…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)
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.
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.
Last week, an intern was brought on board for one of my web clients. And lemme tell you something, fiends: webmasters are worse than sopranos and toddlers. As soon as her name was announced, I began to think selfish thoughts. Is she here to take over? Are they making me share my toys? Thinking about replacing me? Firing me? Giving me the old heave-ho, because a younger, prettier version was found?
