Nocturnal Emissions

[digitaldiscipline]

My brain is a weird, weird fucking place sometimes.
The last time I checked, Fatal Attraction featured Michael Douglas as the male lead, not a ninteen-year-old Patrick Stewart, and the denouement didn't include the butcher's knife being wrapped in butcher paper during several "teaser" thrust/caresses along his throat, interrupted by a knock at the door when a pair of the couple's hippie friends show up, and young Mr. Stewart escaping death by sitting in a bathtub in the middle of the living room and scrawling "you have a gay friend" (or something to that effect) in charcoal on the wall and sitting there sheepishly as they cooed over his (faked?) coming out as the tub turned into a couch.

He subsequently went free, and met up with Katie Holmes on a flight to Seattle, but in order to escape something or other, they both strapped themselves to the wheel rims on opposite sides of the 747 and got spun around during takeoff.

Sometime after Dreamland Flight 42 landed in Sea-Tac, the principals saw one another in adjacent taxi cabs passing through a toll booth on an expressway, and then changed to myself and thewronghands (which makes slightly more sense, as she actually lives there).

We were both going on job interviews in the same neighborhood (her for something appropriately high-level technogeeky; I was going to become a fitness trainer), and neither of us had good directions, other than a street address in an illogically numbered part of town (which resembles both portions of Seattle, and a recurring portion of Dreamland Denver that I'm uncertain whether or not I may have seen when visiting kaliva & paisli several years ago - does semi-desolate industrial stretch of road alongside/underneath a bridge/railroad ring any bells, Denver peeps? Very Perdido Street Station/Dark City, in any case.

Upon finding the building, the two of us, along with an Asian/Indonesian girl and a burly white guy (not sure who they were), were brought up short by a gruff geek bouncer (who was with Raven's interviewing company out on the front steps grabbing a smoke break). Exeunt thewronghands. I was unable to deliver a clever greeting, got flustered, and hurried inside, mortified that I was running late for my interview.

Nobody I spoke with mentioned it. As a matter of fact, it was the least-interview-ish interview ever. We just kind of stood around as a Pilates-like class took place, and I kind of awkwardly helped distribute equipment, held my backpack in one hand, and, at one point, felt very sheepish for having worked up a sweat despite being clad in only my combat boots and a black utilikilt (I got the impression that some folks were checking out, but not commenting on, my ink).

I finally got up the nerve to ask when the interview was, and the de-facto leader/manager said we'd be adjourning to a nearby bar mid-afternoon to discuss it. "This is Seattle. It's Friday. You have any idea how expensive beer is at seven o'clock? That's why we have our 'Beer one-to-three' policy." I assume the interview went all right, since the staff was all hanging around my parents' living room the following morning, in variations on the company color scheme (a dark teal shirt and khaki bottoms, though one girl who resembled one of K's coworkers from her last job was in a subtly-patterned paisli velvet cocktail dress), and they indicated that I would need to dye my celery-hued Coca-Cola golf shirt to comply with their color scheme.

After that, I headed out to some sort of company family picnic (I think this was a different company - my friend Jess from college was there, and she had a six-year old son, who she said reminded her of me, though he was blond, pale, and snaggle-toothed, though he did have a certain devilish gleam in his eyes, and sang "Mambo Number Five" (Max Raabe's version) beautifully while running around with the other children.


Don't ask me what this all means. I just live here.

Comments

[fenixinthedark.livejournal.com]

"Sometimes, Ana... a banana is chust a banana"

[etcet.livejournal.com]

Soo.... patrick stewart was a gay youth, and I should get lost in Seattle?

[ladysoleil.livejournal.com]

Did he have hair?

[etcet.livejournal.com]

No. He was just.... young. I don't know what the tip-off was that he was 19, because he looked basically like a less-weathered version of the way we're used to thinking of him as Capt. Picard.

[fenixinthedark.livejournal.com]

:::giggles:::

Sure, why not??

Nah, what I mean is that, sometimes, a dream is just a strange hallucinatory experience and means nothing at all.

[david-deacon.livejournal.com]

Patrick Stewart = fear of losing your hair
butcher paper = something to wrap a butcher knife in, of course
Glenn Close with a knife = fear of that older woman you apparently knew when you were nineteen
Katie Holmes = you're going to be on Oprah and jump up and down on her couch, you identify with Tom Cruise ("Mission Impossible"?), you want to marry K-tie
tollbooth = you are racing K toward an objective, but you aren't in the same cab, so to speak
fitness trainer = you work out often enough to train others at it
beer = you enjoy the occasional "adult beverage" to the point where having staff meetings at bars seems like a time-saving move
dye your golf shirt = fear of having to change to fit in somewhere
Jess and her son = there will be a paternity suit somewhere in your future

That will be $225. ; )

[etcet.livejournal.com]

very funny, rocky. :-)

[jmoriarty.livejournal.com]

Of course, I read this entire story, and the first thing that comes to mind is "Habanero Doritos? I need to try these! Are they any good?" :)

[etcet.livejournal.com]

as a matter of fact, yes they are. xany_hellion and I agreed that a) they could be spicier, but b) for a mass-market product, they were satisfyingly zingy.

[ladysoleil.livejournal.com]

Nah, you're not predictable or anything. ;)

[ladysoleil.livejournal.com]

I meant predictable food geeking, not predictable on the liking doritos thing.

damn, I hate how LJ threads comments.

[bitogoth.livejournal.com]

wow- my dreams are often that disjointed but i can rarely recall them that clearly. after a 5:45 storm wakeup this morning i fell into a dream in which i was walking through the sepia-toned cover of a 70's sci-fi paperback- i now have to find out if the book actually exists or not, but i'm fairly sure it does. i started viewing the main char but moved into the space suit as i/we walked through various alien landscapes of progressive hostility ala rpg encounters. drew joined at some point, but soon after we were being chased and lost the sci-fi theme to move through the wooden wall seperating the newbie area from the rest of Tirisfal Glades, at which point Drew took off and i started flying over our pursuers to distract them. at that point recollection breaks down, altho' i do remember dreaming that drew was reading in bed while i was sleeping and started drawing on my forehead with a pen, just before the alarum woke me, heh.

[etcet.livejournal.com]

i woke up from this one about 5:00, and spent the next hour before my alarm went off consciously trying to remember it, and even dozed off thinking about it (which included Raven writing an LJ entry about what she was doing, which included her beau making dinner and commenting on how R's day had gone... even in my dreams, she writes in her usual self-deprecating, smart, and occasionally sardonic style)

[ivy]

Hilarious! [grin] Thanks for the tacit compliment, also. Should you ever actually get lost in Seattle, you can call me, though.

[etcet.livejournal.com]

we had some... colorful... things to say about the street-numbering conventions in the neighborhood we were tromping around. okay, mine contained most of the color, but i think i had to carry the swearing load for all four of us. :-)

[ivy]

It's a dirty job, but someone's got to do it.