I awaken in her bed. (Mind you, this is a dream, so I am awake asleep.) I am disoriented, and unable to recall who offered me her bedroom where I slept alone.
I stretch and luxuriate beneath the white sheets and warm blankets, taking sensual comfort in this, her bed. And then I see her through the gauzy curtains outside in the golden morning light. She is resplendent, the sun’s early morning rays highlighting her long, blonde hair (reddish blonde, not platinum blonde). Does she know I’m awake? Is she aware of my admiring looks?
By the inexplicable illogic of dream chronology I am suddenly beside her, offering to drive her to the airport, thrilled to have this brief time together.
Forget the Keystone Kops scene that ensues—perhaps it is some slap-shtick interlude triggered by a late night snack or some mental garbage collection algorithm—because, funny though it is, it does not belong in this dream. I let the cops streak on ahead and follow slowly, enjoying this private time with the young blonde for whom I feel the bluesy sad melancholia of unrequited love.
We enter the tunnel where one of the Keystone Kops is now dancing with a ragtag assemblage of Hip Hop revelers (who is authoring this script: Freud? Mel Brooks?).
I choose this unexpected intermission (inner mission) to embrace my blonde Lolita from behind and hold her tight, wanting never to lose her, knowing she will soon be gone, was never ever mine in the first place. She is so soft and perfect and close as she leans into me while we cross our arms together over the gentle curves of her chest and I note the feint freckles on her nose and feel intoxicated by the nearness of her body.
Argh! Idiot! Rather than directly confess my feelings—which I know she knows—I say, “I wish you were twenty years older. No, that’s not right. I wish I were twenty years younger.” I never want to let her go.
She extricates herself from my embrace, and replies, so honestly that I believe it is not meant unkindly, “It wouldn’t matter. You’re not my type anyway.” Then she begins to describe “her type” though the words are lost in the sheer pain I feel as they shred my heart, exterminating even the fantasy of our ever being together…
Rejected!! In my own dream! …by a woman as familiar as a first lover, yet unidentifiable, try as I might to cling to the insubstantial clues as I awaken—this time for real—feeling heartache for a woman who moves my soul even as she fades from palpable closeness to torturous anonymity …So exquisitely familiar…How often have I dreamt her? Why must she join the others in rejecting me?
This is my dream!! Must I suffer unrequited love even as I sleep?
I rise from bed and pad slowly down the hallway, feeling the pangs of heartache from losing a woman I never knew. Her presence was tangible and sweet; her absence now intolerable and bitter.
Archetype lost.
Is this any way to start the day?
justbrowsingOkay, so having tired of the Buffalo Bill persona I needed a new profile photo, so I grabbed the most likely candidate, but now people are starting to comment about how much I resemble Chuck Norris. So while I’m Googling Chuck (that sounds just awful!) to see whether he has stolen any of my likenesses to post without my permission, I discover that the Man is experiencing a pop cultural renaissance.
I may be late to the party, but as I read through postings of favorite Chuck Norris facts, I nabbed my Top 20:
Ø Guns don’t kill people. Chuck Norris kills people.
Ø Chuck Norris puts the "laughter" in "manslaughter."
Ø When Chuck Norris wants an egg, he cracks open a chicken.
Ø Chuck Norris counted to infinity - twice.
Ø Chuck Norris can speak Braille.
Ø Chuck Norris has two speeds. Walk…and Kill.
Ø Chuck Norris doesn’t wear a watch. He decides what time it is.
Ø Superman owns a pair of Chuck Norris pajamas.
Ø Chuck Norris does not hunt, because the word hunting implies the possibility of failure. Chuck Norris goes killing.
Ø Chuck Norris is not hung like a horse... horses are hung like Chuck Norris.
Ø Chuck Norris can slam revolving doors.
Ø When Chuck Norris gives you the finger, he's telling you how many seconds you have left to live.
Ø Bill Gates lives in constant fear that Chuck Norris' PC will crash.
Ø Chuck Norris is the only person on the planet that can kick you in the back of the face.
Ø Chuck Norris can build a snowman out of rain.
Ø If Chuck Norris were a calendar, every month would be named Chucktober, and every day he’d kick your ass.
Ø Chuck Norris can tie his shoes with his feet.
Ø Chuck Norris can get blackjack with just one card.
Ø The quickest way to a man's heart is with Chuck Norris's fist.
Ø The chief export of Chuck Norris is Pain.
Looks like I better consider a new alter ego. Soon.
Maybe…Ghandi?
[Don’t you just bet that Chuck Norris’s resurging popularity really has David Carradine pissed off?]
MindSay ads from their Google associates program are usually transparent to me—just a piece of UI clutter my eyes have become trained to ignore. So when I detected ads that even I might click on I was a bit startled.
Meanings of Words
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edHelper.com
How often have these been there? What other ads have I missed? What ads are popping up in previous posts, others' posts, political and personal posts? Hmm, damn ad programs in the blogosphere; now I'm gonna be looking.
[But don't even get me started on Suggested Tags. The tags MindSay proposed for the celebrity/Tom Cruise post were so inflammatory, I suspect Mr. Cruise has the makings of a lawsuit on his hands. Perhaps I'll bring it up at Christmas dinner...]
[..."Stop learning Spanish backwards???" What the hell does that mean interrobang. ¿Does it have anything to do with those funny looking inverted question marks that precede questions?]
[Phew. I don't think I'll try this again any time soon. Even with their link buttons, MindSay's UI did not make the following seemingly trivial task very easy.]
The notion was one of pure simplicity (if not ultimate oddity): following my recent post about the ill-fated attempt to introduce the interrobang as a new punctuation symbol—a blending of a question mark with an exclamation point, for those occasions where one's question also warrants an exclamation, such as, "What was I supposed to think when I found you wearing my underwear‽"—I thought I might derive some amusement searching for MindSayers who could benefit from this symbol.
I couldn't figure out how to search for Mindsayers who had used "!?" or "?!" combinations, so my next idea was to seek out anybody who had used the acronym "WTF" because that sure sounded like an interrobangable moment if any did. [I'm not referring to bloggers or bands going by the wtf moniker, nor to MindSay's "What's This Feature?" or even the holiday refrain, "Who's the Fat-guy?" I suspect we all know what acronym I mean...(No, Tess, not wipe those feet!)]
So I gave myself several search criteria:
- It had to be someone who had used the phrase WTF in a post of their own;
- It had to be an active account—someone who had posted this December; and
- They must have at least one interrobangable usage.
Here are my fifteen sixteen winners:
skullscreaming wtf oldpink wtf babykitty18 wtf
blueorchid69 wtf nomad wtf zenglen wtf
xblingxblingx wtf aleeska wtf
jezebellerettuc wtf dumbxmel wtf jks808 wtf
angelrebelde wtf sendream wtf blueclearsky wtf
I wanted to post at least 100 candidate interrobangers for us to all go descend upon—I'm just that insane—but while the Google search was trivial, the linking, cutting and pasting quickly grew wearisome.
Oh well, you get what you pay for, I never say.
Truth be told, I'm a sucker for a novel randomization factor that brings disparate people together. You go to a meat packer's convention, you can expect to meet a lot of people who know a great deal about, well, meat. You start a Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows wiki and before you know it you're chatting with a bunch of Muggles about Book 7.
I prefer greater juxtoposition than that from time to time (no pun intended), factors that fold the very fabric of the space-time continuum like Madeleine L'Engle's tesseracts. There are better ways to meet random other souls in cyberspace, but I'm partial to the whimsical winds of chance that might also appeal to fans of Tom Robbins, Douglas Adams, or Kurt Vonnegut.
So here's my gift to all you befuddled pilgrims who found your way here:
wtf ‽
I saw a few minutes of Sylvestor Stallone on a talk show the other day (promoting Rocky 37, I think) and I got a few chuckles out of his anecdotes. It's refreshing when you watch a celebrity and you get a glimpse of the person beneath the persona and for a brief moment you think you might actually like them if this is who they really are.
Perhaps no celebrity has been more controversial recently than Tom Cruise. But even mega-celebrity Tom with all his quirks, foibles, and lunacies must occasionally reveal a glimmer of the person he once was (really is?) and that's the only Tom I'd be interested in having over for dinner. I thought I got a glimpse of that Tom on Letterman a few months back when Dave drew a story out of him that got Tom laughing so uncontrollably he could barely continue. I love when laughter becomes contagious. As Tom attempted to tell his story, squeaking, writhing, and tearing up like the rest of us mere mortals, I found myself giggling along with him.
They say laughter is the best medicine. (Who does, JB? Reader's Friggin Digest?? Sigh.) I felt it that night. A bit of spontaneous hilarity that had me chuckling. I tried repeating the Tom/Letterman anecdote at a dinner party the other night when one guest said, "I'm gonna go home and look it up on YouTube."
Say what? Why hadn't I thought of that?
Well I have now, so here it is. (You know my motto). If it gives one reader a chuckle then I'll feel I've spread a bit of cheer during the holidays.
Speaking of which, it occurred to me how difficult it must be for celebrities during the holidays. All the pressure for photo ops, beautiful children, perfect presents, ideal vacations, tabloid avoidance. Hey, they need family time like the rest of us—messy, emotional, normal, paparazzi-free.
So invite a celebrity home for the holidays. You probably won't have to exchange gifts (unless they are hand-made; I' sure they'll appreciate that) and you might spare someone a few months of therapy.
As soon as I post this, I think I'll give poor, misunderstood Paris a call. Or maybe Anne Hathaway would like to read Shakespeare to the kids. Oh, the possibilities!
(Somebody else call Nicole Richie. My good will only goes so far.)
Cheers!
The word is:
floccinaucinihilipilification
Why must Mindsay deny me my Subject header? Scurvy knaves!
