It’s Christmas! At John Waters’ house!!! I’ve just gotten out of the shower– I’m wearing only a yellow terrycloth towel that keeps slipping off as I search under his tree for his missing present (I can’t remember what it was…. Something small and vaguely mechanical… a tie tack? . . a hat pin? ) All I find is 2 cord adaptors in a tiny ‘leatherman’ case, but that’s not it. I look behind me and catch a glimpse of ASS- Mr. Waters is changing clothes.
I’m in my parents’ house. We’re all in the kitchen. I hear them say, "Look at that flamingo." I look down, but it’s no flamingo. A bright pink bear about the size of a small pig is waddling in from the deck, right past us. I matter-of-factly state, "That’s a polar bear who is so malnourished in our warm climate that he’s taken to eating flamingo food and is also starving ,which would account for the unusual coloring and small size." Overcome with empathy, I run up the front stairs to get it some food appropriate for a bear. I feel that it’s only hours away from starving to death. Luckily there’s a herd of deer grazing away on the carport. They’re actually eating the asphalt. Most run away but one innocent and sexually curious nubile adolescent girl deer watches me and doesn’t move. I go up to her and we start making out as she turns into this tall pubescent girl with big brown eyes, a green dress, and brown short fur all over. I’m sliding my hands up the dress as we make out and I’m grabbing her hairy ass and grinding it into me. Then her body turns transparent and I see the outline of my penis through her torso. The penis is several inches below her crotch and quite limp. The dream ends. Sadly, I never have to choose between making out with a beast-woman and feeding her to the starving bear/flamingo.
I’m sitting on what appears to be the foundation of my parents’ house, but without any walls or roof. Just cement floor and furniture. I’m staring at the sunny hillside normally obstructed by the walls, when Kay Dee drops by, and I’m happy to see her. Give her a big hug, and then a kiss on the cheek, which she’s not really into, so I stop and talk to her instead. Then my parents come by, and interrupt us with this great idea of theirs: "You should quit the bagel job and become an artist. You could make art with Andy Warhol!" I say, "Uh… Mom, Andy Warhol’s dead, OK? It wouldn’t work."
Then it cuts to this commercial made by some transvestite-Warhol-super-star-back-in-the60′s-guy. He’s in very classy drag and advertising this chi-chi martini glass with a hollow tube halfway up the stem that holds your ‘special martini worm.’ The worm is this nasty, blood-red, faceless spermy thing about 2" long, with a big oval head and slit-like mouth, tiny claws, and it just radiates pure malevolence. The really classy way to drink the martini is to have the worm drink it with you. .. . coming out of its tube and poking its head into the bottom of the martini, slurping away from the bottom as you drink from the top.
Cut back to the ‘house’: I realize that while my parents were distracting me with these hair brained schemes, Kay Dee has left. I have a huge tizzy fit, screaming and crying. I want to hike but first I need to eat. I’m too mad to waste time searching for a proper soup dish, so I slurp tomato-vegetable soup out of an old frying pan, standing up and crying at the same time:
Wandering ’round my parents’ neighborhood, I come to this plateau I’ve somehow never seen before. Next to the road, there’s a rock wall overlooking this huge shallow valley, which stretches as far as the eye can see. The new Mystery Valley is filled with grass, dirt and shrubs in equal amounts. The odd thing about this valley is that time stands still over there. Because time stands still, dinosaurs still live in this valley but they exist simultaneously at all different times of their lives. I whip out this cellular phone and I’m talking to someone, verbally attempting to describe what I see. "They all look like Jurassic versions of Duchamp’s "Nude Descending A Staircase" painting (but done with Dali’s precision and liquidness). The nearest dinosaur is huge, orange, and two-legged, constantly caught in the act of running across the valley. Like the Nude Descending A Staircase, every intermediate part of the dinosaur’s stride is happening at once. What’s weird is that some of the dinosaurs in the middle of the stride are totally different dinosaurs! The entire time-line of the dinosaur’s journey is constantly rippling and oozing new heads, arms where legs should be, tails coming out of snouts, different colors. . .
I decide this new land is ‘rad’ so I vault the stone wall and am immediately accosted by Paleolithic entomologists (people studying insects at the time of the dinosaurs) wearing heavy duty head-to-toe chemical warfare suits, with big conical helmets with square Plexiglas faceplates (like the evil NASA guys in ET) They grab me and warn me that since my immune system is geared to 1997, even the most harmless little bug bites could kill me here, what with their Paleolithic bacteria and all. I notice there’s a moth on me. And, horrifyingly, several others innocently flitting around. It’s the most inoffensive insect ever but I panic. The lead entomologist’s bearing turns from scientific to that of a chiding schoolyard bully, sing-songing, "It might sting you! I’ll just smack it! There he goes, there he goes, he’s going to stiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing you!! It’s on your head… want me to swat it?" I’m panicking, thinking, ‘kill it! leave it alone! Don’t make me mad! No kill it!’ but I’m too betwixt to talk.
Eventually, he gets the moth off, and we start heading out across the valley. I am, understandably, treading lightly. As we walk we come near another border of the valley, where the stone wall is replaced by a series of cheap 2 or 3 story tenements. We come to the doorway leading into this slum and the scientists are insisting I go in, which makes me afraid. I see Jason F.,the biggest delinquent from my Junior High School, with an arrogant smirk and mullet. He ‘s squatting on a small fire escape to the right of the doorway, which happens to be my only route of escape at this point. I smile obsequiously and say , "Oh, Jason, my man! You’re so cool! Help me get out of here!" He leads me up this fire escape, over the wall, and across the roofs of the slum, away from the valley. He says he’s formed a band based on Adjetive Noun. Even though that’s MY band, I’m still feeling ass-kissy, so I start running around bouncing off the walls of this dirty alley, cussing and doing a parody of my on-stage routine to ingratiate myself with this schoolyard bully.
Then I take off through this strange slum and get lost in some sort of Creole marketplace where Caribbean-Americans sell crazy tropical fruit out of rustic stalls. This old, fat, bald, Creole guy comes up to me and says, "I can tell you’re lost. You’re in trouble. I can tell the future. I can read your fortune." The thing is, he’s saying this in this really thick patois (Creole dialect) and I can’t understand. The dream shifts to printed text in a book where it spells out what he’s saying. But the bad news is, it’s spelled in dialect, too! Then I ask him to repeat himself. He says it, again. And I ask him to repeat it again. As I ask him to repeat himself over and over, I’m able to decipher individual words and the sentences become printed in standard English.
Now we can communicate, I ask him what day it s. He names a day, and I realize that three days have passed since my incident with Jason. I figure the blackout is a symptom of delirium brought on by the Paleolithic germs. That’s when the Paleolithic entomologists suddenly catch up to me and surround me in the Creole market. The lead entomologist confesses that I’ve actually been infested with Paleolithic insects. He whips out a cross-section of my head, featuring a small green larva, curled up inside my sinuses like Alien. I will die, giving birth to this new insect super-messiah. The Messiah is the life’s work of these entomological cultists, and they are convinced it will bring a new age of peace and prosperity.
I get him to admit that he could actually create a human Messiah instead of an insect one, so then I start whipping out charts and graphs of my own (the approximate size of boogie-boards), tying to turn the Creole market crowd against the entomologists and thereby make my escape. I point out that the scientists could genetically engineer a Caribbean/Black messiah to lead the world into a new age of black supremacy, but they’d rather use an insect. I’m yelling, "He has more respect for insects than the black race!! So he suuuuuuuucks!!!!"
Cut to the interior of the scientists’ headquarters (in the valley where time stands still), which looks like my parents’ living room. The scientists have abducted me here (or perhaps I’ve just had another delirious blackout and wandered here on my own) and the lead guy is ranting messianically. There’s a fire in the fireplace. He’s standing with his back to the fireplace. He’s not wearing the big bio-warfare suit anymore. It’s been replaced with a standard-issue white lab coat. I notice a log in the fire suddenly bloat up to three times its normal size, like a balloon about to burst. Then another one. Think about the guy’s arm in ALTERED STATES. "Whoomp!"
I think ,"Holy shit, there’s whitefish salad fumes (inflammable gas from rancid whitefish) trapped inside the logs. If they catch on fire, the resulting explosion will kill us all!" I warn everyone and dozens of scientists , entomologists, and messianic cultists all start running out to their garden, which is about 30 feet east of the house/headquarters. Their garden is the exact shape and location of my parents’ garden, except my parents’ real garden has an eight foot chicken-wire fence around it, and this garden has a huge, fourteen-foot, barbed wire, concentration-camp-style fence. I’m pushed up against the fence by the mob of white-coated zealots. I ‘m right next to a support pole and figure my only hope is to climb up on everybody’s shoulders and then swing on the pole until it comes loose in the ground, toppling the fence. So I’m swinging on this pole and the mob is changing character, shouting in an decidedly unscientific fashion: "GO PSYCHO, GO FUCKIN GO PSYCHO DUDE!!! FUCK SHIT UP!!!!"
I knock down the fence, and run through the garden into the huge military compound which materializes on the far side. I sense the military here aren’t part of the Paleolithic entomologist cult and run ahead of the mob hoping to find a general so I can report the cult to him. I find this guy looking exactly like General Jack D. Ripper from Dr. Strangelove. I blurt out everything and he grumbles, "That’s terrible, son! I’ll take care of this right away. They won’t get away with this!!"
So we go running through this underground tunnel that I feel somehow links the military base to the entomologists’ hideout, and we find ourselves accompanied by a short, middle-aged, blue-collar Asian woman wearing surgical scrubs. She looks like one of those oppressed Third-World women that assembles electronic parts until they go blind. Then another woman shows up. Then two more, and the next thing you know the whole hall is packed with them, separating me from my backup army crew and making it hard to move. I see one of them light a match. I somehow know that if the match burns, it will release mind-control fumes. I snuff out her match but soon they’re all lighting matches and the flames brainwash the general.
Cut to: me in a white cell, looking through the white bars into the hi-tech room adjoining. The general is standing with the lead entomologist, happily ranting and putting his military resources at the disposal of this mind-control cult of the Insect Up My Nose. Then this ridiculous superhero, who had apparently been imprisoned in a cell next to mine for trying to stop this sinister plot, busts out of his cell. He’s got a mostly white uniform with red gloves and boots. His proportions are absurdly cartoony, but he’s rendered realistically, as are all the other people in the dream. He strikes superhero poses as if he’s going to unleash some super-ray beams on them, but nothing happens. The villains have stripped him of his power while he was in his cell. And he starts getting overwhelmed by legions of flunkies.
Somehow, during the ensuing riot, I get an insight: Kay Dee (remember her?) is working as a toll collector in some obscure, poorly-maintained bridge. I take advantage of the chaos to escape from my cell. Which suddenly seems really easy and not a big deal. I curse my rotten luck that I don’t have time so search all the bridges for Kay Dee because I have to go play with Adjective Noun at a Geekfest located somewhere else in the headquarters of the evil entomologists.No comments
I was watching TV late at night with my housemates. Ron asked me, "What do you want to watch?" and I got up and pulled one of his pornos off the shelf and matter-of-factly popped it in the VCR. I sit down, suddenly overcome with fear: ‘What the fuck did I do that for? I’m not even supposed to admit he HAS pornos! He’s going to kick my ass for sure!" but neither Ron nor his brother reacts at all and I start nervously watching the video. As the video unfolds, I find myself existing on two levels: watching the TV and as a character IN the TV.
In the video, a barely pubescent, blond, boy with tousled hair sleeps, and I identify with him somehow. His porn star dad and ineffectual mom bust in and wake him up yelling, "Drink the apple cider! Drink the apple cider!!" The dad straddles the son’s body, immobilizing him, and thrusts the cider jug to the boy’s lips. The kid chugs furiously and just when he’s getting to the bottom, he notices the dad’s huge cock poking through the bottom of the jug. It then ejaculates into the boy’s horrified face.
Back in the room watching TV, part of me is relieved that the video is so gross, because then I can tell Ron I picked it for humor rather than eroticism.
Now the scene changes. My consciousness is now entirely in the video. I am the boy. I somehow know I’ve been dragged to a summer wilderness camp where families go to brainwash the kids into WANTING to have sex with the parents. I’m escaping and running through the woods. I part some branches and see a fully-made bed, with ornate gold and brass pipe headboard, in the middle of the forest. I look under the pink pillow, and sure enough, there’s a snub-nosed .38 (Police-style handgun). I practice firing it, and discover that every other time I pull the trigger nothing happens. I deliberately fire a ‘dud round,’ confident that when I next fire, it will shoot a bullet. Then I hide it in the apron of my work uniform and head back to the camp.
The camp looks like the house of my real-life parents. I creep up to the guest room where my ‘dream-parents’ are staying as guests in the camp. I look in through the screen door. I see some other kids’ parents where mine were before. "What the fuck?" I wonder. I bust in anyway and tap the strange other-parents on the shoulder and nervously whisper to the other-dad, ‘Where’s my parents?’ He wakes up and lazily points to a cot in the darkened corner of the room, invisible from the door outside. I go to the cot and shoot the gun at a lump in the bed which I assume is my father, but the gun suddenly turns into a banana. The banana squooshes under the pressure from my hand, and the mush-mush shoots across the room in a perfectly straight line and hits the guy right in the head. He sits up, and it’s not my dad, but this really big, burly, middle-aged mustachioed black guy, who chases me out of the room and around the deck of the house. He catches up to me on the far side, and I hurriedly explain the situation to him, and I’m relieved that he doesn’t beat me.No comments
I’m back in the dream-college again, only this time it’s very claustrophobic with lots of featureless cement buildings looming over a small courtyard where a bunch of drunk white guys are running loose. I guess a big party or concert just ended, spilling these rowdies into the street looking for trouble. I run in a building to tell my Korean friends to be careful, and this guy with ear-length brown curly hair rollerblades in and starts fucking with us. We run upstairs and he tries to follow, and we trick him into falling. It’s weird, I’m trying to kick his ass but he just responds with sarcasm like he doesn’t really care: for instance, at one point he’s upside down on the stairs and I grab one of his boots and twist it, hoping to tear the ligaments in his knee, abut he just smiles and says, "That doesn’t hurt, but watch me kick you with my other leg!!"
A short time later, I’m in this Korean family’s house in the bedroom of Second Eldest Daughter. There’s five daughters and they’re all congratulating Second Eldest on her decision to go to college instead of marrying this schmuck her dad wants her to marry. We’re all happy til the dad, who looks like Connie Chung’s dad (short, slightly chubby, comb-over, big glasses) busts in, in a rage. He’s shouting that she won’t get any money for college unless she marries the schmuck (which will doom her to housewifery and sort of defeat the purpose of college anyway). And he’s telling her if she doesn’t marry, she’s a whore, a whore!! And insults everyone else in the room and leaves as quick as he came in. He doesn’t, however, seem to mind or even notice me hanging out with his daughters in their bedroom. Everyone is quiet for a long time.
Some younger sister says, ‘What will we do about this?’ and Oldest Sister says, ‘It sucks!’ and giggles nervously at her own bad language. The daughters are trying to figure out a solution, and the dad busts back in but this time it’s only to change the tape on her stereo. He puts this imaginary James Brown song called ‘DEAD AND GONE’ and then storms out again. Subtle guy. Then I’m on a pay phone outside, talking to a friend. I’m saying ‘Man oh man, I just saw my first example of hardcore Korean justice!!’
Then it cuts to this movie theatre that the family owns. Dad has conveniently scheduled a movie called ‘THE STUPID WHORE’ and he makes Second Eldest daughter sell tickets to the movie. She’s crying. I know the rowdy white guys from last night are going to come around en masse for this saucy fare, and they might get carried away and rape her. So I’m running around the lobby in a rage, knowing me and the other sisters are going to have to fight off a mob of angry drunks.No comments
I’m opening up a CD package for the new A Minor Forest album. It’s pretty big; about 3 by 2 feet, made of yellow cardboard. It looks like a giant version of the old Kodak slide containers that you’d get back from the developer. The box opens up like a book. The left side is blank, and the right side has a thin layer (maybe an inch) of brown, Powerbar-like material that seems to have been extruded to fit the box, as it tapers off at the top and bottom edges.
I start molding the clay, just squishing it at random, and it turns (to my surprise) into a likeness of a kangaroo with big ears. Or maybe a bunny on its hind legs. Encouraged, I try molding it again, at random, and it turns into a pyramid-with-eye symbol like on the dollar bill. I notice that the pyramid has wrinkles in it that I didn’t put there. Upon unrolling the clay to its original shape. I notice that the wrinkles are actually perforations that divide the clay into 3 parallel strips of equal size. I tear the perforations apart , embarrassed to have been manipulating it the wrong way before.
Seized by another intuition, I start digging around inside one of the strips of clay and feel something hard. I pull out a single CD, gleaming like new, completely unsullied by the clay. Also, a regular sized CD booklet. The booklet unfolds until it’s almost as big as the box. On one side, the insert has three bar graphs that show how the clay is meant to be used. Each bar of clay represents some criteria of the song such as tempo, mood, or whatever. And each bar of clay has its own bar graph. The various songs on the CD are listed on the X axis of each graph. The data in the Y and Z axes apparently show the listener how to manipulate the clay to accompany that particular song. Only if the clay is manipulated correctly in all 3 axes will the listener understand the song.
On the other side of the insert, is a meticulous documentation of a series of performance pieces done by the band. These performances have no relevance to the songs, but were so cool they were included anyway. The performances seem to revolve around the huge, green, fuzzy wind-screens that TV crews will put on the overhead microphones if they’re doing a live remote TV shoot. The photos on the CD insert depict noted avant-garde music expert Allan Horrocks eating these windscreens in a wide variety of contexts.