digitaldiscipline: (bitter)
Until it went completely off the rails and into "I'll take obvious signs from my subconscious for $500, Alex" territory last night, I had a pretty interesting[1] sleeping experience last night.

As a minor league hockey player, looking rather a lot like a younger Chris Pronger, I/he was playing for a western Canadian team, which was on the road a lot, and making it difficult to start a relationship with a young woman (either K or a K-surrogate) who lived with her brother and dad in central Alberta or Saskatchewan. Unable to focus, his play suffered and he took a leave of absence from the team, trekking (hitchhiking, walking, taking a bus) across the prairie.

Upon reaching their house, a note was left atop a 30-pack of mixed beers, explaining their relationship and wanting to get approval from the menfolk (who were at work).

The next day, he encounters the men of the house. "So, is it okay that I'm with her?"

"Well, we're both really hungover, so that's a yes."

At that point, my subconscious decided to drive the bus into annoying and stressful territory, but at least had some comic relief in the form of me doing a Happy Gilmore impression by golfing with a tire iron (the kind that's shaped like a very short & blunt hockey stick, not the kind shaped like a plus sign).

[1] - interesting for values of "to me," "to hockey fans" or "to plot ideas" anyway....
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So, apparently in comeuppance for winning my first-ever game of Monopoly-like (Ghettopoly, at [ profile] xany's place) and enjoying an exceedingly moderate amount of weird beer (one bottle of Bierzebub, a lovely 13% ABV brew), my subconscious decided that I'm the asshole I play on TV, and I spent a fitful night lucidly dreaming about losing my pants in a sporting arena, trying to give [ profile] lil_m_moses a shave and a haircut with a quartet of butcher's knives (successfully, though she was very finicky about the hairstyle), discussing professional american soccer with my dad and a complete stranger, rambling around someplace that looked a lot like the Buffalo Zoo (as it was in my childhood) and ... stomping five young Native American girls to death.



What kind of asshole stomps people to death? What kind of sick fuck has their subconscious throw shit like that them?

Serves me right for getting the healthiest thing on the menu (thai chicken lettuce wrap).

In happier news, I share with you all the piece d' resistance from the Ghettopoly session, linguistically speaking: "Wizzench."
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Last night, I dreamt I was watching Keith Olbermann on MSNBC's Countdown, pointing out in his inimitable way how MSNBC had uncovered a fairly important and explosive government coverup, and had "pushed it to CNN and the NY Times, who ignored it completely."

Keithy was, as you can expect, a little livid. He was also wearing a very nice dove-grey pinstripe suit with a white shirt and cobalt tie.

I also dreamt I was hanging out at [ profile] mighty_man's old place in Buffalo, but it wasn't the same house. Same lot, same street, different house. Still had the reindeer pelt on the floor in front of the fireplace, though.
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Some peculiar conflation of influences last night... catching part of what I can only assume to be the cinematic mistake that was "Deja Vu" on my flight back from PHX and seeing the trailer for "Next" ...

The protagonist sees how people used to be, and his compatriots are Lemmy from Motorhead and the guy who played Sabretooth (both of them relatively caveman-looking motherfuckers, to save on SFX makeup, I suppose). No idea what the plot tension was supposed to come from, but the leading man had to escape from some person(s) who wanted to prescribe & dispense Lead HV... with a cameo by the FBI agent from "Once Upon a Time in Mexico."

An exciting suburban-and-swamp chase later, and it was revealed that the entire time, seeing people as primitive was just the one guy's POV, he was incapable of seeing the shiny, clean-cut reality of the near future around him.

No fricking idea, but it was a very interesting and entertaining dream, in that Philip K. Dick kind of way.
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Go Colts. I like Peyton Manning, and had been pulling for the Aints (hey, I actually had a legitimate geographic reason for that). Sorry, Xany, but there was a very vociferous variant of FUCK YEAH when Brady threw that clinching interception.

Trying not to contract K's creeping respiratory crud, with varying degrees of success.

Instead, had dreams about maiming a giant, two-headed, long-necked white dovelike bird in order to pull out the long, decorative feather on each of its heads, and was then accosted by someone from Animal Services / Parks Department for not killing it altogether. So we stomped on its heads. :-/

Then I had to eat very mild chunky salsa that was chock-full of bits of crab shell. Yuck.

In completely unrelated news, I'm pimp-slapping my Fantasy Hockey League as we enter the All-Star break, without the benefit of even a single member of the Buffalo Sabres on my roster.
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... then it's a fun game of "Find the Eye" with shitty depth perception.

I'm blaming [ profile] matociquala for having the same dream -twice- last night, where my left cornea was scratched (apparently, I was Daniel Paille of the Buffalo Sabres, and caught a teammate's stick under the visor while clearing a rebound in front of our net), and both were then replaced with glass... which I had to put in -by hand- in front of people, while having a conversation in an opulent hotel lobby.

Let me just say, for the sake of you who don't do this often - putting a hunk of glass into one's naked, raw, empty eye sockets sucks more than a little.

But at least I wasn't getting fucked up the ass while abstaining from sex with Jenna Jameson again. That was Sunday night's "entertainment."

I'm going to need to have a word with the asshole in charge of the in-flight movies.
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Deflowered [ profile] xany_hellion as pertains to puckery. A good time was had.

Tonight is TBBC (which means Moose), followed by Jobsite/TBPAC for "All the Great Books (Abridged)" with friends both local and not.

A) What time are we meeting at TBBC? The show starts at 10. 7:30? 8:00?

B) I dreamt I was pimping the show to people, when not road-testing a Volvo station wagon and a white Chevy panel van (which had been used to haul an entire office's worth of computers and personnel, strongly reminiscient of one of my office moves in the bowels of Pennsyltucky). Also, while doing the 70-to-0 braking tests (on K's parents' street & sidewalk, no less), the vehicles weren't being tested - the drivers were. We would run, jump, and then land about 70 feet later. I somehow managed to learn how to fly by turning myself sideways (right hip forward, that foot raised slightly) and flapping my hands with my elbows pressed to my hips.

Errrr.... yeah.
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Quiet day thus far at work, and a lot of people are out. Since the removal of the next row of cubicles, there's a lot of dead space by my desk... today, that's been put to use doing lunges. Then situps. Then pushups.

There may be a mid-afternoon fitness challenge of some sort if the other guy manning the phones and I get bored enough.

Last night, after falling asleep at *cough* eight thirty *cough* the ol' dreamscape was once again populated by movies that haven't been made. In addition to my usual fare (hockey, espionage), there was also football and romantic dramedy.

All braided together. With a B-list all-star cast.

Hockey: Instead of being a player, I was some sort of rich executive (played by Ron Livingston), and there was a team populated by three brothers, whose last named happened to be "Orange," and they skated out for the climactic game with one, two, and three oranges on their respective jerseys, like some sort of slot-machine jackpot combination. The announcer indicated that the trio had accounted for fifteen points in their previous game, a 7-2 victory (apparently, my subconscious knew the score of last night's Sabres-Predators game); six goals and nine assists. Not sure who they were playing, but K & I were glad to know that their team was in second place, five points behind league-leading Buffalo.

Football: [ profile] mighty_man and I were doing something akin to Mark Wahlberg's character in Invincible, but were being played by Keenan Ivory Wayans and David Alan Greer. Oddly, it wasn't a comedy.

The espionage/drama was an offshoot development of the hockey storyline, but I was being played by a Shining-remake era Steven Weber, [ profile] aishlynn was being played by Cynthia Watros with dark hair, and [ profile] mighty_man was my business partner, portrayed by a decidedly non-Lumbergish Gary Cole, with a penchant for tweed.

This climaxed with me taking a depressing walk along a the raised walkway of a suspension bridge, against traffic, as [ profile] aishlynn shouted at me from far below, along a breakwater. I may my way down, through sleet and slush, and met up with she and [ profile] mighty_man in a sheltered alcove, where I took my shoes off (how did I know it was me? The shoes were my Rockports, and I had on my usual fare of ankle-high grey and white athletic socks) in two inches of cold water, poured slush out of them, and then put them back on, before we had our business reconciliation and agreed on some plan for our mutual future.

I have no bloody idea what any of this means, beyond my continuing questionable preference in socks with business attire.
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"Joe, there's something I need to tell you."

"What is it, woman? I'm trying to paint goats here!"

"Ummm... the baby ... It isn't yours."

Joseph pauses, turns, and strokes his beard thoughtfully, dripping paint on the manger and one of his sandals. "Has the pre-nup been invented yet?"

[later, on Springer]

Jeremy bar Jeremiah Springer: "On today's show, we have a very special case. This woman [camera zooms in on Mary] says that her husband [camera cuts to Joe in the green room] is not the father of her firstborn child [still photo of Jeshua bar Joseph, perhaps from a kindergarten group shot], but she was married as a virgin [audience "oooohs"] and has been faithful as his wife [scattered catcalls]. Mary, could you explain what in the name of Moses is going on here?"

If you haven't read Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ's Childhood Pal [Christopher Moore], do so. I can't recommend it enough (though I might try to do so more if I could get kickbacks; I've sold at least a dozen copies because of my inability to shut up about it).

[this can arguably be blamed on [ profile] gooddamon dreaming that his wife, [ profile] floatingtide was giving birth to the Baby Jesus as part of an amateur Nativity production by a community theater group ... or something like that.]
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