Last night, I had an epic-lenth adventure about my friendship with a
cockroach. He kept following me around and he was drying out in he sun.
Finally, he was all crispy and his legs were half broken off. It was very sad
and seemed beyond hope. My little friend was dying. Oddly enough, I tossed
him in a pond and a little while later he came out hopping around in the form
of a happy little ferret. He had the same cute voice as when he was a
cockroach, though.
― Nude Spock, Saturday, 10 November 2001 01:00 (twenty-four years ago)
It was so long, it just kept going. It was like Lassie. I think it started out with
me being grossed out by the fella and he kept following me around and we
got to be friends.
― Nude Spock, Saturday, 10 November 2001 01:00 (twenty-four years ago)
Well, mine involved a rather curious situation about dousing a bunch of
seaweed on a beach with gasoline and then getting away before the
police arrived. Not very epic.
― Ned Raggett, Saturday, 10 November 2001 01:00 (twenty-four years ago)
Still, pretty weird, no? Would you do that in real life? It could be Sigmund!
― Nude Spock, Saturday, 10 November 2001 01:00 (twenty-four years ago)
Nude Spock, were you reading Metamorphosis before you went to bed?
All I remember about my last dream is watching Ghost World and
saying "Steve Busceimi isn't in it much". (I haven't seen it yet)
― james, Saturday, 10 November 2001 01:00 (twenty-four years ago)
No, but I'm reading a book on Lucid Dreaming in 30 days and my dreams
have gotten pretty weird pretty immediately. I keep waking up and
remembering these odd things. Last night was a failure, though. I was
supposed to write a question for my unconcious in my dream journal about
what I want to dream about and then actually dream about it and find out
what I really think deep in my brain. The question I addressed had nothing to
do with roaches or ferrets.
― Nude Spock, Saturday, 10 November 2001 01:00 (twenty-four years ago)
I was babysitting Rocco Ciccone-Ritchie at Madonna and Guy's
sensible modernist home in the flats of Beverly Hills. But then
we switched locales and ended up in a mansion overlooking the
sea in the South of France. I liked that better. Rocco was older
than he is in real life, about 4 or 5. He was a cute kid, very
blonde and bubbly. Looked a bit like Dennis the Menace. We
really hit it off.
His parents and big sister weren't around, but for some reason
Sandra Bernhard and Valerie Harper were. We didn't hit it off.
― Arthur, Saturday, 10 November 2001 01:00 (twenty-four years ago)
I had some bizarre dream about assassins earlier, but that's not the
interesting bit - there was a train in the dream, and on the side was
written 'Dunedin Transport Corp.'! They're invading my dreams!
― DG, Saturday, 10 November 2001 01:00 (twenty-four years ago)
Ooh goody, a thread about dreams! Now, I've had some really, really
odd dreams - a lot of them tend to be quite disturbing too... in one
I was Jim Morrison for some reason, who I don't particularly like,
and I met some teenage girls who announced that they wanted a pint of
my blood and all of my semen, and then they imitated the "eh-eurrrr"
sound from Family Fortunes and stuck a knife in me.
Up until recently I kept a dream blog, but I stopped because I
couldn't be arsed, which will forever be my undoing... here's one
dream I had from early last month:
I am 7 years old once more, and running in a race which is being held
at a party next to a beach. The party is one of many across the
country, for it is the Queen's Golden Jubilee. The Queen herself is
sitting near the beach, up on top of a chair with fifteen metre long
legs, watching on all of us while swigging from a flask of whisky and
shouting obscenities through a megaphone. I am very slow and find
myself finishing last. I search for the "race finisher's sweets",
prizes given out to all the children in the race after they have
finished, but there are none left. Angered by this, I walk over to a
mayor giving some tedious droning speech, kick him in the nuts, rip
his microphone from his hands which now cup his bruised twobag, and
scream into it: "THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND IS A BIG FAT OLD BITCH!" This
gets relayed around the entire party via an elaborate PA system, and
to my suprise I don't get gasps and angry shouts, but instead
laughter and applause.
The Queen is furious and demands I should be executed. But the crowd
start jeering at her and chop down the chair, causing her topple
forwards onto the ground, arms flailing, and smash onto the ground
very hard. People gather round her crumpled body and laugh even more.
I start to walk home, and a copy of David Bowie's latest double
CD, "Fanga", materilises in my hands. When I get home and put it on I
find there is no music, just a series of endless embarrasing comedy
sketches which are done in the style of Steve Wright and his Radio 1
Posse. All the sketches are almost the same, only that from track to
track some minor details have been changed. I walk out of my house
and find I am in the college canteen. There people are performing a
brand new genre of music, which involves no instruments at all and
spinning yourself around very fast with your eyes closed until you
hit something or fall over.
― Chris Lyons, Saturday, 10 November 2001 01:00 (twenty-four years ago)
seven years pass...