2003-12-23

Talking about your dreams is lame and boring to anyone who doesn’t live inside your skull. That said, I’ve been having crazy-ass dreams this week. A few days ago, I dreamt I was nearly crushed by a gigantic camel. I almost wish this dream would come true, because being killed by an oversized camel would make for one hell of a gravestone inscription.

And last night…OK, I’m embarrassed to cop to this one. My subconscious evidently needs therapy. I dreamt about a porno deli (of which there should obviously be one on every corner). What made this deli a “porno” deli, you ask? Well, for starters, all the employees were nekkid – except for latex gloves and hairnets, of course. Wouldn’t want to be unsanitary! And, upon request, you could have them rub your sandwich, mid-preparation, over the nekkid body part of your choice. I don’t know if using bare nipples to tenderize bologna adds flavour or what, but there you have it. And…oh dear…for an added fee, you could get the “secret sauce.” Yes, that’s exactly what you think it is. Why can’t I just have sex dreams like everyone else? For Christ’s sake, when I think to myself that I’d like to be the meat in a Paul Bettany-Nick Moran sandwich, I mean it figuratively! FIGURATIVELY, I say! Stupid subconscious.

Now that I’ve thoroughly shamed myself, I’ll shame myself some more by exposing my vulnerable geeky underbelly: last night I went to see The Return of the King, and it totally ruled. I think it was the best of the trilogy. I mean, it was pretty much what you’d expect – lots of impassioned speeches and slow-motion “running-screaming-brandishing-sword” shots – but dude, it’s Tolkien: he invented the genre, and if evil overlords riding around on dragons are a pretty tired cliché it’s because every hack fantasy writer and their dog has been liberally ripping him off for half a century. Although I will admit that Peter Jackson would have been well advised, considering the prevalence of sniggering “hobbit on hobbit homoeroticism” commentary in the online community, to have the joyful reunion between Frodo, Merry et al take place someplace other than a bed. Not that there’s anything wrong with gay hobbits, of course. Some of my best friends have been gay hobbits. I’ve even been known to quaff a pint of mead in a gay hobbit nightclub from time to time, as my fellow patrons do the hornpipe in leather hot pants.

Holy shit I’m a loser today. Please forget that you even know me.

Oh, but before you do: Happy holidays, and such.