Dreamin' (a ramble)

Exhausted.
I crawl under the covers.
My head hits the pillow.
My eyes close.
Sleep comes quickly.

Some of my friends
tell me that I snore.
So I got me a bunch of new friends
that don't tell me that.
You can't do that with wives, of course.
Nor can you do that with children.
Bastards.

Anyway, one thing
that invariably happens afterward
is the subject of this ramble.
Dreams.

My dream starts out
innocently enough.

I'm running in slow motion
in a meadow.
Now, please note that
I have absolutely no bloody idea
where I could find a bloody meadow
anywhere near where I live.
I've viewing this
from a side shot.
I'm moving from the left
towards the right.
The meadow has large growths of clover,
which apparently do very little
to keep me from running
(albeit in slow motion, remember).

The point of view changes.
There's a vision of loveliness,
bouncing light brown hair,
gorgeous blue eyes.
She's wearing a white chiffon dress,
also running in slow motion.
This time, from right to left.

Yes, I know.
This is a movie cliché.
I guess that my brain hasn't graduated
from 1950's Hollywood.

The dream continues to unfold.

Switch to me,
still running in slow motion.
Switch back to the girl,
also still in slow motion.
Switch back to me,
looking down at my foot.
I must have stepped in something.
The expression on my face
is one of pure disgust.

Ahhh, we're going somewhere
different now.

Switch back to the girl;
She's still running in slow motion.
However, she has just
crossed a railroad track.
(What a railroad track is doing
in the middle of this bloody meadow
is never explained.
Pure Hollywood.)

Of course,
a train is bearing down on the girl,
moving toward the camera.
It's far away, so she might be safe.
But she's running in slow motion,
And the train is running at full speed.
The girl turns her head away from the train,
looking straight at the observer,
with a look of horror on her face.
H-O-O-N-N-N-K-K-K!!!! Splat!

Darkness.

End of dream?
Of course not.
That was just a teaser.

Block letters appear:
lar3ry presents...
Long pause.
Fade.

A lar3ry dream.
Another pause.
Fade.

Starring: lar3ry
Fade.

(I admit it.
I watch too many movies.
However, this is always the good part:
I get to find out who is in my dream.)

Co-Starring: Carmen Electra
Fade.

(Hey, I'm the one dreaming, right?
There's just a chance,
albeit small,
that she's probably having the same dream.
Except that I'm relegated to co-star status.
I wouldn't mind.)

Also Starring:
Pause.
That-girl-in-tenth-grade-
that-snubbed-you-mercilessly-
when-you-asked-her-to-go-to-the-dance
As
That-girl-that-got-hit-by-a-train.

(Obviously,
Freudians are probably drooling
over this dream now.
I'm ignoring them.
I promise.)

Now follows a list of names
Of other people that are in my dream.
Most names I don't recognize.
Bit players, probably,
That had good agents,
getting them billing above the title.

Soft music plays.
Vaguely familiar.
Oh yeah.
It's the James Bond theme.
You know, that four bar overture
That precedes every
James Bond movie theme song.

However, instead of a segue'
into a cool jazz/pop number,
the theme song segue's into
the Wedding March.

Scene opens.
I'm standing at an altar
in a black tuxedo.
In front of me is Jeremy Irons,
dressed as a preacher.

Go with me on this, OK?

Point of view changes.

I'm now looking down the aisle.
A woman in a wedding dress and veil
is coming up the aisle.

As I watch her slow approach,
I realize that everything seems
to move slow in my dreams.
Why is that?

I hear somebody cough lightly.
That's my cue
to get back to the dream.

I glance to the people in the pews.
I don't recognize any of them.
I realize that I'm looking at
the friends of the bride.
And to tell you the truth,
I don't know too many of
Carmen Electra's family.

On the other side,
I see familiar faces.
But I can only place some of them.
My Uncle Alan, for instance.
And Arnold in his Terminator outfit,
giving me a big "thumbs up."

The bride is approaching.
The old man accompanying her
removes her veil.

Big pause in the action.

You're probably gulping down
your popcorn.
You just KNOW that it's not
going to be Carmen.

Heck, with my luck,
it's probably not even
going to be Rosie O'Donnell.
Somewhere deep in my mind,
the name "Erma Bombeck" is floating around.
I make sure that I order
Dr. Ruth Westheimer off the set.

Back to the action.
The veil is lifted.
And it IS Carmen Electra.

(Cue: Trumpet fanfare)

Dustin Hoffman appears
at the back of the church,
crucifix in his hands,
calling "Elaine! Elaine!"

I sigh.
"Dustin, you're in the wrong dream."

Lord, these things can get pretty complicated.

Cut to...

Jeremy Irons,
the preacher,
is saying,
"You may now kiss the bride."

I move my face slowly toward Carmen.
She moves her face slowly toward me.
Again, with the slow motion, dammit.

"CUT!"

I look around, confused.
Martin Scorcese is sitting in a director's chair
with a megaphone in his hand,
"One hour for lunch!"

What the heck?

"Union rules,"
he tells me with a shrug.

And then I wake up, with a start.
(Obviously it must be a start,
Since that dream didn't really have an end.)

It's been only fifteen minutes
since I got into bed.

Lord, I'm tired.
I fluff my pillow,
and close my eyes.

I'm alone again,
running in slow motion
in a meadow.
I've viewing this
from a side shot.
I'm moving from the left
towards the right.
The meadow has large growths of clover,
which apparently do very little
to keep me from running
(albeit in slow motion, remember).

Damned repeats.

Fade out...

Copyright © 2001, 2007
Larry Gensch (lar3ry)
All rights reserved

Ramble on food

One of lar3ry's rambles

Who are the people that decide
what is good and what is bad?
When it comes to food,
a burger from McDonald's
is supposed to be bad for you.
A spinach salad, on the other hand,
is supposed to be good for you.

Who makes these rules?

Oh, you may think that the rules
are handed down by people
with University degrees and doctorates,
and endorsed by the Food and Drug Administration,
but I suspect otherwise.

Invariably, the "good" foods
are those that taste like...
well... predigested food already expelled.
The "bad" foods, taste,
as you can easily guess,
like heaven came for a visit.

"Burgers contain fat," those wise ones proclaim.
"Lobsters have cholesterol.
Salads are much better for you," they add.
"Of course, the Caesar salad with
grilled chicken, shrimp, and Filet Mignon,
is no longer a 'good' item.
It's got too much 'bad stuff' in it."

To all this, I say, BAH!
I've heard enough about cholesterol.
I understand enough to know
that cholesterol is what they put into food
to make it taste better.

Our ability to eat meat
puts us near the top of the food chain.
Those that intentionally do without—
the vegetarians and the vegans...
(those infamous "V's")—
are forcing their systems to indulge
in a diet that our omnivorous systems
weren't designed for.

Those PETA people,
the ones for the Ethical Treatment of Animals,
contain a lot of those V's.
They are horrified to think of us
killing another living being,
even if it isn't a human being.
However, the last I looked,
plants are living beings as well.
They exist—they "be."
They live.
And somebody comes around
and pulls them from the ground.
Mercilessly.

Where is the sport in killing plants?
They just lie on the ground,
wherever the wind takes their seed.
They are just—well, they're PLANTED there!

And still I see those PETA types,
tiptoeing through the tulips,
like modern day Elmer Fudds,
with a finger to their lips,
saying, "Be vewy, vewy quiet.
I'm hunting pwants!"
Big sports, you all!

Me, I'll be happy with a prime rib
with a generous supply of au jus—
even that French name gives it a je ne sais quois!
Mashed potatoes or baked.
Even a small amount of vegetables, perhaps.
A good meal, one fit for a king.

Yes, I'll eat some vegetables.
I'm only "pro-life" when it comes
to my own self-preservation.
Vegetables have their uses,
even if I don't consider them
the be-all and end-all of everything.

"Everything in moderation," some people say.
I enjoy moderation myself,
although only in moderation.
And that's where I find myself—
A bit overweight, I guess,
if you define my "ideal" weight
as fitting somebody else's ideals.
I kind of like where I am, though,
and isn't that the main point?

I will continue to enjoy food,
and I won't allow people to
make me feel guilty for enjoying it.

Bon appetit!