Monday, December 29, 2008

A very DaVid MaMet Christmas

I had one of those dreams where I pretend I am in a David Mamet play.

"I don't understand a lot of things. Like what the inventor of the S.O.S. pad was thinking?" Who would do that? Why invent a product that rusts when placed in water when the product is designed to be immersed in water? "And yet we are told that the S.O.S. pad is an icon of Americana. No wonder we suck."

That dialogue wasn't in the dream. The problem is I don't remember much of the dialogue in the dream anymore.

"you don't remember?"

I don't remember. I can't remember if what I am...


Yes. Remembering.


If what I am remembering is really remembering now or if what I remembering is something different.

I am sure it is different. It had something to do with not knowing stuff, and how the stuff we don't know is not important. I think it was just some clever word play that really meant nothing. But if I remember something about it I remember that I liked the way the dream wrapped everything up with a pun/zinger at the end. I remember thinking I was clever and I should get up right away and write it down.

I remember I added the the S.O.S. thing as just some random aside and that the S.O.S. thing was a less polished joke. It was more of a "what the fuck good is an rusty pad of wool?"

I was going to add pictures of the rusting S.O.S. pad sitting in my sink, but I figured that only I care about the S.O.S. pad and you will just see a picture of a rusty worn out piece of steel wool and think I am a dirty person who never cleans his sink, so I threw away the steel wool and I cleaned my sink because the last thing I need is you judging me for keeping a dirty kitchen even if I keep a dirty kitchen. I mean I may keep a dirty kitchen, but I always clean up before company comes over, so in fact if you were to ever become a guest at my house, you would just assume that I always keep the dished clean and my sinks washed and my stove tops clean so you would never be able to judge me for that.

Sure you would judge me for all the other things I do. Like my hypochondria. How I worry after eating an chewable antacid with acid reducer that the pill will clog in my throat and inflame my swollen lymph nodes and cause my airway to constrict enough to make it difficult to swallow and difficult to breathe, but not so much that I need to call a doctor. But that doesn't make me paranoid. It only makes me a hero. A silent sufferer. A martyr like Jesus. Though I guess this is the season for Martyrdom.

Like how my Mom is suffering in silence and refusing to speak to me because I couldn't get the time off from work or save the money to go and see her get married even though I managed to finagle a way off work to see Card Shark's wedding and even payed the money for a Tuxedo which is about the cost of a one way ticket to see my Mom on SouthWest Airlines. I guess I should be ashamed, and the fact that my mom forgot my birthday and forgot to wish me a Merry Christmas or even send me a card should just be my punishment.

But I thought my punishment was having to watch a movie on Christmas Day by myself and when I tried to strike up a conversation with the "refreshment guy" about his poor luck having to work on Christmas and then getting all snubbed by a 19 year old dude with acne "making time and a half" thinking it was too pitiful to have to speak to me that he turned his back on me and pretended to start filling popcorn buckets even though there was not a person in line behind me and I had not ordered any popcorn.

I don't buy expesive popcorn at the dollar theaters. Instead my snack consisted of the warm M&M's I snuck hidden in my pockets with. I decided to sneak in the candy that I picked up from the Walgreen's that I visited for an hour before the movie started. I walked around and looked at all the Christmas sales and the various drug store items that Walgreen's has. I talked to a young lady that looked over at me with pity which I mistook as interest until she asked me if, "40 year old men are supposed to wear T-shirts over thermal underwear?"

I think she must have been in her high school fashion club or something because she had on light blue eye shadow. I was 3 p.m. but she still had on pj's and slippers. Her face was painted colorfully even though she had just woken up for the day. She had a fake fur lined coat and her hair was intricately laced in a upswing hair do that takes hours to make it appear like she only spends a few minutes on. She did casual with flair. My look says, "I do casual with sweat pants!"

We started talking after I asked her where the hemorrhoid medicine was. I think she noticed that I carried around with me a bottle of douche-for-ass-cleaning. I told her I was a male model. I don't think she believed me until I told her I was in gay porn. "Butt I am straight." I told her. "The money is way better for men in gay porn." I could tell she knew that because she cocked her head at me with one of those "I am so way hip I know about the pay rate structures for male porn performers." Like she had some kind of Excel spreadsheet on her palm pilot highlighting the gay/straight pay differentials. Maybe she did. She seemed knowledgeable.

Even though she was pretty smart I think she missed out on the opportunity I gave her to indulge in a post-modern witty tête-à-tête. At first I think she pretended to not know who Priscilla Lane was just to keep from bonding with me.

"The Lane Sisters?" I beamed my phazers at her. "They were a sister group that sung patriotic songs." I explained.

"Star of the 1942 Alfred Hitchcock movie Saboteur?" I added.

"Surely you jest." Was her reply. I should have known that a girl her age would have no clue who Alfred Hitchcock was. She was probably thinking I was making some kind of grotesque penis joke.

"Ask your grandmother." It was the only thing I could think of to respond. I was demure now. I was having no fun. I placed the Ass Douche on the counter.

"My grandmother is Priscilla Lane." She finally confided in me.

I told the girl that Ms. Lane was, "Britney Spears before Britney Spears was Britney Spears."

"She was married for a day. Then she had the marriage annulled. I've seen photos of her in bare midriff bent over a chair."

"That's kinda slutty." My new friend acknowledged. I agreed. "But hot. Your Grandma was hot." After a long pause in our conversation I used my last bit of Priscilla Lane trivia on the girl pretending to be Ms. Lane's grand daughter. "Prisiclla died in 1995." I told her.


I guess talking to young people about death is boring. Old people love to talk to about death.

"Did I say that outloud?"


"I did not mean to say that outloud. Also, I did not mean to say that 'I did not mean to say that outloud' as I assume you are smart enough to realize when I ask you if I said 'something outloud' that I in fact did not mean to 'say it outloud'."

"I guess for some reason you are just saying things outloud that you wished you had not said aloud."



Dr. Monkey Von Monkerstein said...

This post.


This post, you...

Yeah, this post.

Wrote it.

Wrote it. Post. This one.

Fuck yes. Hell yes. Be a man and admit...

You wrote this post. Not anybody else, not Bobby Gould, or Shecky or Flim Flam. You.

The post you wrote.

Romius T. said...

I wrote teh post.