the naked waiter

Cheese & tater burritos, beer.

Working as a waiter at a restaurant that is in many ways my parents' house, but along the east side and the back, there is bar seating outside, facing into the space. Wrought iron bars. The balding half of the two guys who always get iced tea with easy ice is there. He eats a big meal, but wants something else. I bring him another dish, he finishes it, and then wonders about a peanut butter sandwich, just to finish it all off. I go looking for peanut butter, searching the kitchen, a tight, unpleasant, grimy place with white walls and a red tile floor. Lisa from IV is in there cooking away, I ask about PB, but she's not sure. I find something to take to the guy and go out the side garage door, but I realize I'm naked and that's not great. No one seems particularly to mind, though my dad is out along the side of the house watering and gives me hell.

pooping deer

don't remember when I had this dream. sometime this past weekend, roughly

At a campground in a mountain forest. A guy in a yellow rain slicker or "hiking gear coat" of some sort, is laying on the ground. He's giggling and smiling, we're all laughing at him. Maybe we're filming this. A doe is standing nearby. She turns around and squats her back end like a female dog peeing and drops several golf ball sized poop pellets pretty much right on his forehead. They roll off. He's gritting his teeth, laughing, nearing hysterics. She squats further and has diarrhea on the ground next to his head.

greenteeth

pasta salad, melon, cookies at marjar's

I'm going to go visit Ben at Rival [Tattoo Studio]. I decide that I will take some veggie sushi with me. I'm in the CFA building, and find a sort of kitchen somewhere, make some sushi, arrange it densely on the curly-design glass serving tray. Some I don't wrap in nori, rather they are just rice and cucumber. These I term "Greenteeth." It is a reference to them, and somehow to myself, as well.

I take my bike up to Rival. The sushi conventiently dissappears for the bike trip, but reappears once I get there. I consider that Josh is probably expecting me, and I probably should get a hold of him, but I also think that I should be able to take a small trip out on my bike and tell him later and that's okay. I find a bike rack [there are actually several to choose from in and around the parking lot, one even just inside another store door. Pure fantasy.] and decide to dissassemble my bike a bit, take one tire off and lock it all together. There are a couple of shady types hovering around. I see one of the Pazt brothers, who knows which one, there on the sidewalk. One of the tattoo artists comes out and gets him, tells him its time. "You getting your tattoo today?" I ask. "Yeah. What do you have on your tattoos?" he replies. I don't really want to go into all of it. "Really abstract stuff," I say, "Like God, for instance." He walks in, stripping off his shirt. I try to cop a stare, but don't get much candy.

I go in with my rematerialized sushi platter. The place is packed. The wating room is trashy, undecorated, under construction. Industrial gray carpet. Grimy old couches, crappy TV. I sit down next to a girl I know [somewhere between Missy Goldenburg from high school and the girl from a move last night] and put down the sushi, offer it to everyone. People seem unenthused, and I'm a little disappointed, but I know that if I leave it, it will get eaten. There's a red marker on the table, I pick it up and start coloring the edges of some of the rolls. There seems to be ketchup or sweet'n'sour or blood or something on some of them, staining them. Missy has a piece. But then she exclaims, "Greenteeth?!? Who's Greenteeth?" I tell her that it's a joke about me. She says, "That's why I hate this so much." She seems genuinely angry, disgusted. I think she's being an incredibly prim bitch. I made sushi for everyone, didn't I?

are you old enough to drink or not?

Vespa sandwich from IV, water, otterpops

I'm at work, but more at the dreamland IV that I've been to before. A relatively new server is talking to me and his girlfriend, apparently it's her birthday. He wants to sample her on the beers, and he pulls out these little 4oz clear plastic ramekins and starts pulling beers into them. I stop him and tell him that there's a better way to do this, and show him the proper glasses to build a sampler. I start to pull some Irish, but then I pause. "Hey, are you old enough to drink?"

But the guy won't give me any straight answer, says that he has two ID's, so it's okay. "But, do they [the restaurant] know that you're not 21? 'Cuz if they do..." His face keeps switching between his [I don't know this guy] and Jonas' face. I look up to where he put his plastic ramekinis of beer and they're turned to floam and grown out the top of the containers, into big fluffy domes. One is pinkish, another is green like ground pistachios, another is a tan color. I laugh and show everyone what happens to our beer when it touches plastic, apparently. I turn and the girlfriend has changed into an IV shirt and is putting her hair up, standing by the register. "It's your birthday and you have to work? That sucks!" I give her a kiss on the cheek. And if she's working, then it doesn't matter how old the two of them are, and I let it go. I think about maybe we could use a melon baller and make some strange dessert out of the floam beer.

I'm a gawky native teen

Grilled cheese sammies, salad with our tomatoes, otterpops

At the home center with my dad; he's a middle aged Navajo man, bellyish in a strange t-shirt. He keeps lecturing me, his Navajo son, to get back into the lawn care program classes. "Have you even been going in after church?" Now I'm a bashfull, mushmouthed Navajo teen aged girl in a brown tent dress and white t-shirt & keds.

"No, I've been staying in the car to sleep." I laugh uncomfortably and cover my mouth, turn away.

My dad has strange sparklers and cigarette lighters attached to his shirt, a shirt I gave him. My mother has encouraged me to get it all lit, to try to appease him. I try, but the lighter hanging around his neck won't light. We're squishing around in an indoor, soupy demo lawn in this strange greenhouse space. I'm a teenaged boy again. A tree, like a lever, a sort of thick bamboo shoot, is an activator for a computer program that I need to reactivate my class program. It's down in the bog and I try to swing it up and get it activated. I'm only a class or two away from my certification."I want something like this vocationally," I tell him.

My father is still angry. "Have you talked to Adrienne [Salinger, the evil photograpaher bitch] about that?" Apparently Adrienne has been my mentor, either in the arts, or in some sort of artistic yardwork direction.

"I can't TALK to Adrienne." She is impossible.

We go through some automatic doors, to an indoor pool full of people, lots of colorful floaties and suits. It's surrounded by chest-high adobe wall, curved into alcoves with computer terminals in the nooks. I re-register for the program.

Guido woke me up at this point to go out, and then there was a lightning storm.

anti-nazi spy and art historian

Stroganoff with broccoli and boca, straberry shortcake, a couple of ice pops later.

Fragmented. I’m part of a team or organization that is working to undermine the growing neo-nazi movement in the area. I’ve been sent to watch and listen, I’ll be stationed at the IV there on Central, but posing as a customer, not an employee. Some sort of epic struggle to get across town, activity centered around the Washington/Menaul area, moving through alleyways & dodging around, etc. etc. It’s dangerous and violent, but I don’t really remember how.

Actually in Nob Hill, I know that I need to better disguise myself-- I’m wearing my IV workshirt, for fuck’s sake. Where can I get something different that’s also CHEAP? There’s another pizza joint up the road, NY style, mainly stand-up, pick-up, and delivery. They’re having a grand opening or anniversary or something, and the palce is littered with boxes of very low-quality, cheaply silkscreened t-shirts. I find a box marked L that I like the design of and pull one out. All of the designs are red/black/white, most involve text and a constructivist poster-esque graphic, many with faces. Mine has a tight view of a woman’s eyes, looking sideways. [Very spy-like, in a cartoonish way.] I try to strike up a conversation with the kid behind the counter [in reality an IV-Heights worker], but he isn’t very interested. I talk about how expensive the shirts are for workers at IV, whereas these are going for only $3.00, he’s giving me a “yeah, yeah, shit’s tough all over-- NEXT!” sort of response. Very little solidarity from my fellow pizza kid.

I “disguise” myself. But instead of on stakeout, I end up with my art class, in a cramped bar sort of place, and our instructor is the bartender. He runs the class from behind the bar while he works. We’re looking at artworks salon-hung on a wall. They’re all white, red, and pink, very modern, highly graphic-oriented paintings running to the cartoonish, some with resin over the top. They’re neo-nazi pop art propaganda. The images are largely sihouettes of hip people (esp women in short dresses) dancing, with reverberating auras around them. but from these vague environments will step, say, a neo-nazi character, seemiing to harrangue the viewer. Very comic book inspired. [I have seen these images before in the dream, but I can’t recall when or where, I think back the the beginning when I’m across town, but...] Several of the more finished images have a background of spiralliing red & white stripes, and tend to be 1.5 foot squares and have the resgn overcoats.

The large painting in the center has these.spiralling stripes, but is just a painted loose canvas tacked to the wall. There are also little portraits or vignettes in a circle, towards the edge of the canvas. The instructor encourages us to count the stripes/vignettes, but I’m way ahead of him. I have a china marker out & I’m physically writing on the canvas. We come up with 33, which seems to mean something to the instructor, he points out that 33 is the same number as such and such in neo-nazi mytho-coding. [It made complete sense at the time, I wish I could remember the actual thing he said.] He wonders what we make of the spiral designs, too. I say to a fellow student that I recently read that when a person goes through “psycho-somatic withdrawal from drugs and/or alcohol” [I really meant simply “withdrawl,” but adding ther P-S term was correct in the dream.], many people experience the strong compulsion to draw spirals. I think of Spiral Jacobs from _Perdido Street Station_, and this somehow makes sense. The instructor asks me to repeat my poiint to him/the whole class. I do, and he challenges me, do I mean MOST people in withdrawal, or just SOME? I’m not certain, but I fudge it and say it is an extremely common effect, and that the artist (a mystery person we’re trying to identify) is probably going though detox and this explains not only the artworks, but also the person’s political choices, overreacting to become so proper and straight that they have chosen naziism to express themselves. But he dismisses my ideas as farfetched and unsupported. I’m aggravated.

vagina stump girl [sexually explicit!]

this from saturday night

Boca burger & fries from Mannies, a few beers with Shane & Josh at Joe's

First portion is forgotten. There's a group of parasitic hippie backpaker types living at my parent's place. I'm up there some, too. They go off to camp somewhere but come back the same day, something went wrong. We're out in the front yard.

The blond girl and I get a little frisky, and we begin to make out in the yard. We seem to warp back and forth from a bedroom to the yard, but we're making out, dry fucking. I slowly pry her arm up and go to sniff the wierd little tuft of blond hair under her arm, and I find it wierd that she has literally no scent what so ever. [Back when I was studying psychology of dreams as a teenager, I was at a talk on the subject, and the lecturer mentioned that the sense of smell is almost universally absent in dreaming] She does the same to me, and burries her face energetically in my armpit. We're still dry fucking, and I can feel her boner [yes] through her jeans. I'm getting my dick out and rubbing it against her crotch, but she says she doesn't want to fuck. I tell her, genuinely, that that's fine, that we can just entertain each other's fetishes and mess around.

I tell her, "You've got me so hard!"

She replies, "Yeah, me too."

At which point I realize that it's pretty strange that she obviously has a boner in her pants. I give her an amused, quizzical response, and she says "Oh yeah, that's just me!" She peels down her pants and I'm presented with her crotch. It's barbie doll like, completely smooth, and her pubic area protrudes as a thick stump, maybe 6 inches across and 4 inches tall. At the end, there is a red, bulbous knob, shiny, the size of an apricot, and there is a tiny vagina on the underside of it. I grab the stump around the base with my thumb and middle finger and squeeze rhythmically. She gets hot & moany, ruts up against my hand.

warriors, come out to play

first dream of the night, the second recorded below. Woke up and wrote this down before going back to sleep.

A nomadic warrior culture that sweeps ever onward across the desert. We meet and fight other factions now and again, forever going "there." Fantastic beasts of burden and war carry us, in one fantastic fight a girraffic camel, my friend sweeps by and I am caught up by centrifugal forces, swinging wildly around. We hide beneath a giant willow tree with only a few enormous branches & massive, trailing fountains of leaves. The view for much of this is often from above, as if I watch toys carry out these actions. We are rag tag, dusty, tattered, but fierce and cruel. Clothes seem to be mishmashes of patchwork and hemp cord and straps and beads. We are barbarians.

We venture underground, always looking for something to exploit or steal or discover for use. It is a vast, level place, the earth just above our heads. It is very very black, illuminated by a dim, bluish light. We are confronted by the warriors of the peope that live down here. They are muscular, charcoal-grey men, wearing nothing but oily knee-length breeches. Miners. Their right hands have grown as huge as their torsos, and they strange are almost laughable, if we were not trapped in their world, in the dark, and if they were not so many. My vision flashes between a wide view of their numbers, to a very close view of the face of their leader. He bellows incomprehensible commands, they surge toward us, they are massive, stomping giants, each footfall crashes, the earth is shaking all around us. We are lost, trapped, no way out.

I am wedged in a crack in the earth, face up or face down it is hard to say. One hand is up by my face, the other is pinned down by my waist. I test at scratching into the dirt and the smooth surface crumbles, threatens to cover my face and suffocate me. The miner soldiers are crashing and stomping above my earth crevice tomb. I can feel them scooping up great handfulls of earth and rock, cleanly scooping as if their giant hands are metal tools through the oily mud. I will be burried. I can feel it, as if I am, myself, the earth and they tickle me. I scratch again, more earth crumbles up against my face. I will surely die here.

They pass me, I get out somehow, back to the aboveground. It is chaos, we are fleeing the things we stirred up from below.

The camel again, my friends again, the tree again.

[I awoke to a lightning storm and torrential rains.]

steve's been shot

frontier vegetarian burrito, 2 pints at kelley's, 2 MGD at gecko's, late night cereal

Steve's been shot. But in this concrete and steel society, I can't get to him in the hospital. I want to so badly. The front of the hospital is essentially the back stairs by the museum office. There are police everywhere-- not for Steve I assume, but a person like me won't be able to waltz in. A group of us are milling about, trying to think of something. Someone, some friend, shows up in a fake uniform and determinedly herds a group of us in, but I'm not standing there when it happens, I miss it, I whistle the signal to get their attention and a few glance back, but we all know there's no way for them to pause, it would give it all away.

A guy in a uniform I don't recognize, maybe hospital security, comes walking up to me. I recognize him, but I don't know why. He comes straight up to me and tells me to follow him, don't look back, don't stop, keep moving. I follow him without a question. Up the stairs, past the police, and very quickly into a strange, isolated stairwell, a very tight spiral with a metal rail [like at the CFA, incidentally]. People are coming up as we're going down, and I can't seem to figure if I should pass on the right or left. I think that the last time I was in this situation was in castles in the UK, and maybe I passed on a different side then.

But finally we're down the stairs--way far down in the building, far underground. My guide puts me off at a door into a dim concrete room the size of a storefront. There are winiding concrete bench platforms through the room, every several feet there is a young man laying, many with some minimal instrumentation next to them. They are all seemingly made of plastic, cast in plastic with the quality of a kid's bath toy. They look like Egon Schiele drawings, or Aeon Flux characters, cast in plastic. I find Steve in the middle of the room, he's on his back, one leg pulled up and crossed over alarmingly, his heel up by his waist. He's in a strange loincloth, and there is a drawn circle over one thigh, apparently where the bullet hit him. I sit down and begin sobbing. Steve wakes up, unfolds like a spider and sits up, puts his arm around me. I'm sobbing uncontrollably, I have to be quiet or we might draw attention.

i'm a self-important thief, but not glad about it

4th of july party in the back yard, lots of starch, cheese, and booze

this dream seems to have featured the music of James Intveld and Marti Brom, fromt he _Billy, Vol 1_ disk Josh was playing last night. "Cryin' Over You" and "Eat My Words," respectively.

I live in a place that seems almost like a TV set or a colony of some sort, everything right there, centered around a twisting, steep road. Everything in sight is owned or defacto controlled by the big man in town, and you can tell he's around right now, because of all the activity. There's even a semi truck maneuvering in and out of tight spaces, the big man's name emblazoned on the black side in gold cursive letters: Pabst. I think all of the hubbub is ostentatious and stupid, and I say so to someone, but I'm hushed and there seems a real fear that one could get in trouble for such talk.

The close street is densely populated with cafes and cars and people, a sort of modern mediterranean architecture with tall walls around courtyards and archways and portals (spanish), most in a dark salmon red stucco, also whites. Bustle.

I meet my neighbors. We have houses with large plots that terrace up or down away from the main street, seperated by cobbled together wooden structures and mesh netting. They are new to this place, and are growing head lettuces. A married couple, man and woman, we greet each other and go through pleasantries. Sometime later, I am with a friend in a small amphitheater or tiny stadium. I'm going on and on about how I don't like to talk to people I don't know, that there is no point in meaningless conversations with a person you'll never see again. I realize that my new neighbors are sitting behind us, and I genuinely wasn't meaning anything like the conversation & pleasantries we had had earlier. I turn around, and say, "But then, take these fine people here, who are my neighbors, and we are going to know each other, so it is worth it to have conversations with them." It isn't coming out very well, and the woman especially seems rather uncomfortable and off-put. I'm not certain I can rescue this situation.

I go to lunch in one of the cafes along the road, the white one with all the flowers and colorful everything. The service is absolutely terrible. I do get something to eat, maybe it's a buffet of some sort, but then I simply can't get my server to bring me a check. I have money ready, I want to get out the door, but no one will help me. A man with a pushbroom is sweeping the restaurant, and out from under a table he knocks a tab book. I snatch it up and find that it has a bill, a man's credit card with an american flag design on it, and a large handful of money. I immediately decide to steal the cash outright. There's a few 5's, a 10, a 20, and a 40 dollar bill, and maybe more. The money is strange colors, the 40 is purple. I decide to leave enough cash to cover the bill in the book, at least the bill is covered and they won't run the card. I know I'm ripping off...who? Probably the guy the card belings to, since there's no reason for so much cash to be in the book. I gotta stuff the cash in my pocket fast, though, cuz finally my server is buzzing around my table. I feel kinda quilty, kinda not. She whispers in my ear.