Double Flee A

I dreamed of Las Vegas. How I wish I was there instead of taking a test to see how many clean features I can put onto two centimeters of steel. I also dreamed of the guy who used to do centanarians' birthdays on some famous morning show, I forget his name. I'd rather be drinking mimosas with that guy than taking a test today, too. I dreamed I was the recipient of multiple blowjobs, which I would also rather be getting than taking a test today.

Went to bed very early last night on account of being so dizzy/tired. Mentally very sluggish. I thought it was writer's block, as I was planning on writing something and then couldn't come up with anything. So then I thought I'd write about writer's block but I got too sleepy.

Hypochondria is contagious. I must have got it from somebody, because now I'm always afraid I've got BSE. When I can't think of something I blame mad cow disease. This is handy for any time I want to feel sorry for myself, or panic, or space out and not pay attention. Mad cow disease is the best thing to ever happen to me. Sometimes I try to imagine what it's like and imagine a thin white cloud passing through my brain, in a random pattern like the specks of flour that happen to drop through a sifter over any given hundredth of a second, erasing my brain tiny piece by piece. If I live long enough, I'll have Parkinson's to look forward too, instead. Different means, same end. Whoopee. I'm starting to think I should just shut up and go deal with my day.

Later I'll be swinging by muddy's house and then to go buy a bicycle from the editor of a prominent publication. It just happened that way. The bicycle is for the drunken bar tour next month by the same group that did one last (august?) year. I worry about the weather on this one not being quite as perfect as I'd like for this kind of event. Rather than volunteer to cover this event for the publication, I'm going to invite the guy to come with and do it himself. It would be nice to have a drinking buddy who's such a veteran writer. Also, let's face it, I'm not the caliber writer I sometimes like to think I am. But maybe that's the BSE talking.

Every day, I have a secret system I've never talked about here. I have never talked about it because I've thought it would make a good mechanism for a short book, but today is about crushing illusions. Every day, I think, is a long time. Maybe even long enough for the imagination to create more than some musicians create in a career. In turn, every day for me is a musical career. A new chance. I think music secretly runs in my family. Every day, I think: "If this day were a band, what would the name of it be?", then I repeat that for album and song. But I do this backwards. If I stub my toe on something, it's a song, probably, called "the land of the nearly broken toe", and then I can embellish it with a lyrical flourish after the bridge like: "AND IT HUUUUURT, so fuckin' bad! That the WORLD! STOPPED! TURNIN!" and so on. If it was something worse, like a parking ticket, that becomes an album. This is for the ability to make so many ideas build on top of it. There's the mood of denial, then anger, then acceptance, that all require their own songs, see? The name of the band usually can't develop until I've seen what kind of day it's been, with an exception. My more manic angels can decide what kind of albums the day is going to produce before I even walk out the door, like today. You may have noticed that I don't like to talk about things as they happen as much as after they do, and that's partly to protect the secret musical part of myself, that is still transposing the way I feel about the events into adequate music. I have decided what this day is going to be like. But I can't tell you right now. This is one major key, riff-lovin' sweet rock band whose lead singer might develop a nasty junk habit and instead of burning out, embark on a heinous folk music career. You just never know.

Have a great day.

posted by dale @ 8:11 AM