Tokyo Damage Report

Dishwasher!

There’s a battle at sea between 18th-century warships with bewildering cannons and complex sails. The smaller ship is better armed and is shelling the larger one mercilessly, knocking down its masts one by one, causing them to fall over with a huge cracking noise. Zoom in on the losing ship to reveal the captain, cravenly hiding , prone on deck, but he’s not hiding very effectively because he forgot to take off his absurd Mad-Hatter-sized black top hat.

 

As the ship sinks, he dives overboard and swims to this nearby, sunny, tropical island. The ‘camera angle’ shifts, and we’re now seeing this escapade through the cowardly captain’s POV. But I don’t identify with him at all. Aware that his enemies will be sending out a search party, he hides in the shallow water, behind some swamp grass with just the top of his head out to breathe. Since this is now from his POV it’s unclear if he still has the telltale hat on or not. Sure enough, people are swimming towards him, but it’s not the grizzled crew of navy guys but 4 plucky 8-year-old kids, the kind you’d find being protagonists of some merry Peter-Pan-style kids’ book. They’re merely inches away from him, but he’s convinced they won’t see him as long as he doesn’t move. This despite him having his head out of water and him watching the kids, duh! However, the current moves him, pulling him away from the weeds and out into water too deep to stand in. Since there’s no hiding from the kids now, he plays it off like, "Hi, kids! At last I’ve found you! I’m here to take you on a magical adventure!" and the kids fall for it. I guess the other navy should have used grizzled swabs after all.

The captain takes them by the hand and they turn towards the island except it’s not an island anymore… it’s a valley, almost conical and gradually sloping, covered with mud. To prevent slipping on the mud, there’s a trail of interlocking rubber mats, the kind that they have in restaurant kitchens. The trail leads to something glowing. But because it’s on the near side of the valley, it’s so foreshortened it’s hard to tell what it is. The captain/children’s host explains that it’s a huge, square, glowing, green, Oz-like doorway built into the side of the valley wall, which will lead them to a magic land. There’s also 3 or 4 similar mat-trails leading to it from other directions in the valley. Furthermore, even though it looks like dry land, this valley is still somehow in the ocean where the island was, and if you go into the valley you’ll be crossing the (now invisible) waterline, and drown. The captain, sensing that if the kids turn him in to their Navy bosses he’s as good as dead anyway, decides to stick to his sham "Willy Wonka" bluff and leads them down into the valley. It turns out that, having made this choice, he doesn’t drown after all, just feels a nauseating sense of impending doom. He leads the kids to the door.

Then it cuts to me, as myself, in a cafeteria, presumably inside the ‘magical land’ to which the door leads. I’m at a table getting in an argument with some forks. The forks are small (2" long) and either plastic or carved out of bone. They’re white and have only two tines. The argument gets more and more heated until the forks say, "Oh yeah? Well how about this, smart guy?" and leap up, plunging into the backs of my hands, about 3/4" deep. There’s no blood and only a stinging sensation, but I’m worried that maybe there’s a huge amount of pain I’m just not feeling yet. I get mad, so I rip the forks out of my hands and throw them inside this huge, industrial-sized washing machine. By the time the forks land deep in the cavernous belly of the machine they’ve transformed into matching cell phones. Not the new tiny kind, the old, 80′s ‘brick’ style cell phones. By now the washing machine has grown so huge that it swallows me too, but I still run deeper into it in order to gloat and yell at them "Yeah!!! Take that! You’re going to roast in here!"

I start running out, but only now does it dawn on me how huge this washing machine is, maybe 20 feet tall. It’s already humid and it’s getting hot as hell, as if it’s already starting to wash, and the more I try to run the slower I go. I can see humans outside the open door. I can only see their abdomens; because they’re as giant-sized as the oven. It’s as if I’ve been shrunk down to the size of a plate somehow. I nonetheless recognize my mom as one of them. She’s about to shut the door and start the washing machine. I’m yelling "No! MOM!!" but she’s talking to her friends and laughing and doesn’t hear me.

Then it cuts to this hillside, with a square door flush with the side of the hill, sort of like the glowing-green Oz-door in the first part of the dream. However, this hill is covered with a cheerful, well-trimmed lawn and the door is only 3 feet tall. There’s 3 middle-aged plump women cheerfully opening the door and taking out washed dishes from it. I am dead now, killed by the soap and boiling water, and my disembodied spirit is watching them over their shoulders. I see the inside of the door is also composed of dirt; like it’s still part of the hill rather than some machine. But it’s still a functional dishwasher: there’s a rack inside with hot steaming crockery.

My sprit, freed from the dishwasher, floats off to a classroom filled with Asian college girls. I float invisibly past them, studying their faces up close and at leisure, with no guilt, wondering what they really, really would think of me if they knew I held the secrets to life-after-death. Finally I come to this one Asian girl in the corner I’ve never paid attention to in the past, but I check her out. She raises up her head and she’s got totally brutal acne with big red pustules. I instinctively look away but wonder, "What if I would have courted her anyway? Maybe she would have settled for me since she’s so ugly. But what if my patience paid off and her acne eventually cleared up, and she got beautiful? Then she’d probably just leave me and it would of been all for nothing."

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Foreskin!

I’m reading Rolling Stone. There’s this blurb about Puff Daddy at a party with some new rapper he’s promoting. He says something about being cold, and the rapper makes this double entendre about having something Puffy can wear as a scarf, and illustrates this by jumping up on the table and dropping his pants. The magazine strategically puts a caption over the guy’s area, but upon turning the page, I see the same photo again, but bigger and uncensored. Not only does the guy have a foot long dick but his foreskin is HUGE It’s maybe 2" wide, and it looks like a sleeve. (in contrast, his dick head which peeps out below the skin, is grotesquely thin: maybe 1/2" wide) And in fact it does look somewhat like a scarf, something you’d put around your neck. But the last couple of inches of foreskin have gray scales on it. It’s terrifying.

 

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Chinatown!

Riding a motorscooter through San Francisco, I miss my left-hand turn and wind up in Chinatown , which has been turned into a single, ten-story high, half-mile-wide mall. As I’m wheeling to a stop inside the cavernous parking entrance, I’m approached by some triad gang guys. Some are raggedy thug guys and some are more smooth-dressed hustlers. They start offering to sell me some guns. Not any guns, either. Artillery. I stammer ‘no’ and back away, hoping they won’t take offense. Later, I’m still in the mall, in some cavernous open space in the middle on a pedestrian conveyor belt, when I’m again approached by the most slick-looking Triad guy. He offers me artillery again, in a tone of voice that unmistakably says, "turn me town and I’ll take it really personally." At that moment, some hapless Russian Mafiya guy next to me on the escalator senses a deal is going down, and he offers to sell me artillery too! I try to bluff my way out by going "I’ll need something with a 9 cm wide barrel" and they both look taken aback, the Russian going "We don’t have anything that big!" but the Triad guy says he can sell me some kind of cannon with like 7 cm so I just take off running up an escalator into the lobby of what seems to be a hotel. It’s got a very high ceiling- 30 feet, and an odd, angular shape.

 

There’s a bunch of Triad guys chasing me now ( they’re running down the up escalator), so jump off it in mid-floor, and I duck into a casino full of pinball machines, with no customers. Some lonely old janitor guy is there and he attaches himself to me, giving me a tour: explaining which are the good machines, and leads me to the ‘porno’ pinball machines. "This one here’s my favorite!" he says, playing some game where, I guess, you make some girl take her clothes off; I don’t look at the screen, because I’m horridly fascinated by the control apparatus: they look like alabaster boobs and other organs, all done in this very ornate, turn-of-the-century, retro-science-fiction style. In fact the whole porno-pinball machine has this very Jules-Verne, 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea, style feel to it. The janitor, leering, says, "Oh, and the best part is the knob." He pulls out this alabaster penis and attaches it to the machine by the head, so it nestles into his crotch. "If you didn’t look close, you’d think I was fucking the machine," he snickers, playing it some more.

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Dream Sport

A long overdue combination of break dancing, jousting and tetherball, performed in the bloodthirsty yet rigorous atmosphere of an Olympic cockfight. Two opponents perform the break dancing maneuver where you spin in a circle, using your hands to spin while your legs fly around in back of you. Both players are harnessed to tetherball poles about 6 feet apart, around which they rotate. The object of the game is to kick your opponent as your feet swing towards his pole. One player is a regular break dance guy in a track suit, the other, a specially trained pig. It takes a long time for one player to kill another in this very non-efficient joust, so both are sustained by drinking the sweat of the audience from jury-rigged beer bongs. The audience is sitting in bleachers which encircle the playing field. The bleachers go up at an absurdly steep angle, with each row being about six feet, rather than six inches, above the previous row. Perhaps this incline is to facilitate the collection of sweat?

 

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Armageddon Dream

I’m in a section of Berkeley on the side of a hill, where it’s all apartments surrounding this little park. There’s some sort of competition going on in this tilting, hillside, city park. As I get closer, I see that the competition is between rival gangs of transvestite cheerleaders. They’re pretty tall and often bearded, but they know their stuff. I’m watching them do routines, when one guy starts shrieking. He’s lifted his skirt up and there’s this big, 3/8" thick string coming out of his urethra. It’s about 9 inches long, and at first I think maybe since he’s a transvestite, this is a sort of tampon-string-effect he’s going for, but his face is a mask of fear, and he’s shouting, "The fuse has been lit, we’re all going to die!"

I realize the string is, in fact, getting shorter as if it’s a burning fuse, although I don’t see any actual flames or smoke. Now the other cheerleaders are pulling up their skirts too, and they all have fuses coming out of their cocks. They’re all freaking out that death is immanent, and I go up to one cheerleader who happens to have a cell phone, and say, "I have an idea. We can find out how long we have left to live by calling other transvestite cheerleader gangs in New York, and seeing how long THEIR fuses are. Since NY is three hours ahead of us in time, we can deduce how long we have left." Which strikes him as sensible and he cell-phones to the New York transvestite cheerleaders who scream that their fuses are about to blow, with apocalyptic noises rumble tinnily in the background, so now we know we in Berkeley have a whole 3 hours to live.

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G. Gordon Liddy

G. GORDON LIDDY

 

Have this dream that I’m Steve McQueen (again) and me and G. Gordon Liddy are shitty drunk and I’m driving a motorcycle (him in the sidecar) thru a dark, rain-slicked street. I’m so sloshed my feet keep falling off and I have to run to catch up to the bike which my hands are still holding on to. . . .we pass a suburban street where they’re filming a scene from ‘joy luck club’ and G. wants to stop and make fun of it. I’m trying to talk him out of it when I wake up.

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