Monthly Archives: October 2011

A tasty morsel,

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as my fiend Stoney is wont to say.

Yesterday, in her comment, PK gave a link to a cute little snack: Chocolate Peanut Butter Acorns. I thought they’d be perfect for the faculty lunch for Boss’s Day tomorrow, so I made some up last night:

Wow, they are yummy, and so easy. And I have enough ingredients left to possibly bring a batch to my cast at rehearsal tomorrow night — if they’re wonderful and the words are correct and the metal on the feet hits the floor all at the same time. [I was a bit disappointed that the Hershey’s Kisses had “chocolate dust,” even though the freshness date on the bag said 9-2012. :-( Oh well. Got overheated during shipping, I guess.]

They’re a great fall treat, and really do resemble little acorns. Cute!

All right. As Daffy Duck would say: back underground. More parts to write. And thanks again, PK!

RNF LI

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So, I wonder things this day. Having just responded to yesterday’s comments on strange dreams, I got to thinking about how much, as children, our perspective is janked.

Analyze this:

  • When I was, oh, 5 or 6 years old, my mom bought some Bible stories on 33 RPM records. They came complete with sound effects and dramatic readings. I only remember one tale from the collection, and only because it terrified me. It was the story of the Passion. At the point where Roman soldiers came to Gethsemane to arrest Jesus, the narrator’s voice took on a dark, sinister tone, and he said something like, “Then the soldiers came to take him away.” Starting very softly and growing into this horrible crescendo came the sound of marching boots (did they even have boots back then?). Closer and closer, louder and louder. I was positively terrorized by that sound, as if they were coming to get me. Honestly, I can reproduce the sound in my mind right now, like it was 1964 all over again.
  • Suzanne’s comment about having a recurring nightmare where giant pins chased her reminded me of this weirdness from my own childhood. Sometime in elementary school, I learned about Abraham Lincoln’s assassination, via filmstrip. (Remember filmstrips, with the accompanying records for narration with the little beep tones that told you when to flip to the next frame? I loved being chosen to be the flipper.) At some point, it showed that old cartoon drawing of Booth shooting Lincoln. Again: terrorized. I had never ever in my life seen anyone in print or on television point a gun at someone’s head. And for some bizarre, unknown reason, I developed a fear that lasted for years afterward: Abraham Lincoln was lying underneath my bed, ready to grab my feet as I got in or out. So I’d turn off my bedroom light, get a running start, and perform the Olympic long jump into bed. I mean I made it from five feet away. Silver medal style. I did that for years. True confession: I still get ooky standing next to a bed.
  • Remember when you thought your house was really big? This past summer, the Thriller and I took a nostalgic trip to my childhood home in Milwaukee. I remember how huge my front yard looked to me, after Dad had the sod laid down. It was like a meadow. Seeing it 37 years later? Not so much. But it was enormous, I know it was…
Jake and Justin like to ride their trikes down a little slope in our back yard. And by little, I mean a gentle incline. They call it “the mountain.” To them, I’m sure it looks huge. Ten years from now, when they visit, one will say to the other, “Remember when we used to call that ‘the mountain?'” Sometimes I think stuff is ruined by growing up. True wonder is rare in adult life, ja?
~
Hey, it’s Finkday! FINALLY. :-)

What was I doing…

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…when I couldn’t sleep at 3 a.m.?


And now I’ve smoked every level in every world in all three games (Angry Birds, AB Seasons and AB Rio), getting every secret banana, watermelon, coconut, egg, mango…what to do now?

Ah, right. Work. Oi. But hey, the weekend’s coming, and in between writing rhythm section and horn parts and rehearsing, it’s time for another test drive on a cake. This time it’s carrot cake with cream cheese filling & icing. The Thriller is all too happy to be my taste-tester.

Rehearsals this past week have been, well…interesting. Hey, here’s an awesome non sequitur: I hardly ever remember my dreams/nightmares. Only rarely. Well before I forget it, I have to tell you about the nightmare that woke me up at 3:00 this morning.

I was driving on the interstate in a strange SUV with people I didn’t know. Cut to scene: I’m in the ladies’ room at a rest stop, and some woman keeps trying to open the bathroom stall door and expose me to all & sundry. I keep asking her to knock it off. Cut to scene: I’m sitting in some court room. Seems I cold-cocked the gal and she sued me. Who’s my lawyer? Saul Goodman from Breaking Bad. HAAAA. I keep telling him that I have absolutely no recollection of striking the woman. He says, “Hey, you gotta tell the judge.” I no sooner get the words out of my mouth than the judge says, “Remand her to custody.” As I plead with the strangers I was driving with to save me, I jar awake and look at the clock — 3:04.

Fantastic. What could it all mean? I consulted Dream Doctor and shook the 8-ball. The closest explanation I could find was this:

 If a dreamer searches for a bathroom but cannot find a private location (all the shower stalls are exposed, or strangers are present causing the dreamer to be uncomfortable), the dream may indicate fear of expressing one’s “private behaviors” in public.

Erm…

So hey, tell me the weirdest dream you’ve ever had. I shall interpret.

Fink of many colors (and secrets, apparently)

My affinity for serial TV

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You know, time was, you couldn’t find a nighttime soap on television. When I was growing up (60s & 70s), evening TV watching was made up mostly of shows with stand-alone episodes. Bonanza, Perry Mason, Marcus Welby, MD, Happy Days, Barney Miller, M*A*S*H and the like were programs you could miss for weeks at a time and never lose your place in their stories.

That all changed in 1978, when Dallas premiered, and producers — to their utter delight — realized that people could actually remember episode details from week to week, as opposed to the day-to-day schedule of normal daytime soap operas. Moreover, Dallas appealed to men, whereas the daytime half-hour soaps (broadcast, of course, during children’s nap times) were geared almost exclusively to women who stayed home. So began the era of evening serial television. Now, you can’t throw a rock without hitting one.

I must admit, I do love it so. Whoever did the demographic research on the subject knew that these types of stories tap into our most basal desires to share emotional experiences with those on the screen, and to run the gamut of reactions: disgust, anger, dread, sorrow, and most fun of all: shock. They want us to take sides, and boy, do we ever not disappoint on that score. And when the season finales rolled around, it was no holds barred. Beginning with the granddaddy of them all (“Who Shot J.R.?”), they’ve tried to outdo one another for decades.

Such was the case with the season finale of Breaking Bad last Sunday night. World: rocked. If you’re looking for an awesome series to sink your teeth into, this would be the one. What happens when a soft-spoken high school chemistry teacher finds out he has cancer, and to provide for his family after his death, decides to become a ruthless meth cook and assassin? You can catch up on the first four seasons on Netflix, or on various illicit (free) places on the web. Sadly, there’s only one season left.

But hey, you could always watch Dallas. TNT is even bringing it back! I wonder how old die-hards like Yours Truly will like the new casts and storylines. I’ma give it a try, though.

Hey, it’s Tunesday. Blah.

FO