2025/3/6, 2025/3/14
Inspired by Moonpr1sm's excellent dream diary, I decided to record some of my own dreams....
In a shopping mall's food court, I was strolling past a pizzeria, and took one of many tan baseball caps bearing its logotype from a shopping cart parked nearby. Just as I was pinching mammamia gesticulations and yelling, "Ayyyy, luigi spungole!!" to the checkout jerk of the pizzeria, he yelled back that I had to pay for it. I tossed it back into or near the cart (they look so stupid, so who cares?) and approached the pizzeria while hollering stuff like, "Whattsamattayou!?" and "Ya got some capricciatore in your spugatamoli, or what?!" Just as I was jabbering all that, I realized that I don't know any Italian, except for maybe "il" and "lasagna," and I'm not always even certain about "il."
This checkout jerk looked more Ashki than Italian, but I said, "So I wanna slice-a of da pizza, extra cheese and ravioli with some pepperoni. Ayyyy."
He tried to wave me away and said, "Get out of here; c'mon."
"Just gimme my fuckin' food, ya mulignan," I said, and slammed my left hand into my pocket for some cash. I had bills therein, but also 60-odd coins. Why all the specie?
"That's offensive," he spat back. He was really aggravated now, and I felt a sinking sensation that I wouldn't get my food.
In the split-second before he said something else that didn't register, I glanced at his nametag and I could've sworn that it read, "Gene Hackman." I started to ask if he was also a fan of the late thespian, but upon closer inspection, it read something like Geoxha Horrklare. What even was this guy?! So instead I started to ask: "Geoxa? What the fuck is--"
"I'll have to call security if you won't leave," he told me.
A sudden furor swelled and I seethed, "No, fuck this! What the fuck is that name?! And I want my fucking food!" A screaming match ensued during which I kicked something and -- as I foresaw -- didn't get my food before two security guards arrived to escort me out of the mall. I was livid against this god damned Albanian or Basque or Mizrahi or whatever the fuck this bald, ugly prick was. I woke feeling groggy and entitled because my ancestors were here for millennia, unlike this second-gen jerk-off stand-in for Fred Melamed. I want my pizza.
Damian and I spent nearly two hours setting up my stand at the convention. After a few hours during which we sold five comics, some fat slob waddled up to the stand and vomited all over our wares, which were consequently ruined. He was forcibly removed, and my enterprise was screwed. As the hall's custodian was tidying his puke and my ruined comics, I knew that I had to do something ingenious to salvage the day, but what?
A memory of Etsuko walking into a wall and staggering backward as she said, "Aeuggh." Even her skinny chicken's calves were cute.
Just as I stabbed Kenneth Branagh and leapt off of the pier, I realized that my car keys had flown out of my accidentally unzipped pocket. Terrible.
An oft-recurring dream: finally exhausted with Israel's subversive bullshit, China nuked Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, then immediately blamed India for the strike. When the counterfeit, conniving, parasitic, genocidal, triumphalist, second-world, architecturally hideous country failed to retaliate, we all knew what we'd suspected for decades: their warheads are duds, and the Samson Option is codswallop. Discussing this online, I felt suddenly horrified and elated in the knowledge that balance had been restored to the world, and that some heroes aren't good people at all. This is one of my favorite dreams.
In an impossibly prevenient version of Hereditary shot in '76, I was a supernumerary playing one of the cultists. After Karen Black's decapitated corse floats into the treehouse and newly-possessed Scott Baio climbs up after her, I was one of the nude demonolaters bowing in wait. I was very sore and cramping for assumption of this position for over an hour, and I could feel some fat lady's exhalations on my feet and scrotum. After Philip Kaufman yelled, "cut," I finally relaxed, donned a robe, then repaired with a big Olivetti typewriter to the studio commissary, where I banged out a first draft of a review almost literatim to my new review, and for which I felt the same vague dissatisfaction: it's a bit too superficial, almost perfunctory. Karen Allen was sitting nearby, complaining of menstrual cramps.
When Ichiro learned how to ride a bike in the mid-aughts, I was present and instructing him. He struggled very much as I did in the late '80s, suffered a bruised knee for his trouble, and was stoic though saturnine throughout, even when he learned how ride. This prompted some reflection on Pasternak's description of Eurasians as congenitally sullen and deliberate people. I was crying when I woke.
As transposed teenagers, Keith and I found a box full of (mostly broken) iPhones in a shed. He shot footage of me snapping them with punches, judo chops, and drop-kicks whilst wedged between shelves, car doors, etc. I edited the footage into a video of 4 minutes' duration that went viral and enriched me before it was demonetized. In recognition of my service to the country, the President (not Trump, but griseous, toothy, badass James Coburn) phoned to apprise me: "To commemorate your valor, the government will accord you one free assassination, son." Naturally, I immediately selected Sophia Takal for instant death. When we hung up our phones, I felt a climacteric swell and realized that I was now part of history. o7
Lain in a grassy field, my skin was green. My toes wiggled, and the grass beneath and between them wiggled back!
© 2025 Robert Buchanan