my Subconscious, A Guited Tour: part 1-Monsters 'n Such

I get chased a lot in my dreams, by all manner of hulking creatures, demons, and the occasional murderous mob. I’ve run through forests, beaches and meadows, but I’m most often running through houses; in and out of trap doors I some how knew were there.

But I always escape, always. Or at least I do in all the dreams that became memories in my waking life. Sometimes by a lot, sometimes by a shoelace, I always wake up out of harm

In one dream, I lived in a utopia in one dream that attributed its good fortune from a welcoming ritual. They had a party after I and a dozen new people had arrived. They got us drunk and led us to a circular chamber where we kneeled around the center as a cloven hoofed demon walked around us and slaughtered most of us.

Being a survivor left me with a lot of guilt, making it impossible to enjoy my ideal surroundings. One of the elders tried to reason with me about my bloody survival, “when he passed by you and slashed the throat of the person next to you, weren’t you disappointed?” I was. I also had a hot girlfriend that tried to convince me that I was lucky and blessed to be there, but it wasn’t enough.

I stole a car and made my escape, driving as fast and as far as I could. I finally stopped at a gas station that I thought was far out of the commune’s influence. As I filled the tank, I heard the station’s phone ring and got an impulse to see who may be calling. The station attendant immediately started staring at me. I took off across the street as the bell on the station door ring as he took off after me.

Then I suddenly felt it getting really hot behind me as I dive into the ditch on the other side of the road. I turned to see the station, my car and the attendant consumed with raining fire surrounded by blazing, heavy air that warped around it like a funnel.

After all this, I finally make it home. I turn on my TV and see the demon; he thanked me for escaping, it gave him the opportunity to end the deal he had made with the commune, which was now swallowed up by the ground.

I tell him that he was lying and that I had got the better of him, but he proved he could get me whenever he wanted by blowing up my TV.

I’ve been strapped to a metal table and made to read a story so horrific I begged to stop, but the tentacle multi-eyed floating monsterball made me keep reading. I’ve tangled with super naturally powerful backwoods gents who don’t take “no” for an answer.

But I’ve always gotten away.

My Subconscious, A Guited Tour: part 1-flying

When I was in high school, my best friend Chris came to me with a written story about a dream he had the night before. His nightmare was a confusing tale of mazes that had left him, obviously, moved to words. I read it to the end and he asked me, "Isn't that fucked up?"
"No offense," I answered," but this is the kind of dream I have when my brain is idling".

My entire life my subconscious has played an amazing assortment of nighttime movies upon my mind's eye. I've worked out quite a few of my life's problems in those precious eight hours. I've had some dreams that foretold the future, but I've had a lot more that seemed like they did, but didn't.

I have memories of my old preschool where I was tied to a toilet for getting paint on a case of watercolors and got put into a high chair and fed chicken soup when I started eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich before grace (which sucked because I hated chicken soup). My parents are convinced that these incidents were dreams, and considering what my upcoming dreams had in store for me, these would have been like frolicking in the park. I'll write the next couple posts about my wild and wacky subconscious. If you are waiting for my fun Bible facts, I need to do more research.

I fly a lot in my dreams, with varying degrees of success; I less soared than hover most of the time slightly above the reach of whatever is after me. When I did get a bit higher in the air, I constantly flying into power lines, giving me a little shock until I flew into the next one.

I've had other super powers, but they've never strong been enough to fight crime only enough to be a side show attraction ("See the floating man who walks on walls, just don't give him anything to carry while he does it, cause he'll fall!") The one time (I remember) I did have that type of power, I was Superman, costume and all, saving a circus full of people from certain doom. I looked exactly how I really looked then, still bald and slightly chunky. As I flew around I couldn't help but notice that, while they were grateful, they couldn't hide the disappointment that Superman looked like me.

These days, instead of hovering, I can jump in my dreams insanely high and far; I have no control of where I land though, so I often end up in the water or running into more power lines.

In a recent dream I fought the Hulk, actually more like kept him off of me, he kept trying to pummel me but I was invulnerable. I'd grab him and throw him through the walls of whatever house I'd been plopped in. To try to stop him for good, I grabbed his feet and spun him around and tossed him into what I thought was the ocean. But I soon spied him jumping through the skies, looking for me. I whistled for him and the fight was on again, or at least it was when I woke up.

I try to create mental triggers to make me realize that I'm dreaming when I do things or stuff happens that could never occur in real lucid life, but they rarely work. I'm too busy flying to get away from whatever is chasing me or enjoying having a full lustrous head of hair to care.
Prince and the Muppets

Your Pal Pete's Fun Facts!

I apologize if you knew about these already; people are always surprised when I mentioned some of these. Just to keep it straight, I had read about these things and just used the internet for secondary research.

1.Laura Bush killed a guy!
From snopes.com: "May 2000, a two-page police report pertaining to a fatal accident that had taken place near Midland, Texas, in 1963 was made public. It contained the information that 17-year-old Laura Welch had run a stop sign, causing the death of the sole occupant of the vehicle hers had struck. According to that report, the future First Lady had been driving her Chevrolet sedan on a clear night shortly after 8 p.m. on 6 November 1963 when she entered an intersection without heeding the stop sign and there collided with the Corvair sedan driven by 17-year-old Michael Douglas. Also in the car with Laura Welch was a passenger, 17-year-old Judy Dykes."

"How fast Miss Welch might have been driving is open to question." Unfortunately, according to Ralph Nader the Corvair was unsafe at any speed, so it might not have mattered.

2. President Harry Truman briefly belonged to the KKK!
From wikipedia: "In 1924, Harry Truman was a judge in Jackson County, Missouri, which includes Kansas City. Truman was up for reelection, and his friends Edgar Hinde and Spencer Salisbury advised him to join the Klan. The Klan was politically powerful in Jackson County, and two of Truman's opponents in the Democratic primary had Klan support. Truman refused at first, but paid the Klan's $10 membership fee, and a meeting with a Klan officer was arranged."
"According to Hinde and Truman's accounts, the Klan officer demanded that Truman pledge not to hire any Catholics or Jews if he was reelected. Truman refused, and demanded the return of his $10 membership fee; most of the men he had commanded in World War I had been local Irish Catholic"..

3.Mike Nesmith, from the Monkees, is the son of Bette Nesmith, the inventor of Liquid Paper.

4. Thank God for James Bond!
In the Movie Goldfinger, the titular villain planned to detonate a nuclear device in the gold depository at Ft. Knox to make it radioactive. What it would actually do is create a shimmering pool of mercury. Pretty.

5.Dude, the googol, dude!
The googol, as you may know, is 1 followed by 100 zeros. Computers can crunch those kinds of numbers and it can be used to calculate probability; but according to most estimates, all the particles in the known universe don"t number that high! Dude!


Coming soon : Fun Bible Facts!

Proclaimations, bold and not so bold:Music

Some of these boldly go against the status quo; some hug it like teddy bear.
I'll let you decide which one's which.

1. The Hold Steady and TV on the Radio are fucking awesome! Rock critics are draining their hyperbole wells dry over both band's new albums and I dig them a lot as well, but if you like both bands you should check out their previous albums as well. Both band play the kind of music that makes me hesitate recommending them, mainly because they both play the kind of music that I'm not normally into.

The Hold Steady(check out "Chips Ahoy!") play a very Springsteen-esque indie rock full of dead end souls and the self-destructive results of a lifetime of Catholic guilt. Craig Finn's voice is not for everybody but he writes some amazing lyrics ("yr little hoodrat friend makes me sick but after i get sick i just get sad. because it burns being broke and it hurts to be heartbroken but always being both must be a drag". "your little hoodrat friend")

TV on the Radio (check out "Dry Drunk Emperor") is one of the few bands that, in my opinion, are both "experimental" and "good". They have solids hooks without being remotely pop; bending and winding melodies and harmonies around repetitive loops and live instruments in a way that makes them unique, sometimes even to themselves. They're kinda like a sample based Radiohead. Speaking of which..

2. Radiohead is really overrated! I'm running the risk of alienating one friend in particular, but I just don't get it. Don't get me wrong, they've got some great songs, I just don't think their worthy of the pants-wedding devotion some people I've talked to give them.

That's the thing, I hate Rush and the Grateful Dead, but I can see how they can have an appeal to the hygiene impaired and the irony challenged.

3. Justin Timberlake has been successful in his attempt to bring "SexyBack"!
The Non-sexy have oppressed us long enough! JT has given us the power to finally we needed to escape their tyranny!

4. Bands need to stop saying they're gonna make music history and actually do it. I've read recent stories about what's-his-nuts from Blink 182's new band and his claim that their album would cause "The greatest rock and roll revolution this generation"(it didn..t).
The Killer's singer said that their new album was one of best of the last 20 years, when it wasn't even the best one released that day (that would be the Hold Steady). I actually like the new Killers song a lot, but you can't just say things like that and expect that's going to be enough. Whether your the President or the Killers, you don't decide history;history decides you.

Tales of Salisbury madness:Bonus

I thought I was done with the Salisbury stories, but then this one popped back into my head.

I was watching TV in the living room on a weekend night, just taking it easy. That was until my roommate Shawn and his then-girlfriend Michelle barreled through the door, coming back from a party. His fraternity and her sorority had a semi formal mixer and so they were dressed much nicer than I normally see either of them; but they were quite still set on rowdy.

Shawn called in a pizza (I had already eaten)and had engaged Michelle in a argument that was a bit more playful than aggressive. That light heartedness, however, didn.'t extend to Michelle making good on a threat to leave and walk back to her dorm( a good two miles away in the dead of night and in high heels); before she left she whispered in my ear,"He's gonna come after me...

Shawn smirked the smirk of the defiant as it became more obvious that Michelle wasn't coming back but he held firm.

Angie, a friend of ours who had a monster crush on Shawn that became more aggressive when she added alcohol, called our house drunk wanting to chat with our boy. He was polite and listened to her ramblings as his pride slowly gave way to concern for his errant girlfriend.

Our house phone then was one of those shitty corded phones they gave away with magazine subscriptions and the little plastic tongue on the phone cord that held it in the wall jack had broken off so the slightest tug disconnected the call, which is what happened in the middle of Angie's call. Intentional or not? You'd have to ask Shawn.

Right around this time Shawn sprung into panic mode and left in his car to find Michelle. About a minute later, Angie called back, except this time she was drunk and crying.
"PEEETTTEEEE! Shawn hung up on me! I thought we were friends! PPPPPEEEETTTEEE!"
I tried as hard as I could to calm her down, "Angie, we got our phone from Time Magazine, it comes out of the wall, he didn't mean to do it(I think)".

Then a knock at the door, Shawn's pizza had arrived. I didn't have any money. I gave the pizza guy a brief run down on the situation and offered to give him a check.
"We don't take checks."
"I don't have any cash, would you rather go back with the pizza than take my check? Do you think I'd pass a bum check to you when you know where I live?" He agreed and took my check.

Shawn finally came back a few minutes later, he had found Michelle walking down Salisbury's main drag, going the wrong way. They plopped down on the couch and dug into the pizza. Shawn generously offered, "You can have some if you want."
Thanks, pal.

Mark Foley, Casualty of the Class and Culture Wars

This is what brings down the thin facade of Republican moral superiority? Emails and IMs? Hypocrisy, cover-ups and sexual misconduct are hardly unprecedented in politics. This should not be taken as me not taking the whole thing seriously, quite the opposite. I mean Mark Foley is freaking co-chair of the House Caucus on Missing and Exploited Children and he's sending these uber-creepy IMs to 16 year olds?

I haven't thought of the Republican party as the moral choice for a while. Morality to them is another thing that they treat like a "Mission Accomplished" banner; they say it, they expect it to be good enough of us, facts be damned.
"Culture of Life" Terri Schivo's dilemma caused President Bush cut his vacation short, but an obliteration of a major american city didn't seem important enough to change his travel plan actually going in the opposite direction after Katrina ravaged New Orleans.

George Bush has shown more emotions towards frozen fetuses to be used for stem cell research (fetuses that would have most likely be destroyed anyway) than the innocent Iraqi citizens that have been killed in our invasion, both in the cross fire and the resulting tribal violence.

"War on Terror" After 9/11, we were suppose to go after the people responsible and the countries harboring the culprits. Instead we invaded a country that had neither, lest we forget, that was the one of the justifications of invading Iraq. Our own intelligence has said recently that we have help make Iraq what we originally said it was, a haven for terrorist activity. The Taliban that harbored the men who executed the attack are regaining power in Afghanistan.

"No Child Left Behind" Ask a public school teacher if the education system has improved on Bush's watch.

"War on Drugs" The emphasis is still on Pot being the number one drug problem when Crystal Meth has been decimating entire communities and straining already slim social service budgets.

Add to those a series of tax code changes that seem to overwhelmingly favor the wealthy. It's like "Trickle Down" economics, without the "trickle down" pretense.
It's Class warfare dressed in Culture war clothing. What Foley did is inexcusable, but yet some conservatives people are still trying to excuse it. It seems like they're trying to do the classic, "Do as we say, not as we do" defense. It didn't work when you were a teenager why should it work now?
Video Fun: Mark Foley and John Walsh, before the fall. Warning:Ironic Content! check out the end.

Ann Coulter on Foley totally missing the point that the problem is not that he's gay, it's that he's a pedophile and those are two different things.

Tales of Salisbury madness:Part 3

Jake and Falcon were the guitar players in one of my favorite Salisbury bands, a punkabilly tinged combo that was big on the hard drinking, drug taking, tattoo getting stereotype of those kind of bands. I went to Falcon's house one night for a after party after one of their shows and arrived right in the middle of a bourbon drinking contest between Falcon and a girl that was part of his circle of friends.

They squared off in the kitchen, going shot for shot. His opponent was about 6 foot 3 and proportionately sized for her height, but she was still a woman, so the slowly revealing fact that she was winning this contest was quite a shot to Falcon's ego.

He started getting more louder and belligerent; if he was going to lose, he was not going quietly. Pans were clanged; a bottle of hot sauce was opened and waved, drawing red stripes in the white ceiling. The bottle of bourbon was drained empty, but an auxiliary one awaited.

Falcon's roommate, Mark, was not too keen on the prospect of an even drunker Falcon, so he hid his other fifth of alcohol. Falcon went on a semi-coherent rampage through the house about his missing bourbon and about how he wasn't going to lose a drink off with a girl. He ambled upstairs and down, but came up short.

He was yelling in the living room about how much we sucked when Jerry, a slight kid who had just moved to the 'bury, spoke up. He had been passed out for so long on the floor at the party that someone had put a blanket over him, but Falcon..s ranting had woken him up. He stood up and yelled,"Why don't you shut the fuck up!""

If this story was ever dramatized, this would be the cue for the sound effect of the needle falling off the record. All of us more sober people looked at each other, Jerry was about 7 inches shorter than Falcon and had the muscle tone of a English dandy, this didn't look like it was going to end well. But Falcon didn't react the way we had thought he might.
"I like this guy, he fuckin tells the truth!" and then they kissed. They locked into an embrace with such force that they fell over the couch and onto the floor, still in each other arms. We looked on with slack jawed amazement.

But bellicose clamoring and male on male make-outs weren't getting him closer to his missing whiskey, but he did know the culprit.
"Mark! Give me my bourbon!" he yelled upstairs as he went up after him. Yelling was soon replaced by furniture sized crashing and the grunts of physical contact.

Then suddenly it stopped, and Mark stomped downstairs and sat on the couch, breathing heavy and hard, still in fight rage mode. His face was covered in blood and it didn't seem to be his, Jake immediately ran upstairs to see how Falcon was.

Falcon yelled from upstairs, "Mark, let's see how tough you are without a Samurai sword!"
Jake came down with an announcement, "Anyone who doesn't want to talk to the police, should probably leave right now," so off we went.

I saw Falcon at a bar a few days later. He still had all his limbs, thankfully, but his face looked like it had gotten hit with a whiskey bottle, because it had been. His face was still pretty swollen and discolored with a jagged stitch going from the top of his nose up to almost his hairline. I asked him if he was looking for another place to live.
"Nah, as long as he pays my hospital bill, we're fine."

Tales of Salisbury madness:Part 2

Simone was a woman I used to live with on Camden Avenue, in a huge group house. She was a friend of our roommate Angie and was desperate for a place to live. She was an expat German who had married an American serviceman and come to this country, only to have it bust up shortly after she got here. Little did we know that when Simone moved in we also got blessed with her boyfriend, Bill.

In the few times I had any direct contact with him, he struck me as the kind of fella that’s nice and personable enough, but a very forced kind of way, like he was keeping something under control just behind the eyes. He was a big, muscular guy who was trying to join the military himself had the haircut in anticipation.

I came home after working late and walked into the room where we kept our answering machine and listened to the messages. There were two, both from Bill.
“Hey Simone, it’s Bill.”, he started in a affable tone, “just catching up. O.K. so, give me a call, or I’ll come over and kill your roommates.” as casual as if he said,”Catch you later !”

That literally sent a chill up my spine into my chest, causing me to lose a breath. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears as one of the most common slasher flick cliché came to life before my eyes, made more vivid by the fact that the only light in the room was the blinking red one on the answering machine. Then there was the second message.

His tone had changed, now was talking low and what he probably thought was “sexy”, but with his jocky cadence was more like, “porny.”
“Simone, baby, I wanna drag my knife across your body, I want to cut your clothes off. I gonna give it to you, whether you want it or not.”

What the fuck, I thought, does this guy knows this is all our answering machine? I turned on the living room light and the phone rang. Bill. The voice he used was the same “Hello, Mrs. Cleaver, is the Beaver home?” as the first message.

“Is Simone there?”, he asked.
“No.”
“Thanks!”

I talked to my other roommates about this, and one said,”Don’t worry, she’s breaking up with him.” I was naive enough to believe that this would be the last we’d hear of him.

I woke up about 3 am one morning about a month later to an awful racket downstairs, like people falling down the stair case over and over. I sat up and rubbed my eyes, wondering if I was still asleep then started to get up to see what was up. I stopped when I heard our front door open like someone had been pushed through it and heard Blotto(one of the other roomies) yell, “You know where to come back if you want anymore, bitch!”, so I put my head back down to bed.

The next morning I walked down the stairs and noticed blood on our banister and smeared on the glass in the front door, but I wasn’t able to get the full story until that night allowed my curiosity to fester almost to the braking point.

Simone went out with Angie and her boyfriend and came home with a guy who was not Bill. Since she lived on the first floor of the house, it was easy for Bill to look in her window, as it turns out he had been doing for a while. He burst in the house and kicked open Simone’s bedroom door. The new paramour, not having signed up for this, took off, leaving Bill free to choke Simone. Angie’s boyfriend tried to help, but just got swatted away.

That meant BLOTTO TO THE RESCUE! Perhaps I should describe Blotto, he was extremely obese,with no trace of a neck, but still maintained the quickness he had when he played football. He had spent a lot of his post college time bouncing at area bars so he had a well honed talent for taking care of drunk guys who underestimated him.

Blotto came in and pulled Bill off her and tried to get him out the door, but he wasn’t leaving that easily, pulling away from the door and into our living room coming to rest on one of our couches. Bill tried to get him off by punching him in the side, but this merely angered him as he answered with his own blows.

He finally got Bill out, but wasn’t able to lock the door before Bill came back for round two, this time armed with brass knuckles he had on his motorcycle. Blotto immediately disarmed him and started to work him over on our staircase, which explained the banister blood. Then he shoved him out and said the “you know where to come back” thing that made me comfortable enough to go back to sleep.

It wasn’t until after all the excitement settled that Blotto took a closer look at the brass knuckles. In the darkness and confusion, Blotto didn’t notice that the knuckles were actually the handle of a rather large knife with a curvy, showy blade. I could have only assumed this was the knife he had referred to in his charming phone message a month earlier. Paging Dr. Freud!

I slept so deep, the police arriving didn’t wake me up, as they took statements and evidence to eventually charge Bill with assault with a deadly weapon. Not aware he was about to be arrested, he showed up at our house the next day and sheepishly asked for his knife back. We had to break it to him to it was now possessed by the Salisbury police. When your “sensual aids” become “evidence”, it’s not the sign of a healthy relationship.

I have to honest, the rest of this story is a bit lost to time, so I only remember some of the details. I know that at the trial, Blotto told his side of the story and Simone told hers. She had seem to totally forget the fact that Bill had tried to choke the life out of her and that Blotto had risked his life to save her. In fact, she had started complaining that Blotto should stay out of her and Bill’s life because, since the incident, they had gotten back together. The thing that pissed her off the most was that this was hurting his future in the military, not grasping the fact that they had rules about things like this to keep people like him from having unfettered access to explosive ordinance.

The judge said that he could tell that Simone was lying and he was abusing her, but he couldn’t prove it without her saying he did it. Blotto, however, told the truth and the police had the knife to prove it. I had heard the judge had remarked about Bill’s cutlery of choice,”I have opened my utensil drawer to get a knife to cut my steak a hundred times and I’ve never seen one with a blade like this.”

Bill got put on probation and had to keep 500 feet away from Blotto, which is tough to do in a town like Salisbury. We ran into him one night at an area bar when he was hanging out with one of his friends. Blotto said to me,”as long as he stays away from me, I won’t be a dick about it.” But Bill and his pals left soon anyway. A friend of ours heard one of Bill’s buddies ask him,”You mean that roly-poly motherfucker beat your ass?”

The peaceful coexistence was short lived as Bill started regularly dropped by our place to pick up Simone and occasionally spent the night under Blotto’s roof. Eventually he had enough and called Bill’s probation officer. Bill went to jail and Simone was so pissed off she immediately moved out.....and moved into Bill’s.

Wag the Dog, Hello?

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Remember When?

Remember when you could agree to disagree?

Remember when we voted for someone instead of against the other person?

Remember when things went without saying, you didn’t say them?

Remember when you were naive enough to assume that people were being straight with you?

Remember when you could just be happy and not wonder how long it was going to last?

Remember, when talking about a movie/tv show/anything, you could to say,”How can it go wrong?” and it didn’t?

I haven’t felt that way in so long, I’m starting to think it was I dreaming that it ever happened.