Nightstand notebook / Mauve

Two thoughts I jotted down late last night that seemed absolutely brilliant at the time in my sleepy stupor but now, when reviewing them with a sound mind, I realize they are, in fact, retarded:

-Construct an argument in your head that you know you can win. Then, start that argument with someone on purpose because winning arguments makes you look smart.

-Tell your wife that you had a dream where you were both doing something very romantic but you can’t remember what it was. Then, the next time you suddenly find yourself in an unexpected romantic situation simply say, “Baby, this! Right here. Right now. This is what I was dreaming about”.

Mr. Motivation / Boar

If you ever feel like you've figured it out
like the days ahead are no longer in doubt
I suggest you speak to my dear friend
as some needed advice he'll gladly extend

He'll take your goals and rip them in two
your best laid plans he's likely to screw
Not because he's mean and not because he's terse
but because his outlook is rather adverse

You'll find him when you're running late
getting ready for an important date
and as you decide - candy or bouquet
"You'll never make it" is what he'll say

He's in your ear when your in your car
and the light turns yellow but you're oh so far
in the moment of choice between gas and brake
"You'll never make it" is the statement he'll make

He's right behind you when your at work
as you fight off sleep and your head starts to jerk
and just as you begin meeting number three
"You'll never make it" is what he'll decree

Or maybe she's left you and you just can't take
another night alone, another foolish mistake
as you try to find hope in the mirror and stare
"You'll never make it" is what he'll declare

So on your last day when your last chance has gone
although you've tried your best just to prove him wrong
find peace in the words he repeats as you pass
while you may have never made it - nobody ever has

zeroth life lesson: relax man. it's all pointless anyway.

Saying hello can be easy / Contraption

Secret Handshake*

1. Clasp right hands together as if you were performing a standard handshake.
A. Show big, teeth-baring grin.

2. With hands still clasped, extend right thumb upward, pointing toward the sky.
B. Cease grin. Flare nostrils. Unflare nostrils. Flare nostrils. Unflare nostrils.

3. Grasp each others' extended thumb with your left hand.
C. Close eyes.

4. One person bends at the knees and squats as the other stands on their tip toes.
D. Blink eyes as fast as you possibly can.

5. Reverse roles and repeat step 4.
E. Repeat step D.

6. Release each others' hands and position hands just above shoulders, palms facing towards each other.
F. Say "What the hell?"

7. Carefully extend right arm, pointing at each other so that right index fingers barely touch.
G. Say "Are you me?"

8. After contact, quickly retract right arm as if in pain and place in mouth.
H. Look confused.

9. Form hands into binoculars, place over eyes, and rotate head up and down in a scanning motion several times.
I. Say "System processing. System processing."

10. Slowly run left thumb along left nostril.
J. Say "That's what I thought, bitch."

*each numerical step should be performed simultaneously with its corresponding letter.

The best & worst BBQ I've ever been to / Cloak

> What a great barbeque! These burgers are amazing.

- Yeah but the corn on the cob is little too well done for my liking.

> True. But what a great turnout.

- We don't even know anyone here.

> The chicks are hot though. You see that blonde over there?

- She's cute alright but she has a prosthetic leg.

> Are you sure? How can you tell?

- Everyone at this barbeque has prosthetic legs.

> I suppose you're right. Didn't notice that before. Weird. Plenty of free high-end booze though. Can't complain about that.

- You can if you'd rather not drink it out of an ox bladder.

> Yeah I must say I thought that was an odd choice. I'm more used to the standard plastic cup. I love that they have a volleyball net set up. We should get a game together.

- Not a good idea.

> And why is that?

- Because if anyone plays that old guy with the eye patch manning the grill will start tossing molotov cocktails.

> Yikes. I'm loving this music. It's got a great beat. Who is this?

- I believe they're called "Thanks for the Slut".

> Never heard of them. Are they new?

- Yeah and they're really popular. The whole band is made up of the guys your ex-girlfriends slept with while dating you.

> I see. And the glorious sun so extraordinarily big and bright in the sky on this fine day?

- Is actually a rogue asteroid headed for earth that will kill us all in a matter of hours.

> . . . . . . these are some tasty burgers though.

Dessert? / Asteroid

Seven different ways waitstaff offer, and my parents subsequently laugh and decline, dessert:

Can I interest you in some dessert?
Ha Ha Ha. We really shouldn't.

Would you like to see a dessert menu?
Ha Ha Ha. No thanks. I think we're stuffed.

Save any room for dessert?
Ha Ha Ha. Not tonight.

Care to peek at the dessert menu?
Ha Ha Ha. Hmmmmm. Well? I think we'll pass.

How about some dessert?
Ha Ha Ha. Ohh it all looks so good but I don't think so.

So who wants dessert?
Ha Ha Ha. What do you think hon? No, I guess not.

Could I interest you in some dessert this evening?
Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha. I don't think I left any room in my stomach area. Thanks though.

Bedrock P.D. Complaint #000000674 / Pump

-City of Bedrock Police Department-
Law Enforcement Incident Report
Bedrock P.D. Complaint #000000674

-INCIDENT DATA-

Incident Type: Inhumane animal treatment: improperly confined and/or failure to provide proper sustenance therein.

Date Reported: 05/20/4899 B.C.
Address of Occurrence: 345 Stonecave Road
Reporting Officer: Al Bouldershale

-REPORTING PARTY-

Name: Barnabas Rubble
Sex: Male
Race: Neanderthal
Date of Birth: 02/10/4945 B.C.
SSN: 000-00-9822
Home Address: 347 Stonecave Road
Occupation: Unknown

-KNOWN SUSPECT-

Name: Fredrick Flintstone
Sex: Male
Race: Neanderthal
Date of Birth: 08/17/4948 B.C.
SSN: 000-00-8741
Home Address: 301 Cobblestone Way
Occupation: Dino-crane Operator - Slate Rock and Gravel Company

-INCIDENT DESCRIPTION-

Officer Bouldershale responded to complaint of improper animal confinement/abuse at 1504 hrs on date and at address noted above. Upon entrance to residence officer witnessed numerous animals being used as appliances and/or toiletries including but not limited to:

Canary Alarm Clock
Dragon Toaster
Bird Automatic Door Opener
Pelican Mailbox
Octopus Dishwasher
Bird Car Horn
Turtle Checkers Table
Bird Letter Opener
Stegosaurus Food Processor
Pig Garbage Disposal
Bird Record Player
Elephant Shower
Mastodon Vacuum
Pelican Garbage Can
Pig Garbage Disposal
Bird Broom
Porcupine Hairbrush
Rabbit TV Antenna
Swordfish Knife
Turtle Clothes Iron
Bird Hedge Clipper

Suspect became enraged upon accusation of wrongdoing yelled for his wife (Willemina Slaghoople Flintstone) and had to be subdued with a bronto billy club and restrained with bone cuffs.

-INCIDENT STATUS-

Suspect is currently being held at the Cobblestone County jail in the marble mining quarters with bail set at 10,000 clams.

The man good at evil / Melon baller

Now I don't know about you, but I've always been of the school of thought that every person here on God's good green earth was blessed with a unique talent, something he or she could do better than anyone else. A gift, that if found, can help that person achieve true happiness. Hell, I'd even go so far as to say they can make the world a better place.

Few folks ever stumble across their special gift. And I suppose that's a good thing. After all the world needs toll booth operators, telemarketers, stock boys, flight attendants and the like. And in the same breath we can only hope that the person blessed with the unique skill set to become the world's best flight attendant is attending flights. He or she may have followed a path that led them to being only a sightly better than average professional bowler. They'll die sad, never knowing that if they ever tried their hand at pointing towards the nearest exits at 30,000 feet they'd be great at it - and happy to boot!

No doubt you'd recognize many names of those who found their unique gift: William Shakespeare, Magellan, Jesus, and Jim Henson no doubt ring a bell. Others flew under the radar so to speak. Jimmy Gillespie (world's best sock matcher), Pamela Lundergard (world's best letter opener), Saul Rightwood (world's best peeping Tom), and Willy Darby (world's best aluminum sider) all come to mind. God bless them all as they died happy and passed on the fruits of their gifts to all they met - Jesus and Willy Darby both.

That leads me to the story of Phillip Garson.

Philip Garson was one of those lucky folks except the one thing he did better than anyone else in the world didn't bring people happiness. Philip poisoned people. He was great at it. World's best.
It wasn't something he was proud of. In fact, he tried his best not to poison people but couldn't swing it. Phil's passion was cooking you see. And like most passions it's not something Phil chose to do, cooking chose him. Thing is he was right awful at it. If you gave Phil some eggs, bell peppers, mushrooms, ham, and onions and told him to whip you up a Denver omelette you'd end up with a plate of inedible, soupy mush. But if you gave him eggs, bell peppers, mushrooms, ham, onions and anthrax he'd cook up an omelette to die for.

Among his most decadent and deadly recipes were:

Chicken Ala King
1/4 c. butter
1/3 c. flour
1/2 tsp. salt
1 c. chicken broth
1 c. milk
2 c. chicken, diced
1 (3 oz.) can mushrooms
1 (16 oz.) bag frozen peas
Dash of Amatoxin

Lasagna
1 pound sweet Italian sausage
3/4 pound lean ground beef
1/2 cup minced onion
2 cloves garlic, crushed
1 (28 ounce) can crushed tomatoes
2 (6 ounce) cans tomato paste
4 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
12 lasagna noodles
16 ounces ricotta cheese
3/4 pound mozzarella cheese, sliced
3/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1/2 cup of Ricin

Beef Wellington
1 (6 lb.) whole beef tenderloin roast
1 (17 1/4 oz.) pkg. frozen puff pastry
1 med. sized onion, minced
1 (8 oz.) pkg. mushrooms, finely chopped
1/2 tsp. dried thyme leaves
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. pepper
2 tbsp. red wine
1/2 lb. goose or duck liver pate OR 17 oz. can liver pate
1 egg, separated
Bordelaise sauce
1/2 tsp. of Sarin

Sushi-grade Tuna Carpaccio
One 8-ounce sushi-grade tuna fillet, cut 1/2 inch thick
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juicer
1 teaspoon soy sauce
1 teaspoon finely grated fresh ginger
Pinch of Cyanide

Key Lime Pie
5 egg yolks, beaten
1 (14 ounce) can sweetened condensed milk
1/2 cup key lime juice
1 (9 inch) prepared graham cracker crust
1/2 cup of Hemlock

Phil left a trail of death and tantalized taste buds everywhere he cooked.
If you were fed up with life (and who isn't) and happened to enjoy tasty grub (who doesn't) good ole' Phil was only a phone call away. Sooner than you can say "send my compliments to the chef" you'd be free of the incessant trials and tribulations of this realm, face down in your plate of shrimp scampi with a smile on your cold, lifeless face.
Needless to say the authorities took issue with Phil's unique gift. An equal waste of words is to mention that Phil was a tortured soul. He'd spend his days on the run from Johnny Law, trying to perfect his recipes sans the deadly poison to no avail. The more he tried the more inedible his poison-free cuisine fared. His clients demanded his best and each time Phil obliged the death toll climbed.

The authorities eventually caught up with Phil. They broke down the door of a hotel room in Albuquerque and found him over a stove cooking a single serving of eggplant parmesan with a dash of Botulinum. The snug shackles around his wrists not only spared him from taking his own life - they led him to his destiny.

Phil plead guilty to murder. His heartfelt remorse was the only thing that saved him from a certain death sentence. In what can only be categorized as an ironic twist of fate Phil's incarceration served as his salvation. His cellmate happened to be a former food connoisseur on death row. They hatched an idea. Phil cooked him a delicious kobe beef and black truffle risotto laced with compound 1080.

In the end Phillip Garson found his true calling helping evil people die happy. He did the same.

zeroth life lesson: bide your time. stay the course. your dreams will wait for you and jail can be fun.

Dad's Seagal syndrome / Pilgrim

>Happy birthday Pop.

-Wow! What's this?

>It's your birthday present. Open it.

-Ohhh. Steven Seagal! He's good. What's this one now?

>It's 'Out for Justice'. It's like your all-time favorite movie.

-No. . . No. I don’t think I’ve seen this one.

>Sure you have. This is the one where Seagal's a cop that plays by his own rules. His best friend is shot dead in broad daylight in front of his wife and kids by the drug kingpin Richie Madano, Seagal's arch enemy since childhood. It's got that scene you love where he walks into Ritchie Madano’s bar and kicks the guy’s ass with pool cue and knocks out the Chinese guy’s teeth with the 8 ball wrapped in a handkerchief.

-Oh yeah! And Seagal's the cook.

>No you're thinking of 'Under Siege'.

-'Under Siege'? What's that one. I don't think I've seen it.

>It's the one you were just talking about. Where a group of terrorists take over a battleship and hold the entire crew and nuclear arsenal hostage. Except they forget about the cook – who just happens to be a former Green Beret who plays by his own rules.

-What?

>The one where Steven Seagal throws a cake pan like a Chinese star and sticks a terrorist to the pantry door.

-You're kidding me!! I've never seen that one before.

>I got you the DVD last Christmas. We watched that one and 'Hard to Kill' like six times.

-'Hard to Kill'? You mean the Sylvester Stallone one?

>No. 'Hard to Kill' is another Steven Seagal movie where he plays Mason Storm, a cop who plays by his own rules, who is gunned down in his home. The intruders kill his wife and think they've killed both Seagal and his son too. He's secretly taken to a hospital where he spends several years in a coma. When Seagal wakes up, he goes ape shit on his son, his best friend, his nurse, and all the dudes that tried to kill him.

-Right. I remember. And then he starts picking off people one by one in the woods.

>That's 'Rambo - First Blood'. It's what we're watching right now.

-Really? Ohhh this is a good one!

The fissure that is slumber / Trampoline

Sleep is a crack in my mind that I chase, hoping to get enough of a grip to drift off and dream. Often it remains just out of my reach. It has to be because the incessant pursuit is what makes the sleep real and deep. Once I finally find myself in the crack I must be mindful not to ackowledge my success as that quickly pushes the crevice out further - keeping sleep in the distance. For the act of finally catching up to the crack risks ultimately staying awake and then restarting the chase in the most tiresome of cycles.
The key is to slip into the crack.

What I did this weekend / Spork

Saturday: I took the two things I cherished the most and divided them by four and didn't end up with even close to half of what I was expecting.

Sunday: I watched the cities burn and crumble in the distance and decided to take on the mantra that explosions, like flowers, tend to come in bunches.

List of demands / Parasol

- a redo
- doubling the size of ketchup packets
- more zip-lines
- less turtlenecks
- to speak with your manager
- people to stop replying with, "You've never seen Splash?" after I've already said "No" after they've asked me whether I've seen the movie Splash
- tennis balls
- to hear the specials again
- casual swearing to be regarded as a primary indicator of superior intellect
- tits on glass
- to be entertained by a court jester
- location of nearest erotic bakery
- time of next dolphin feeding
- where you last saw the needle nose pliers
- an explanation

Quick decision / Riptide

As you walk down the street you find yourself approaching a scraggly man wearing a sandwich board passing out flyers advertising inexpensive haircuts. You hesitate for a moment as you consider whether to accept said flyer.

Pros-
That flyer, that single flyer, may represent final strand holding the sandwich board guy's life together. If you accept his meager offering you may give him hope that there is some traces of good in this shitty life, that he's not transparent to the rest of mankind and an expendable waste of space. One less flyer in his hand represents one step closer to filling this week's flyer quota, one more day of employment, one less tear shed by his sick baby daughter, one more hour of sanity. Your nonchalant refusal may snap that strand and lead to a violent downward spiral that will culminate into a kidnapping, a rusty 9 iron, a car battery, a wooden chair, a dingy basement, and your unheard cries for help.

Cons-
Carrying .08 ounces of paper 12 feet before depositing in nearest trash can.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

You walk past the man and avoid eye contact by changing songs of your iPod even though you really need a haircut.

zeroth life lesson: look out for #1. life's too short and stingy to leave room for charity.

Cogitation corner / Rickshaw

Socrates once said that the only thing he knows is that he knows nothing. Well not only do I know that, I also happen to know that the reason babies cry is because they know everything. They know what God knows. They know that it's spinning faster than either you or I can keep up with yet you and me both think we can stay one step ahead.
Simply chase that rabbit back into the whole I say. Do I dare say whole instead of hole? Well I said it alound but I didn't spell it so who could possibly tell the difference?
Maybe Hellen Keller.
And at the end of the day even Helen Keller couldn't figure out who tried harder - the guy who laid it all on the line or the guy that gave 110%. Little did she know that it was the guy who plays balls to the wall.
It was him the (w)hole time.

Windfall recall / Pajamas

Sunday afternoon and we’d all pile into the ’87 Buick station wagon with the fake wood paneling along the side. 3 ½ hours later we arrived at an apple orchard near my Aunt Barb's farm off lake Winnibigoshish.

The plywood sign at the orchard entrance said:
Pre-Picked Apples - $4 a bushel.
Pick Your Own - $2 a bushel.
Windfalls - $1 a bushel.

When an apple falls off a tree and lands on the ground they call it a windfall. Kinda like if you’re holding a slice of pizza and you drop it on the floor you call it trash.

So while all the “rich kids” were skipping around with their heads held high, reaching towards the sun, plucking bright, shiny, crisp apples, I was crawling around on my hands and knees, fumbling through cigarette butts and soda cans, looking for anything resembling an edible fruit.

My dad wouldn’t crawl though. He preferred to walk about 30 yards in front of me claiming to be scouting the terrain for “hot spots”. He'd kick at the trees so apples would fall to the ground and then encourage me to “hurry up before the wasps get 'em.”

My mother's chronic back problems spared her from sifting through trash all day as well. She'd spend her afternoon in the apple gift shop, purchasing completely useless apple related shit.

“Apple earrings. That’s great mom. Yes, they are adorable. Very life like. They’ll go great with your apple reading glasses.”

To add insult to injury, in order to ensure that the people gathering windfalls didn’t, God forbid, actually pick a real apple off a tree, one of the orchard employees would tie bright yellow ribbons around the arms of the windfall families.

As if the skinned knees and bee stings weren’t enough. I now had a bright fucking yellow ribbon to remind me, and everyone else at the orchard, that my father gladly traded the dignity of his family to save one fucking dollar on a bushel of apples.

Screws like a leaf blower / Harpsicord

Trying to lose a few lbs. So to help me out I started using this website where you can enter in whatever food you eat and whatever exercise you do and it counts the calories you took in as well as what you burned off. They got this long list of possible exercises to choose from including things like bocce ball, square dancing, vacuuming, etc. Three different kinds of horseback riding. Horseback riding – trot, horseback riding – standard, horseback riding – gallop.
It's exhaustive.
Then at the very bottom, as if an afterthought, the site lists sexual activity light and sexual activity vigorous.

I didn’t think too much more of it until a few days later when I’m sitting in front of the computer needing to log-in some sexual activity exercise. All the sudden I find myself in the awkward position of having to evaluate my recent performance.
Was what just went down sexual activity light or sexual activity vigorous? Judging by the fact that my wife had already managed to recover and was now working on a Suduko puzzle I was able to rule out vigorous but I'll be damned if I was about to characterize that whole production as 'light'. I’d say it was moderate to say the least. I’d even go so far to say it was extra moderate. In fact that would classify sex with me perfectly. Extra moderate.

But in the end I’m a fair guy so I ended up logging in four minutes of light and the website tells me I just burned 17 calories. That seemed pretty low so, as an experiment, I chose some other exercises to compare. It turns out that 4 minutes of sexual activity light is equivalent to 18 minutes of leaf blower use.

Sorta gives you a nice little gauge.

So next time you find yourself using a leaf blower, make a point stop after 10 minutes and take stock on how you feel.
You winded?
Throat a little parched?
I bet you could go for a nice tall glass of cool lemonade.
Well you’ve still got 8 more minutes worth of leaves to blow before you can say you’ve put in the work equal to a night of passion with yours truly.

Nice shirt! / Muzzle

Hey man that's a great shirt! Where'd you get it?
Oh yeah I've heard they have nice stuff. Been meaning to check it out. Great color too. What would you call that, a mauve?
Are those faint pinstripes?
Thought so. Pretty slick.
Non-iron I bet. Sweet.

It's great because you could totally pull off a tie with it too. It's got range, you know what I mean?
You ever think about wearing a tie with it. Oh you should. Maybe a nice teal number with a windsor knot - nothing too flashy. Definitely.
Very professional.
Very sharp.

It would also go great with a black undershirt. Or even a dark green. Like a forrest green.
Yeah. I could totally see that.

Let me guess - dry clean only, right?
Ha! I got you pegged. Yeah you gotta do it. Especially with a quality garment like that.
You mind me asking how much it set you back?
Hmmmm. Sounds about right I guess. They sure don't give shirts like that away do they.
Ha Ha. Not like you're going to find one of those on the discount rack - know what I'm saying?

I'm gonna go out on a limb and say you're working with a 97 to 3 cotton lyrca ratio.
Really?
Lastol you say?
Well I'll be damned. Consider my mind blown. I'll be honest with you I've never heard of it but from where I'm standing I can only assume it's a very, very sheik fiber.

Well I should cruise. Looks like we both got the walk sign here. Don't want to keep you. Take care man. And take care of that shirt.

The $6.49 mystery across from Lube / Cyborg

Dude. Check out this shit. So I'm at Lube the other night with Brad, Treshman, and the Dave's. We've got a reserved table with bottle service and DJ Rhombus is spinning and the girls are smoking we're like totally fucked up.

At one point I run out of smokes so I step out and head to the bodega across the street. I buy a pack of p-funks for $6.49 and pay with a 10 spot and the dude behind the counter gives me back change for a twenty - a 10, three 1s, 2 quarters, and a penny. I don't even notice until I'm showing my hand stamp to get back in the club and think, "what the hell". So I go back into the store and buy another pack and the same shit happens. No joke! Dude gives me back a 10, three 1s, 2 quarters, and a penny. At this point I'm thinking, "no way, this guy must be fucked up or something", so I go back into Lube and grab Brad, Treshman, and the Dave's and tell them the story. They think I'm full of shit so I say, "I'll prove it to you fuckers", and we all leave the club and head to the bodega. Each of them buy a pack of p-funks and the same shit happens again! It's like mad crazy I swear! We're making like a sick profit margin off this dumb mother fucker behind the counter. So we keep walking out of the store and casually walking back in until the place is out of p-funks. Then we start scoping the aisles for other shit that costs $6.49 to see if this cat was sucker enough to keep fucking up the change.

I start buying packs of double AA batteries.
Brad starts buying sunglasses.
Treshman starts buying boxes of this gourmet granola shit.
The Dave's buy various porno mags.
It was hilarious yo!

And no doubt each time we'd pay with a 10 spot mr. cashier man would give us a 10, three 1s, 2 quarters, and a penny in change. My man behind the counter must have been seriously whacked out on some shit.

Soon we had to move on to frozen pizzas, then musical greeting cards, then laundry detergent, then bags of beef jerky, then disposable cameras. We were making mad bank! We kept scamming this guy over and over and over until at some point I blacked out.

I woke up the next morning in my apartment with a wicked headache and a wallet full of Twix bar wrappers. No 10s, 1s, quarters, or pennies. No cans of shaving cream, Hungry Man dinners, or toothbrushes. What the fuck!! I called Brad and Tishman and they said the same shit happened to them except Brad woke up with a wallet full of Japanses business cards and Tishman woke up in a clown suit. We never heard from the Dave's again.
The only proof of the $6.49 shopping spree was a receipt in my pocket from when I first went over there to buy those p-funks. Only thing was the date on the receipt said May 13th, 1957. Freaky. Later that day Brad, Tishman, and I went back to the bodega hoping to clear up some shit on what really went down that night but the bodega wasn't there. There was a VCR repair shop there instead but instead of being full of busted VCRs the store was full of working LaserDisc players. Now that's some Twilight Zone shit. No joke.

We're never going to Lube again. That place is whack.

zeroth life lesson: handling money when zooted can lead to danger and/or lunacy. it's recommended if you have the means.

Another night of make believe in Apt. 1B / Snifter

Late night at the office and by the time I get home my wife is already in bed. I put my ear to the door and slowly turn the doorknob, pretending that I'm a detective. I enter my apartment cautiously, keeping my back against the wall, miming that I'm holding a gun. I yell a random name.
“Mr. Pritchard? . . . Miles Pritchard this is the NYPD. . . . I need to have a word with you regarding Candice Flemming?”

This usually wakes my wife up. Her inquiries as to who I'm yelling about tend to end the charade.

A few minutes later I'm in the bathroom brushing my teeth. I imagine my wife's activated some sort of Indiana Jones type booby trap in our bedroom and I have to save her. I pretend to hear my wife scream as she triggers the tripwire. I drop my toothbrush and run into the bedroom to find her nailed to the wall by some swinging wooden spike apparatus.
I yell “Noooooo!"
Her eyes are wide open with shock and she’s coughing up blood. I can sense she's fading fast so I clutch her face and tell her it's going to be OK. I tell her it was my fault for getting her into this mess and when we get out of here I'll take her on that cruise she's always wanted. With her last breath she grabs my collar and says “Finish the quest!” Then, as her final act, she reaches out her shaking hand to give me an ancient treasure map.

This also usually wakes my wife up. Her inquiries as to why I'm grabbing her head and sobbing typically bring me back to reality.

I then go to bed and dream about adventure.

The stairs of St. Benedicts / Kindling

He didn't have much time. St. Benedicts hospital was on the other side of town and they were set to pull the plug on Mary Schneider at 7:00. That was 48 minutes from now. The court order in his hand was the only thing that could save her life. He hailed a cab and did his best to convey the urgency of the matter to the cabbie without coming across as a lunatic. He briefly considered pulling out his gun but thought better of it.
-Meanwhile at St. Benedicts Mary's attending physician was finishing up some routine lab work. The termination of Mary's life support system was next on his agenda.

Traffic was bad. He'd never make it. It was now 6:24 and they'd only made in 9 blocks. He noticed a kid riding a bike on the sidewalk. He gave the cabbie a twenty and opened the door.
-Meanwhile Leon Schneider arrived at St. Benedicts twenty minutes early to witness his wife's execution.

He felt bad about pulling a gun on the kid but really, what choice did he have. The bike was a piece of shit anyway. Giving the kid the last 8 dollars in his wallet now seemed compensation enough. After a couple miles the chain came off. Looks like he'd be hoofing it from here. 6:36.
-Meanwhile the doctor and Leon exchanged muted pleasantries before entering Mary's room. The doctor handed Leon several legal and medical forms to review and sign before he could carry out the procedure. Leon had a pen handy.

He sprinted though the hospital's main entrance with just minutes to spare. The security guard immediately reached for his night stick but then eased up when he flashed his badge. "Elevator?" he yelled. The security guard pointed down the hall.
-Meanwhile the doctor approached Mary's bed and noted the time. It was 6:53.

He watched the numbers light above the elevator. Sweat poured down his body as he frantically shifted his weight from foot to foot. Fuck this. He saw the sign for the stairs and bolted up, climbing three at a time.
-Meanwhile the doctor offered his final condolences to Leon Schneider. Leon put on his best solemn expression yet there was a sense of satisfaction deep in his eyes.

He reached the 6th floor and checked his watch. 6:57. There was still time. He almost managed a smile before he thought better of it and instead grabbed the door handle. It was locked.
-Meanwhile a nurse entered the room saying the doctor was needed in triage stat. The doctor excused himself and left the room leaving Mary alive and breathing. Leon did his best to stay calm. He watched the rhythmic spikes of her heart monitor and tried to will them flat.

A hospital ID was required to enter floors via the stairwell. He pounded on the door but it was no use. He kicked the door. He cursed. He pulled out his cell phone but it had no reception.
-Meanwhile 7:00 had come and gone. The doctor returned to Mary's room and apologized to Leon for the interruption. He double-checked the paperwork and everything seemed to be in order. Leon mentioned he had plans later so if they could please hurry things along.

He climbed to the 9th floor until he finally found a door that exited the stairwell. He was now in an unfinished wing of the hospital with plastic sheets hanging from the ceiling and drywall dust covering the floors. He saw a man in a construction hat and yelled, "Which way to the ICU? I need to get the the 6th floor." The man didn't speak English. Shit.
-Meanwhile the doctor began to withdraw all life supporting systems from Mary Schnieder.

He ended up having to go all the way back down to the lobby to re-enter the hospital. When he finally exited the stairwell he found the lobby elevator door open, waiting, ready to go up. He stepped on and pushed 6. The doors closed.
- Meanwhile the doctor checked Mary for vital signs. Time of death was documented at 7:19.

zeroth life lesson: life can (and should) be cruel to wanna-be heroes.

Buzz Aldrin's carry-on / Newt

I bet the first astronauts probably overpacked. You figure they didn’t know what to expect going up to space and all for the first time and most likely took a whole bunch of shit that they never needed - fishing pole, cufflinks, hair dryer, swimming trunks.
You can’t really blame them - how were they supposed to know - it’s outer space after all - melon baller might just come in handy. But I also think that the next time they went to space they gave the new astronauts a hard time about what they packed.
“Hey guys, check it out. Larry here brought shoe polish. Dumbass. What else you got in here Larry? Cell phone charger? Christ look at this – 1 – 2 – 3 how many hooded sweatshirts you think you’re gonna need on the moon Larry?”

Ahhhh Larry. Larry the overpacking astronaut.

Track back / Sea spray

Rip it down, tear it up
Place your saucer on a cup

Eats his grub yet spits his food
Sometimes horcked, sometimes chewed

Got nothing left but did it right
Beat Carla in a tickle fight

Suck a lemon, squeeze a lime
Life will kill you all the time

Going forward in reverse
Went to your birthday in a herse

Flex your brain, let your mind relax
Long distant phones calls from your fax

Ran a mile then walked a foot
Take time to aim but don't dare shoot

Got drunk on wine, sober on grapes
studs, dweebs, burritos, crepes

The slacker's baked, the worker's fried
A winner's shame is a loser's pride

Slits her wrists then claps her hands
Marilyn Mansons, Peter Pans

Break a bone, crack a smile
Hit the road, stay awhile

Boring dream / Bird bath

Last night I had this dream. I was standing in a room that was completely empty except for an old man and a tiny piece of cardboard lying on the floor. . . . . . The old man just stood there looking at the piece of cardboard.

A couple hours later the old man picked up the tiny piece of cardboard.

Several hours after that the old man approached me and began to regale me with the story about where he had found the cardboard . . . turns out it was just sitting there. . . on the ground. . . near a bush or mailbox (he can't seem to remember which). . . by this medium-sized hill. . . with a tree on top that had been growing there for quite some time. . . in a town he'd evidentially been to before.

The story went on from there but I don't recall the rest. It was so boring I actually fell asleep in my dream as this old man blathered on about his piece of cardboard.

I was dreaming about sleeping – which is an awful lot like just plain sleeping without dreaming.