Fear the Crab

I rode a motorcycle, a phat beast of a hog with enough roar to shatter windows.  Except this motorcycle also had pedals, which I seemed to use whenever I took a turn.  The crank on these pedals was not very good; in fact it was almost as small and frail as what you’d find on a kiddie tricycle.  The pedals themselves were thick and flat, and I think they were made of wood.

But that didn’t matter, because I used “phat” to describe it, and all the cool kiddie tryke riders know that “ph” in “phront” of anything makes it cool. Besides, acceleration on my dreamcycle was taken care of in the normal handlebar means.

Tooled around an unfamiliar suburban neighborhood, and stopped at a motel of sorts to find room.  I was approached by the manager and a female acquaintance of his, and was asked to escort the woman on some errand she had to perform.  The woman was required to use a motorcycle to deliver some package, and she said she would feel better if there were another rider with her, because she was not very experienced with the machine.

Perhaps it was the clandestine nature of the request, but I refused.  I had some kind of rebel-loner streak going and I didn’t want to get involved in any shenanigans, particularly those that seemed strange or out of place.  I also didn’t want to babysit someone and train them in handling a motorcycle during the journey.

The dream devolved into some attempt at blackmail, linking me to a motorcycle gang and the threat of revealing said history to the outside world.  Apparently I was an ex-member of a notoriously wicked group of riders, and I tried to cover up my past association by literally covering the patch on the back of my jacket with a blank sheet of leather.  The manager took a knife and cut away the leather, peeled it back and revealed my colors.

The patch was a white-feathered stork, neck bent in an S-shape, head tilted down in an alert pose, wings partially open as if it were ready to take flight.  The feathers were ruffled, standing straight up, and the tips melted into a rainbow of Van Gogh streaks, red and yellow and white against a blue background.

I still refused to do this task, and left the manager with my tattered jacket.  The woman followed, and proclaimed with wonder, “You were a member of the <insert name here>?” [I don’t remember the name she said]  After which, she pulled out a large book from her bag, flipped it open to a page and said she had been following the life of the group since she was young.  The picture on the page looked nothing like me, and the dude was playing a guitar during a concert on stage.

I didn’t answer her, and just kept walking away in my cool phat loner rebel style.

* * *

I don’t know how to ride a motorcycle, and I don’t know how to manually shift the engine.  That didn’t seem to matter in my ride, though, which I can only assume to mean that my bike was automatic.

Or maybe I shifted gears using pedal power.  That’s cool.

People from The Office were preparing to leave for a farewell lunch, to send off a co-worker leaving for another job. We had planned out who will be driving, and who will be riding in whose cars; I was assigned to one vehicle with 4 other people, plus the driver.

The parking lot was a 5 minute walk from the building, cutting across a large grass lawn.  A recent heat wave turned the grass dry and brittle, and each step kicked up enough dust to stick to the skin.  I dreaded what the interior of the car would feel like.

We reached the car, and it was a small jeep or SUV of sorts.  Suddenly I realized that the entire group would not be able to fit inside the car, since at most three could sit in the back whilst one occupied the passenger side.  We stood around in the parking lot searching for a possible solution that still would allow for some level of comfort during the ride, but came up with nothing.

I gallantly offered to stay behind.  It would be all right, since I could just get some lunch elsewhere.  My co-workers would just have to explain the situation to everybody else, and I was sure we would all agree that it was an unfortunate situation that could not be helped.  I left the parking lot and headed back to The Office.

The building I returned to was a restaurant, some place that I apparently have always worked at and could always get a bite to eat.  This wasn’t a bad thing, since I expected I could still get some lunch.  However, before entering I encountered Maile’s dental hygiene classmates, who informed me that the entire restaurant was closed for a convention/party being held for DH credits.

I did not begin to question how I would get back to work if the building was closed off, since I was more concerned with getting some food in my belly.  I was becoming increasingly perturbed by this series of bad luck.  Unfortunately, the situation would never be resolved, nor would my now-irritated state of mind be calmed, thanks to the untimely interruption of alarm clocks.

* * *

From the MetaFilter: Cake Wrecks.  Visit and laugh. And for the love of all things fun and gooey, do not attempt to make/buy these at home.  Certainly do not try these with me; I will not be as amused as I am with that blog.

* * *

EDIT:  This same day, we went to an Italian restaurant for a good-bye dinner for one of my co-workers, precisely for the reasons outlined in the dream.  The car I rode in was, oddly enough, the last to leave The Office and arrive at the restaurant.  What’s more, we forgot one person who was supposed to ride with us; the poor guy had to drive himself over.

He wasn’t that mad, though, since we all laughed at the driver, who through some Wonderland math skills thought that he only had to transport 3 people instead of the 4 that were on his list.  Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that one of the riders called in sick and didn’t attend, and somehow that knowledge caused the driver to perform a mental miscalculation and ignore the rest of the names.

Similar things have happened to me.

At 0300 I woke up with butt cramps, and spent the better part of the hour on my thinking-seat contemplating the similarities and differences between each gender’s painful designs in lower orifices. I don’t think I fell back asleep until 0420, which considering how I had to get ready for work the next hour, I didn’t expect anything extraordinary when I closed my eyes.

Then I had to go to the bathroom again. I barely had enough seated time to examine the irregularities of my toenails when I noticed some water pooled along the far wall. When the fuck did this happen? Was it a problem with the flusher? The valve? Did water from my last adventure spill out, and if so, fuck, my feet are in it.

I figured the easiest way to tell would be to reach down and touch it, and hope for a chlorinated aroma. Hell, I’d be washing my hands afterward, anyway. Suddenly a cold drop of water hit my outstretched arm, and I was immediately made aware of a rushing sound above my head. A cascade of rotten ceiling material fell on my head and a flood of water poured out. A frickin’ water pipe had burst in the crawlspace. Great. More repairs.

I put my soaked shorts back on (because I’m not going to cuss and throw a tantrum in my boxers), and stepped out of the waterfall to inspect the damage. Each gout of spilling water was bringing more of the ceiling down with it, and immediately the fall-away of wood and plaster spread to the walls around the bathtub. I barely formed enough of a fetid thought to try and shut off the water with the outside valve when the room crumbled around me.

At least it wasn’t raining, outside. The stars were visible in the cloudless night, despite the noise from the ceiling bulb. Standing in water with working electrical wires about is probably not the most ideal way to lose weight, I figured, so I made haste to the garage door. I don’t know why I didn’t choose to just walk out the gaping hole in the wall. I think it may have been the swarm of cockroaches that scattered with the new exposure to manly ways. Crap on a stick, I wasn’t about to cross that.

Opening the garage door, I encountered resistance to my handyman foray when two miniature terriers tried to strong-arm me away. I don’t know what they wanted, but I’m pretty sure that if they came from the outside, they had no business inside. I summoned my alpha-male dominance to try and overpower the foot-long dogs, and they rewarded me with gnashing bites to my hands. Yes, they were foot-long dogs; I said they were miniature.

I was reminded of the water problem, so I chucked the dogs over the fence into the yard. I figured if they wanted inside the house, they’d have to work it out themselves. I stepped to the corner, toed off the heavy metal lid with my tingly fingers, dug away at the dirt surrounding the pipe, and turned the water valve 180 to shut off the flow.

About then, I realized that while I had stopped the water, I had no way of repairing the extensive damage to the bathroom.

Thankfully the whole ordeal flushed itself away with the chiming of the 0500 alarm. How the fuck do I get these wild and crazy dreams in the span of a few minutes?

I dreamt that I was using my rollerblades to commute to work. I made it down the hill on my street when I started to realize that I was not supposed to be on the sidewalk and should be in the street. I remember thinking that the streets weren’t well maintained and had a lot of gravel, which made for a bumpy ride.

Then for some reason I had to go back home, which meant skating up the hill. Along the way I passed a police officer on foot, and I told him that there was a suspicious car parked on a dirt road that I had just passed.

I dreamt I was attending a wedding at a hotel. Seemed to have a very local, almost casual, feel to it. The only thing significant in my dream was that the bride found out some of the food couldn’t be delivered because of a “worm infestation.” I didn’t know if that meant the food was infected, or the banquet room was, but I do remember thinking that it was standard operating procedure.

Met with the chair-cover vendor yesterday. $8 a chair, for 200 chairs, equates to $1600. I will admit, chair covers greatly change the appearance and atmosphere of a wedding reception, especially when it matches the table linens and settings. I know some people would say that regular hotel-provided chairs would be fine, and I’d be inclined to agree. I would also be inclined to think that a regular t-shirt and jeans are appropriate wedding attire.

And that analogy is basically the difference between having and not having chair covers. Both “work,” but one just happens to give a more formal appearance. Besides, Maile wants them, so we’re going to have them.

The vendor also said they can dress the head table and cake table, but this decision will wait until we’ve heard from the florist. I may not even want table dressing, or only the head table. I don’t know. Maile and I have set a cap of $5000 for flowers (which is still expensive, but apparently the low expensive), and depending on what the florist quotes us, we’ll have to see what we can take away or substitute in order to retain the original vision.

Maybe we’ll just have low centerpieces on every table, instead of a mix of tall and short. Maybe we’ll have a few less flowers in the bouquet. Maybe the men won’t have boutonnieres, only handkerchiefs.

When I think about it, all this money is really paying for the convenience. No doubt I could find cheaper, if not free, substitutes by simply doing all the work myself. I could find, grow, or pick flowers and arrange them. I could buy linen in bulk from fabric stores and dress my own tables. I could fold my own cranes and arrange them into a nice pattern… wait, I’m still folding my own cranes. Anyway.

The point is, a lot of this money is for the fact that I don’t have to do it all myself. I won’t have to set up or volunteer someone to set up things, and I won’t have to worry about breaking things down and taking them home. I find myself asking each vendor what their set-up and breakdown policies are. Do they bring their own equipment and tools? What about transportation and storage? Every vendor has been self-sufficient. And why not, considering the thousands of dollars you’re giving them?

I was at work, but my station was on top of a large server, where I had to lie down and tap the metal roof to input any commands. The screen was a small LED panel barely able to fit two lines of 10 characters each, and I had to read it UPSIDE DOWN! Aside from my non-ergonomic work conditions, everything seemed normal as we tried to figure out what to eat for lunch.

I had to deliver some foodstuffs to an exhibition. I was told that I would be delivering some gourmet coffee and some biscotti. The vehicle used to deliver these goods was a cross between a tricycle and a segway. Maile accompanied me on my journey, standing behind me like kids would stand on a trike’s rear axle.

The trip was mostly uneventful until near the end. We were taking back roads because we couldn’t bring this weird contraption onto the highway, and we found ourselves on a dirt road near farmland. In a case of self-fulfilling prophecy, I was in the midst of conversation with Maile and discussing how the vehicle we were in was efficient, but if I took a turn too fast it could tip over. Lo and behold, I take a turn, one of the wheels hits a rock, and we tip over.

At this time I became aware that in addition to Maile, we had a little midget along for the ride. The three of us gathered up the container of coffee and biscotti and went into a general store to check if anything was damaged.

It was the strangest coffee I had ever since. The grounds were white or cream-colored, and had the consistency of flour (maybe it was flour). The biscotti looked like dried, fried pasta. Except everything really was coffee and biscotti.

Things looked okay, so we repackaged everything and prepared to head out. I then noticed Janet KS in the store, buying an unknown item. She saw me, said hi, and then saw Maile and said hi. Then, “Oh, you two know each other?”

Strange.

I’m in a one-story shop, wood floors and walls with thick tree trunk columns supporting the roof. The varnish is very dark, offset by the white sunlight through large pane windows on the far side. I believe it is a shop because there are tables with assorted knick-knacks, but there are no prices (perhaps an antique store?). The shop is part of a larger structure, in a district of concrete. There are people outside.

A homeless man walks into the shop, eating rice out of a dog bowl. I briefly think that he stole it from a stray dog one of the residents leaves food out for. I watch the man walk across the room to a door set in the wall. He tries to open it, but it is locked.

A bus has pulled up to the shop, breaking the white curtain of light with its silhouette. Japanese tourists disembark and proceed single-file into the shop, heralded by a cacophony of conversation punctuated with desperate cries from the tour group leader. The homeless man approaches the tourists as though he works in the shop (I know he does not), and begins to “confiscate” their lunch under the premise of the store not allowing any.

A woman enters the shop from the opposite end. She seems familiar, yet unrecognizable. She disapproves of the homeless man, but does not stop him. I feel disgusted by the lack of authority and the willingness to be taken advantage of. I move to the center of the shop. My intention is to kneel and meditate in front of an altar. My thoughts briefly justify this action as an attempt to garner sympathy and mete out guilt. “Look, he has to pray to the ancestors for you to stop this.”

I sit for less than a minute. I am then prompted to approach the homeless man and lead him to the altar. I tell him that “Grandfather wants to talk to you.” He stands in front of the altar, which has transformed into a hinged door. The door opens to reveal a slender woman, gorgeous and robed. She beckons the man to enter. All his sins shall be forgiven. I step back. My mind tells me that this was not planned. I watch as the man sheds joyous tears, understandably eager to absolve himself of past misdeeds, and he graciously enters the door.

The door closes. I know it was a ruse, a trap. The door and beyond is something terrible. I wait for the scream, but it doesn’t come. The tourists have begun to browse the store shelves. The woman thanks me for my help. I try to tell her that the door is an illusion, that what is on the other side is worse than the man before. I try to tell everyone that they need to leave. The evil behind the door is not finished. It is still hungry and wants to consume.

I am ignored as the door opens again.

Some of the CheesyMUD staffers were in this huge room. The room was entirely white, with blue furniture scattered around; the whole thing looked like it belonged in an Apple commercial. There were bean-bag chairs off-center in an open space that were very comfortable.

Kyrol was doing a radio show, and he was speaking with Walrus who was calling in from some remote location. The general consensus was that Walrus was co-broadcaster.

Limey was looking over the board, but he wasn’t really doing anything besides looking. Perhaps everything was already poifect. Tinker was handling the phones.

Bog and Galbraith were off in a corner watching a television monitor (sound muted, of course). Don’t know what program it was, but I believe it was a news program because there was a talking head.

Mindslider was there, ready to pimp his new band. He was the next guest up after Walrus.

I was there, too, except I had brought my CDs and felt pretty useless when I discovered it was a talk show. So I literally laid down on the bean-bag chairs (that’s how I knew they were comfortable) and loitered.

My brother was back in town, and our house was as it was before my mom’s accident. However, everyone was how they were today. I was busy with fish-related things, but there were other people in the house, and many were from my old karate dojo. In fact, we were having a tournament of sorts, where we would compete against each other.

I remember noticing a man and a young girl, his daughter, who were newcomers, black belts, and I knew, or was told, that my brother and I would be competing against them.

I came to the realization that I had not been practicing karate since 1987, and I was nowhere near being in perfect physical condition. I made this publicly known, and I guess I was spared the humiliation of being trounced by some dude and his daughter.

My brother, however, accepted the challenge. He had not been practicing karate for a longer time than me, and it showed during the competition. Maile was there, and I remember her commenting after my bro tried a particular move, “Oh no, that move was a fake!” This was because she knew what moves my brother knew, I guess.

Finally, it got so bad that my brother performed a ninja disappearing act, and we were all wondering where he went. I knew that he was in our bathroom, with the door locked, and I told no one. So everyone went home, and my bro came out, and the first thing he said was, ‘Notice my new colors?” and his belt was back to white.

My dad mentioned something about how we now knew there were too many competitions. I mentioned that our dojo was interested more in form than physical contact, and asked my brother if he even knew what purpose each maneuver was for. He replied no, but he was also on his laptop doing something for an online game. However, he was being honest, and it made me think that perhaps that was the reason he lost, because he was just going through the motions. I asked him to show me a move we learned in our dojo, and I would tell him what its intent was for, since I was aware of these things.

Thank goodness I woke up at that point. Very disturbing dream and I don’t know if I want to try to analyze this one.

IRL, my brother is not a coward, and we both know what our dojo taught, and the purpose of blocking and striking moves. And most importantly, there were never any competitions between members, because as I said, the dojo stressed form and physical fitness over actual combat. That isn’t to say that if you went in with an attitude of non-learning that you’d still get by, you just wouldn’t be getting everything that was offered.