March 27th, 2002

travels - where the road leads

written right from waking - clean up later if so desired.

I dreamt last night that I was playing at a beach, or at least very sandy park... coming down the slide I found what was first a silver ball, but sort of changed and flattened into a hockey puck with some autograph on it in gold. I took it up to the boardwalk, where there were a lot of kids with machine guns who escorted me to a sort of bank window. Behind bullet-proof glass an older guy demanded the puck from me in a gruff voice. Looking around at the guns, I shrugged, and slid it through a metal drawer to him, and asked if there was a reward for bringing it back... he snarled and said that his gift to me was that I had one minute before he told the kids to open fire.

I sort of accepted that and started sprinting away, jumping over the side of the boardwalk and into the thick grasses below. It was less than a minute later when gunfire erupted, sending leaves into movement around my head and whizzing sounds near my ears. The terrain changed to a more inland-type with heavy scrub and wrought-iron fences... a graveyard appeared and granted a lot of cover from the now less frequent gunfire. From behind one of the crypts there was a rope-grid leading up over a wall, and there were more of those silver pucks at the base. I picked up two and put one in each front pocket before climbing the makeshift ladder over the taller fence, pulling it off the top of the fence, so my hunters would have trouble following.

Losing them, I went to a lifeguard station up the coast that also has a police sub-station nearby. (this is actually a place near the pompano pier... the land was more even and the beach was now in view. In my waking reality, there are no graveyards or giant play areas that close) right out fornt of the station, I was recounting the events to my ex-boss's son, who didn't believe me..."I didn't hear any gunfire... you're full of shee-it". I was miffed and handed him a puck, and told him to take a walk up coast a bit, and show it to any of the kids up there, then. His 'dad' shows up, (It wasn't my ex-boss, but some skinny guy that sort of looks like Lance Hendrickson) and tells him not to... for some reason I think he's responsible for security on the beach. I demand that he do something about the gun-toting teenagers and the old guy... he just replies that "Even the police are afraid to go in there. It's easier to just let them have the land." I start calling him names, as he walks away... "Coward! C--ksucker!"... about this time, I got a little lucid, (maybe because I don't call anyone c--ksucker, even when annoyed... maybe an a--hole, at the worst), and just started yelling psuedo-insult words that begin with 'c'... "Cookie Crook", "Cheeze Cracker", "Cheerleader", "Cabbage Patch Kid!"...

upon which Newt woke me up by patty-patting my forehead, looking for snuggles. I gladly obliged him, mulling this over in my mind before getting up and typing it out here.

totally unrelated.... or is it? - thank-you-ma'am

I overslept... no time for walkies today. Somehow, I'm disappointed. I sort of want to walk to the beach, now.
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    That's my baby - piglets
scotto monkeypulse

(no subject)

Cursed work ethic. I'm shower-fresh, but just want to go back to bed. No, siree, mr journal. As soon as my shirt is on, I'm calling a cab.

Forgot to mention met the new tenant in the old hippies' apartment... an obese black guy, bald with shoulders that join, neckless into a lump of a head. Seems like a nice fellow, though. He has an easy smile, and is willing to talk to neighbors just coming home from work.

Newt knows when I get ready to leave... once I put keys and money in my pockets, he heads for the fron door, and sits tight there, and plays with my shoes there, waiting for me to have to take them, and watch him hop into the front window to watch me head to work. I want to work from home today, but it's not an option.
  • Current Music
    a pet story - animal planet (dog frisbee)
scotto monkeypulse


do not try my patience! (scotto handprint on entry zone... still unrepaired, many many montrhs later... I forget when it even happened)

It's the day before the full moon, and I'm feeling a little off. I'm tired and groggy... can't seem to shake off the funk I'm in. I've been at work for an hour, had a tall, cold tea from the "roach coach", but still feel like only 5 of my 8 cylinders are firing. Minor soreness in the base of my back, but my main complaint is a head full of cotton. What I need to do is re-channel my energy (if I can find where I put it), and get the ball rolling. Once I have some momentum, the rest of the missing pieces will fall into place. I think.

Irrational thoughts are filling my mind, and I don't like them there. Non-sequitors and unhelpful nonsense are taking up space where more useful information should be. My mind is a cluttered mess at the moment, when usually everything might be a little scattered, at least I can find what it is I'm looking for.

I'm fortunate to have a few solid anchors to focus on... Newton this morning, nuzzling close, fur like a rabbit's, nose rubbing against my neck and purring loudly in my ear. Thoughts of my sweetheart's echoing words of love and play, logic and lust, images of us curled up together on the couch, watching TV or just listening to her laughter.

There's a strong link to sleep there. Many pleasant pictures of cuddling in bed, only a hint of soft light in the room while spooning... her asleep and me in the pleasant halfway twilight between this world and the land beyond, comforted by her and Newt's breathing being the only sounds, synchronizing with my own. I suspect that when I do get to sleep tonight, it'll be a solid, sound, deep one.

On a semi-related tack -

I'm vaguely aware of Newt's location as I sleep. I can feel him move from my neck to against the calf of my leg, opposite... then to inside the "nest" that forms, should I lay back Indian-style, with a square opening, with opposite angles starting at my knees. If he wants to play, generally he'll give my face or neck a little "tap-tap" with his swabby-front feet... and if it's light out, I'll oblige him. I can't recall the last time he did it when it was still dark out, but I think it was because he was chilly... as I rustled to reply to him then, he just scampered under the covers with me, and purred, laying close. Sometimes he only sleeps nearby, but usually he's in some sort of contact with me, even if it's just an edge of tail touching my ankle. (I'm the same way... when sharing the bed, I like to touch, too.)

I'm officially adding Rudy McRudeRudyson to "Small Hands" nickname list. The stinker interrupted an important call of Dale's just to use Dale's phone to call someone in the parking lot. (Rudy McRude Has a cell-phone, and a regular phone in his office, about 15-20 steps away... or he could've used my phone which wasn't in use at the time.)
  • Current Music
    mild nattering in diana's office
scotto monkeypulse

"You got the curves, baby, but I've got the angles. All the angles covered."

two words I used in conversation today... screwball and screwy. (one in reference to the other, really... "What's that screwball doing in the office? I thought he was in Tampa!" "Uh, what?" "Screwball... Ol' Small hands is screwy in the head, y'know?"

puts me into the mind of old philip marlowe...

"it was only a gambler's marker, a promise to pay worth a thousand bucks, and I was hired to find it which sounded easy, until I realized that it meant the whole future to two men, freedom to a third and death to the girl in the cottage."

grey army man tries to escape the greens

I've been wondering...Has anyone done the "Which cheap plastic army man are you" test yet? belly crawler, radio guy, minesweeper, guy running with gun overhead, bazooka man, binoculars guy, machine gun on a bipod guy, mortar guy, rally the troops guy, rifle as a club guy, or medic.... I think I could work one out if it's not already been done. What fun! I suspect I'd be the "hit guy"... I've never had one, but it looks right.

What colors... green, dark green, tan, grey...were there blue ones? I know cowboys and indians were all primaries, like yellow and red and blue...and the space guys were black and white.

Curses! CNN has caught wind of my evil plan!
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    newtie mers
scotto monkeypulse

(no subject)

bagpiper army guyYikes! I have breakfast with Dan tomorrow!

I should call and find out what time he's coming over...maybe ask him to remind me to get some ellie-wood and to bring my ref manual into work tomorrow. I just know I'm going to forget. I know which army man Danny'd be....
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    ed,edd, and eddy
scotto monkeypulse

links found via blue, scrubbles and google (the black blob info was leaked to me by rgladiator, btw)

Poem Tag project up to 68... a major update after 4/2. I'm going to have to boogie to catch up my gallery, maybe on Sunday, while my sweetie is entertaining her family.

Yet another Reason I love living in Florida. The Dali Museum. ... check out the store. neat stuff!

Here, make an Easter bonnet entirely out of marshmallow peeps. Just stay away from places favored by birds and ants should you venture to wear it.

TV Land's Retromercials provide somewhat bizarre but not entirely unpleasant 70s flashbacks, with video clips of a bubble-eyed, wooden clog-wearing Swiss Miss puppet telling us that we'd better not "add milk" to the cocoa powder, and of Mother Nature sticking her nose into a keg of Chiffon margarine, swooning over it, then screeching, "It's not nice to fool Mother Nature!" Possibly sending the narrator guy to certain metaphysical or just plain physical doom.

"To test the lab-grown meat's appeal, his team showed it to colleagues to analyze for color and fried the meat to assess its aroma. Benjaminson said most considered the fish meat appetizing, although no one actually tasted it since he hasn't won approval from the Food and Drug Administration."

If no one had the courage to actually taste this meat (which was, incidentally, concocted from the hopelessly funky combination of fetal bovine serum and goldfish meat), how did they come to the conclusion that it was "appetizing"? From smelling it as it was being fried up? I'm picturing all these wacky scientists standing around wearing "Kiss the Cook" aprons and big chef hats, frying this fake meat on a barbecue grill as they all exclaim, "Yep! Smells like chicken!"

PopCult's website of the week is Secret Fun Spot. Great place to rediscover childhood junk you forgot you once had (like this, something I coveted for about five minutes in 1980) and enjoy the work of Marvin Glass, Michelangelo of plastic toys.

And now, I go to sleep.. but first, my views on todays dead celebs. nigh night, dear Journal. I look forward to happy dreams.

Milton Berle was one of the true innovators of television, even if it's mostly crossdressing and pie in the face humor. Thanks for getting it started. Good journeys.

Why I won't miss Dudley Moore. That's all I have to say about that.
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