted The Master, who conveyed his apologies. Before Damian and I took our leave, I asked his assistant to tell him that his idiomatic auctorial, directorial, editorial, and musical prowess mean the world to me. We betook ourselves to a dumpy little eatery that prepared quite toothsome eel, and I felt the distinct pressure of crushing disappointment.
Annette was chewing on my shoulder, and our foreplay was disrupted, not enhanced, when she gnawed though to the scapular muscle. I jammed a chunk of wood in her mouth to deter her, and she proceeded to nibble though it like a beaver, laughing that crazy bray that always startlingly portended some kind of lascivious or jaundiced violence. Big dental anteriors of Hans and Japanese are so sexy and charming to me in reality, but my subconcious employs them as cynosures of nightmares.
Perhaps my tacit disapproval of his proposal insulted him; anyhow, he deemed my consumption of raw chicken and egg disgusting, and told me so. My ripost was perfectly Attic, but even better for its ethopoetic superciliousness; pehaps no other jeu d'esprit so perfectly conveyed my character as an ungodly snot. Alas, I could remember that, but not it, or his reply. I was wearing a gray chamois shirt that I wore often in the aughts though the mid-teens.
In a shopping mall's food court, I was strolling past a pizzeria, and took one of many tan baseball caps bearing its logotype from a shopping cart parked nearby. Just as I was pinching mammamia gesticulations and yelling, "Ayyyy, luigi spungole!!" to the checkout jerk of the pizzeria, he yelled back that I had to pay for it. I tossed it back into or near the cart (they look so stupid, so who cares?) and approached the pizzeria while hollering stuff like, "Whattsamattayou!?" and "Ya got some capricciatore in your spugatamoli, or what?!" Just as I was jabbering all that, I realized that I don't know any Italian, except for maybe "il" and "lasagna," and I'm not always even certain about "il."
This checkout jerk looked more Ashki than Italian, but I said, "So I wanna slice-a of da pizza, extra cheese and ravioli with some pepperoni. Ayyyy."
He tried to wave me away and said, "Get out of here; c'mon."
"Just gimme my fuckin' food, ya mulignan," I said, and slammed my left hand into my pocket for some cash. I had bills therein, but also 60-odd coins. Why all the specie?
"That's offensive," he spat back. He was really aggravated now, and I felt a sinking sensation that I wouldn't get my food.
In the split-second before he said something else that didn't register, I glanced at his nametag and I could've sworn that it read, "Gene Hackman." I started to ask if he was also a fan of the late thespian, but upon closer inspection, it read something like Geoxha Horrklare. What even was this guy?! So instead I started to ask: "Geoxa? What the fuck is--"
"I'll have to call security if you won't leave," he told me.
A sudden furor swelled and I seethed, "No, fuck this! What the fuck is that name?! And I want my fucking food!" A screaming match ensued during which I kicked something and -- as I foresaw -- didn't get my food before two security guards arrived to escort me out of the mall. I was livid against this god damned Albanian or Basque or Mizrahi or whatever the fuck this bald, ugly prick was. I woke feeling groggy and entitled because my ancestors were here for millennia, unlike this second-gen jerk-off stand-in for Fred Melamed. I want my pizza.
Damian and I spent nearly two hours setting up my stand at the convention. After a few hours during which we sold five comics, some fat slob waddled up to the stand and vomited all over our wares, which were consequently ruined. He was forcibly removed, and my enterprise was screwed. As the hall's custodian was tidying his puke and my ruined comics, I knew that I had to do something ingenious to salvage the day, but what?
A memory of Etsuko walking into a wall and staggering backward as she said, "Aeuggh." Even her skinny chicken's calves were cute.
Just as I stabbed Kenneth Branagh and leapt off of the pier, I realized that my car keys had flown out of my accidentally unzipped pocket. Terrible.
An oft-recurring dream: finally exhausted with Israel's subversive bullshit, China nuked Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, then immediately blamed India for the strike. When the counterfeit, conniving, parasitic, genocidal, triumphalist, second-world, architecturally hideous country failed to retaliate, we all knew what we'd suspected for decades: their warheads are duds, and the Samson Option is codswallop. Discussing this online, I felt suddenly horrified and elated in the knowledge that balance had been restored to the world, and that some heroes aren't good people at all. This is one of my favorite dreams.
In an impossibly prevenient version of Hereditary shot in '76, I was a supernumerary playing one of the cultists. After Karen Black's decapitated corse floats into the treehouse and newly-possessed Scott Baio climbs up after her, I was one of the nude demonolaters bowing in wait. I was very sore and cramping for assumption of this position for over an hour, and I could feel some fat lady's exhalations on my feet and scrotum. After Philip Kaufman yelled, "cut," I finally relaxed, donned a robe, then repaired with a big Olivetti typewriter to the studio commissary, where I banged out a first draft of a review almost literatim to my new review, and for which I felt the same vague dissatisfaction: it's a bit too superficial, almost perfunctory. Karen Allen was sitting nearby, complaining of menstrual cramps.
When Ichiro learned how to ride a bike in the mid-aughts, I was present and instructing him. He struggled very much as I did in the late '80s, suffered a bruised knee for his trouble, and was stoic though saturnine throughout, even when he learned how ride. This prompted some reflection on Pasternak's description of Eurasians as congenitally sullen and deliberate people. I was crying when I woke.
As transposed teenagers, Keith and I found a box full of (mostly broken) iPhones in a shed. He shot footage of me snapping them with punches, judo chops, and drop-kicks whilst wedged between shelves, car doors, etc. I edited the footage into a video of 4 minutes' duration that went viral and enriched me before it was demonetized. In recognition of my service to the country, the President (not Trump, but griseous, toothy, badass James Coburn) phoned to apprise me: "To commemorate your valor, the government will accord you one free assassination, son." Naturally, I immediately selected Sophia Takal for instant death. When we hung up our phones, I felt a climacteric swell and realized that I was now part of history. o7
Lain in a grassy field, my skin was green. My toes wiggled, and the grass beneath and between them wiggled back!
© 2025 Robert Buchanan