I never knew just what it was and I guess I never will...*
Today the zipping and bopping and whirring is a bit out of synch, everything I aim at ends up untouched with the hit landing well off into the left-field bleachers. The synapses seem to be firing just fine but somewhere between the command center and where the actual grunt work gets done reveals the message was garbled such that “scratch nose” results in, “OW! My EYE! My Eye! OW! OW! OW!”
I click on the Mamacita link and end up at Outside/In; what was supposed to be shaving cream ends up as air-freshener; the coffee pot ends up not back on its burner but in the feed slot of my printer; I reach for the cereal box and end up with rat poison (apologies to Gary Larson for shamelessly ripping off his cartoon). Somewhere between intention and conclusion is a bank of cold gray chaos, the means mystify the ends. If I manage to make it back here without having set fire to something, backed over something, smoked a finger, stubbed a toe or had something blowed-up (blowed-up REAL good!), Eris be praised, I’ll tip my libation to the forces that secured the world from my toxic participation.
It’s not as though I’m lacking sleep (I slept like a baby last night) but maybe it was the dreams. My usual morning arrives with me not cognizant of a single dream but I woke up today with three dreams on my mind. Well, after several cups of coffee and some eye-gouging, I only remember one of them but I recall I had three.
The dream I do remember found me in some high-stakes trivia game emceed by none other than Regis Philbin. At the start of the game I was given $100,000 to wager and I could bet any or all on the question. What the question was I don’t recall but I remember that although I did not know the answer, the answer was obvious after some deductive reasoning. See, I’m the Trivia God and after opening a can of Whupass on other trivia unfortunates I’m invariably asked, “How in the world do you know all this stuff?” Thing is, I don’t really know all that stuff but I know enough to apply deductive reasoning to discern the answer. No matter the game: NTN or Jeopardy or Trivial Pursuit, the clues in the question usually narrows down the possibilities to a single, correct answer. So when Regis read off the choices, deductively everything was sewn up tight. So I bet the whole enchilada and gave him the answer.
“I’m sorry but that’s not the correct an-sah,” he said, “You lost one hundred thousand doll-ahs and you’re out of the game!”
Astounded, dejected, I snatched the answer card out of his hand and walked away down a corridor, past a T.J. Maxx and an Orange Julius to the escalator that took me downstairs to Saks Fifth Avenue where I decided to spend $75 on shirts (2 for 1!) as a consolation prize. Unfortunately, all the shirts were ugly and I was having a difficult time deciding how I’d piss away my seventy-five bucks. Impatiently going through the racks for something pleasing, I took a look at the answer card I’d taken from Regis and saw – I was right! The bastard cheated! I should have been sitting on two-hundred grand and answering another question but the son of a bitch had gypped me!
Freud said that “Dreams are the royal road to the subconscious,” and maybe the dream had something to do with all the wrong buttons pushed, the forehead smacked into door jambs. It’s hard to say. What’s not hard to say is that if you travel in my sphere today, steer clear, you’re liable to end up with an injury.
You’ve been warned.
* and sincere apologies to Tom Paxton; with the spastic way my body disregards my mind, I assume I’ll offering a lot of apologies today.