Category Archives: writing

People hate me, redux

Ah, it’s amazing how one insight leads to an avalanche of other thoughts.

I think people are afraid of what they don’t understand. And people, generally, think I’m weird, which is, of course, a euphemism for “I don’t understand you.”

People also generally don’t like what’s strange and different. People don’t like (aka “fear”) what they don’t understand. Ref: the Large Hadron Collider, evolution, atheists, other cultures, or “anything that doesn’t fit my worldview.”


So there we were, it had been many months out to sea, and we were in the midst of, oh, I don’t know, or 45th-ish day straight out to sea. One tends to go insane. Or one tends to do things to relieve bottled-up tension.

Wouldn’t you know it, General Fucking Quarters was called. There I was, off watch, enjoying my game of Freecell on the computer in the office. “Goddamn it,” I yelled, and probably a few other choice words. At the time, my GQ station was up in the hangar bay. Probably a hose team leader or some other fire fighting leader. Shit. It’s fucking HOT in the god-forsaken Persian Gulf and I’d have to wear a full Fire Fighting Ensemble. Shit!

Joining me was Terry, a spry little guy that people also thought was weird. Probably why I liked him.

Anyway, were were standing up in the hangar bay. We had gained, through escalation of the issue to senior management, the right to wear our coveralls throughout the ship. Fucking topsiders.

Terry and I were chatting and I made some sort of joke about the flashlight in his pocket.

In the Navy, you have these monster flashlights. They’re grey and they have this slider and a little button on it. They’re pretty indestructible. And they’re pretty good sized. Possibly porn-sized.

(I’m building to a crescendo, bear with me.)

So there we were, bored and making “or are you happy to see me” jokes up in the hangar bay. Keep in mind that women were fully aboard the carrier by then. Did I mention that I hated the Navy? Yeah, I hated it. I particularly hated this ass-sucking fucktard by the name of Master Chief Lore. This guy was only a Master Chief by way of doing his time. He was sincerely one of the worst managers I ever had the displeasure of working for, mostly because I couldn’t respect him because he was SO GODDAMNED RETARDED. He just didn’t get it, and didn’t have to because of his rank. So we all suffered under him. And we all looked as retarded as him, by proxy.

Master Chief Lore was put in charge of herding the cats, as it were, on the hangar bay. What else do you do with a useless Master Chief? Give him real responsibility? Ha!

Meanwhile, the joking between Terry and I had escalated. I thought it would be SUBLIME if I reached over and stroked his flashlight, which was deep in his pocket. More like down the front of his pant leg, towards the center. Like a ginormous, erect cock in his jumper, if I must spell it out.

So I did.

I reached down and stroked that thing like it was going out of style. I stroked it and stroked it and furrowed my brow and bit my lip and Terry played along and threw his head back and was letting out moans of pleasure.

(oh, shit, I’m laughing so hard that I’m crying right now!)

In movies, there’s a scene where the record scratches and the music stops, and everyone suddenly goes silent. Sometimes a glass shatters. That happened right there with 1000 people in the hangar bay on the ship. I thought Master Chief was going to crap his pants right there. And maybe he did, a little. Eyes were bulging and jaws were on the deck.

“Oh my god, is he really – ”

I couldn’t take it any more and I busted out laughing and Terry, with his perma-grin, slowly pulled out the flashlight. He joined me in my hysterics.

There was a collective sigh of relief and a return to the general static as people turned away, possibly in a futile attempt to purge from their brains the scene to which they had just bore witness.

I think Master Chief Lore hated me just a little bit more that day. Jealousy? Disgust? You decide.

Perhaps it’s just a cigar?

I’m still reading “The Head Trip,” a book about various mental states, mostly about sleeping. So there’s a lot of dream stuff in there.

I’ve been trying to move from vivid dreams that I remember when I wake up to actually going lucid in the dreams. It’s getting frustrating. I guess the difference isn’t to WANT to have a lucid dream, the difference is to KNOW you’ll do it.

Or, as Yoda put it, “do or do not; there is no try.”

So on Friday night I had a pretty vivid dream. I was Iron Man… or at least I was Tony Stark. Well, some of the time – I was with him at other points in the dream. Anyway, some arch-villain was after me, I was getting away, so he unleashed an Iron Man-meets-I, Robot automaton on me, called “The Doctor.” It was blue and white. It was scary fast and I was suddenly onboard an aircraft carrier, running through tight spaces and climbing nimbly up various piping around the ship. When I finally thought I got rid of him, he popped out of a manhole cover-looking thing and I warned Tony that it was back and it tackled me… then I flew up and out of the ship (there was suddenly a large opening in the roof).

The cool thing was that it was a very vivid dream. The not-so-cool thing is that this was a phenomenal opportunity for lucidity and I missed it.

I think part of the issue is that I don’t have specific goals for lucidity. Most people, apparently, have specific sexual escapades as their goal. Which could be fun. Apparently most men ejaculate in their lucid sex dreams but not at their real bodies back in reality. And most women might have increased vaginal blood flow, but won’t have a real orgasm in real life, similar to men. But in the lucid dream, it’s full-on a heavily erotic, very fulfilling orgasm.

I wouldn’t know. 🙁

Other goals involve investigating nightmares, personal trauma, talking to dead relatives, and even learning new things – like practicing piano or guitar in your dream. I don’t have any of these goals. Which could be a gating issue, so perhaps I should work up an agenda for my lucidity.

Saturday saw a return of a vivid dream that I remembered a lot about, but it faded fast. And so let’s pull in the title of this post (yes, Virginia, there is a point). The part I still remember is that I was out in the wilderness, walking around by myself. I kept thinking that it was stupid to go out in the woods alone. Really stupid. The thought plagued me.

Suddenly, I was at a shack in a high desert and there was a fence around the property (several acres at least). It was very dry with sparse vegetation. So I started to walk around and I found a gate, which led to a gated-in walkway that went up a hill. I went down a little way and realized, again, that I was alone and going out alone was a really stupid idea. I could see what I thought was the exit up ahead. So I turned around, and I saw 2 wolves outside the fence.

Let’s pause to consider.

2 wolves at the gate, snapping and snarling, trying to get at me. I see the symbolism, duh, but I don’t see where it applies in my day-to-day life. So is this just a case of “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar?” The wolves were small, by the way. In case that’s important.

Perhaps my next action is telling: I had no fear; then I had the sudden urge to go over and kick them in the teeth, as if to say, “you can’t get me, try as you might.” Like I’d totally kick wolves in the teeth in the real world! Instead, I simply walked back towards the shack and then the dream was over.

Perhaps the shack being alone and isolated by a fence is a giant metaphor. Perhaps it’s just a cigar (I was just visiting, after all). Perhaps the fact that I refused to leave the fenced-in area is a not-so-subtle metaphor. Perhaps it’s just a cigar. Perhaps that the wolves were small and I was unafraid of them was also another obvious metaphor. Perhaps (say it say it say it) a cigar is just a cigar (OMG he said it again! Shut up, already).

And what about that Iron Man dream? I don’t see the metaphor as clearly there, though I could scrounge up something if I were writing a paper on it. But I’m not. So fuck off.

Hypnagogic reality

Sometimes life is really just one massive hypnagogic state. Seriously. Like, yeah, you know. It is! I’m telling!

But really, I often wonder what would happen if I really DID finally close off of the brain->mouth filter? What would people think? Would I be locked up for thinking the things that you all think but are too chicken-shit to say out loud?

Like that look from the person across the conference room table. You just KNOW he’s totally freaked out by your black fingernails. What I want to do is play the part he sees in me (but has totally misread) and go over and maybe fondle his testicles. Because then he’d just drop a 10lb turd in his shorts and THAT, mein freund, would just make my inner self giggle like a schoolgirl.

Then there are other times when I wish I could just bare it all. I had a quick lunch at McDonalds yesterday, for example. The lady behind the counter was a particularly beefy, front-butted Mexican abomination that actually said, “yer fries, they coming.” I wanted to bust out in a cackle of insanity, to reach over and grab her goddamned stupid McDonalds kerchief and strangle her illegal ass with it. All the while laughing hideously, of course. Of course!

Then there are the immature moments that I relish internally. Today, our system was down when we were trying to do something at work (as a team in a conference room). Everyone kept talking about how their systems were freezing up, though they kept saying, “I’m hung – hey, are you hung?” I visualized milk streaming forth from my nostrils as these innocent people were going on and on about how hung they were. Holy crap, that shit was funny, and it was completely lost on them.

Shut up, Beavis, before I kick your ass!

I often get songs stuck in my head and I like to see how they fit into my every day consciousness, flightless birds stuck on my island of Steve and afraid to leave, lest the seals eat them for lunch. Today has been 2 Tool songs, Stinkfist and ’46 and 2.’ Awesome songs. Stinkfist is a song I’d like to play out loud because, on the surface, it’s a song about fisting someone’s ass. That’s mildly amusing in itself and would freak out the people with no more than 2cm of depth to them. But the song is REALLY about how Maynard is so damned DONE with everything fake and how he’s so desensitized to the world that the only thing he can do to actually FEEL again is to have someone jam their fist up his nasty cornhole until they’re buried to the shoulder. This is better than not being able to feel anything at all in our uber-commercialized world.

And I sometimes feel the same way. The constant thrum-thrum of everyday doldrums drive me to want to bash my fucking head against the wall even as I’m having a seemingly normal conversation with someone I actually like. Because I’m laughing at myself on the inside and I’m laughing at them and I have to play the game, I have to revert. I have to desensitize.

I have to pretend it’s all a hypnagogic state and I’m okay with it. Really, Dorothy, just click your heels together and repeat it and everything will be okay. “You were there, and you, and you, and you! And remember when Toto licked my snatch?! Damn, that dog’s a wonder.”