Over the holidays, we all experience different levels of stress. Sometimes these stresses take over, and folks end up drowning themselves in egg nog and driving off a bridge somewhere. My stresses do not afford me such luxurious physical response. Oh no. I get jacked-up dreams instead. Awful dreams…
But before I get to that, a couple of things on the holidays in H-town:
1) I fucking LOVE seeing all my friends. Even if coordinating a meeting between us requires me to sell my goddamn soul to the devil. Every year it is the same nightmare of social organization. Regardless of the effort, it was fantastic to see everyone. J-J., Snail, Skot, The Collins, Hairy Fingers, Brutha Nick, Bai-Wei-Ke, CBSmooove, Dungster, Mr. Bill, Mike, Williard, Huard, Lambchops, Weezer, Boner, Baret and K-T, Tommy-Tom, Neil & his ladyfriend, Skater Bri, Rockets Tom, Big Binh and Shannanagins, Jenn and that girl who I told I would buy a gin & tonic but then didn’t because I was too busy toasting my repeated success at avoiding a well-earned explosive death, and the Atown contingency too: Rivas, Lex and Tam-Tam, Two Ts, Our Land and The Rambler, and of course: my precious Avasaurus.
2) Boner gives advice: the most common mistake in getting a DUI is violating the law in a more simple way. Such as… running a red light or speeding. So that’s the best way around that (besides pounding ginger ales and becoming a cross-caressing Baptist). Fuck me sideways.
3) Sugar Land is fucking far from Houston. Screw you daily-gypsies who make that rush-hour trek and claim it isn’t far. It is fucking far. Buy a map, check your watch, and measure your gas tank. I am right about this, it is god-awful far from anything. For the love of God.
4) White Christmas in Houston. That’s all. Just had to type it with a serious tone, as it has never been mentioned by me without thick sarcasm. Now it will be peppered with disbelief instead. Silliness is what that was. If there is a God, it does indeed have a sense of humor.
5) George Carlin for Christmas: sometimes, he isn’t that funny. He’s just angry. An old, sick, and bent-up angry man on stage with spotlights upon his cranky-assed oldness. I give him credit for turning a buck on it though. I would trade spittle-dotted rants for money any day. Big ups, and I wish him the best in rehab. This really has nothing to do with Houston, but I listened to one of his latest CDs on the way home (great gift mammasita!), and it has been bothering me ever since.
On to the dream that killed my 3pm wake-up time (as scheduled by booze) this past Saturday.
In the dream, Flava was getting married to some bisexual dude whose identity morphed every ten dream-minutes, so I couldn’t nail it down. I knew a couple of his names, and he was always rather portly. That part was strange, because Flava has never gravitated to the portly variety (myself exempt), but that’s the body-type my mind picked for the part. The bisexual aspect of his personality is also unexpected. Flava loves the gay men. She’s no half-stepper when it comes to sexual preference. No dabblers for her.
She invites me to the wedding. I can’t believe she would be inviting me to the wedding, I mean, we’re still living together (the dream is occurring in real time). All of our friends are flabbergasted when I tell them that I am absolutely against going to the wedding. “What, just because she’s marrying him?”, they would all ask. “Well, yes. And no,” I would reply, over-and-fucking-over, to their crinkled-brow faces, “well, I should have said something to her, I guess,” I would add, all half-stepping it. But I as thinking in my head, “man, I can’t believe she did this shit to me. Why him? Why now? What the hell did I do wrong here?”
I end up at the wedding, and it is raining and nasty outside (think: November Rain). I am trying to leave before the ceremony starts, but as I am trying to duck out a back door, the procession scoops me up and I am marching with the bride and groom down the aisle. I was absolutely beside myself, staggering to explain that I did not want to be there but could not bring myself to confront her about the whole mess. I mean, she planned to continue living with me? After marrying this guy? Wha………?
In the beginning, I was just confused. I could not figure out the timeline. It was Christmas, I just dropped her off at the airport to go see her fam… when the hell did this dude propose? Did I nap for a goddamn year? RumpleCraigskin? Oh, wait, that's Rip Van Winkle. No, I cannot spell that shit. Whatever, like I was saying: And worse yet, was there any “courting” at my crib? Did they dance the forbidden dance? In the shower I cleaned up earlier that week? Did I scrub up some of that sexually ambiguous orca-dude’s man-lava from the base tiles? Sweet Jesus, the disturbing revelations started a roll call, and they were ready to burn some shit DOWN. Son of a… I was still confused, but starting my rabid march to anger.
But I got cut off by sentimentality.
I should have told her everything first. I should have let her know.
“Let her know what?”
Well, whatever we needed to say. You know, all that which is making us feel so stupid for avoiding.
“But I haven’t gotten any of that sorted out yet. It would have been half-baked, and potentially dangerous. Bacon is fantastic, but raw pork can kill.”
What does breakfast have to do with any of this?
“Oh, shit, I smell egg and sausage.”
What? We’re in deep emotional trouble here. Our woman just left us for a hefty gay guy. That should take precedence over morning proteins.
“But we can just wake up, and she’s ours again. Trust me.”
But, but… it’s only 9 in the morning. We just went to sleep like, four hours ago.
“Bacon. Now get up and call your girl, but remember not to blame her for any of this ridiculousness.”
Fuck. Tired. Mmmmm… bacon… Let’s ditch this shitty wedding.
Damn you bad-Flava dreams!