In Dreams

There are perfectly good dreams. Bad ones too. There are great dreams and nightmares. Night terrors are extremely awful. Most dreams are not memorable in the least.

But, every once in a great while, conditions are right for astounding dreams. Dreams so amazingly wonderful, so perfect that waking is akin to dying. The story arcs so perfect, one couldn't even imagine the genius mind or tender thoughtfulness of the human who could conceive of such wonder (then somehow you realize it’s your mind).

The sights. The sounds. The smells. The lighting. Nuances and even the most minute details of things small and very far in the background are stunning. Ahh, but…

But, above all, the emotions are astonishing! Falling in love, fright or worry is extra-life-like – extraordinary! The feelings of love where the overarching sense of desire and connection; the well being and playful oneness are so complete so intertwined that there are never enough tears or welling.

Loss that feels so absolutely devastating in its desperate separation and finality.

Last night I had one of those dreams. Damn.

I really want to embrace the Washington Nationals. I've followed them through spring training and ten games into the season. Sure, I hate the damn, that everyone is so nutty about them for some faddish reason or another. Sure, my team is LA. The motherfucking Dodgers, right? But, I haven't lived in L.A. for 20 years. I've lived equal my life away from L.A. So, I can pick another team. And, right here in my lap falls a team. A National League baseball team. I had to outlay nothing. No cash, no blood, no sweat.

They look like a baseball team. They even have a couple of known quantity ballplayers. The Nationals!

But, as I sit here watching the Washington Nationals and the Arizona Diamondbacks...I find my attention waning. Diamondbacks v. Nationals. Seriously. I mean, they look like a baseball team. They're playing on a diamond of major league porportions and quality.

If I have to hear "baseball is back" or see one more mope in a "W" hat...

I dunno about this...Go Dodgers?

Babadoo: Hey Whabadoo?

Whabadoo: What is it Babadoo?

Babadoo: I'm tryin' to figures something out.

Whabadoo: What is it Babadoo? Jello?

Babadoo: No, not Jello, but you got a point...flavored cow bones, chick rasslin' in it and shit. Fucking weird. But no, it's the PEDs I'm confused about Whabadoo.

Whabadoo: You mean PEZ Babadoo. Remember that dispenser I had, looked like Nicole Simpson? Not right, huh?

Babadoo: No, PEDs, Performance-Enhancing Drugs Whabadoo.

Whabadoo: What's so confusing 'bout that? It's cheating pure and simple. 'Roids is bad, that's that. Even got a big ass Congressional Probe to put a stop to it. Besides, I hear they shrink your nads. Makes ballplayers RAGE and fight the audience and stuff.

Babadoo: Can't be Whabadoo - Arnold ran for Governor so they can't be all that small. Did you actually say "nads" Whabadoo? "Nads?" What, you gonna use "wuss" next?

Whabadoo: Yeah, that took big nads. You got a point there...wuss!

Babadoo: Besides Whabadoo, I'm not even talking about the 'roids. I'm talking bout Marijuana. Name one great artist, architect, poet, writer or musician who's performance wasn't enhanced by that drug? Shit, we wouldn't even HAVE jazz or tripgrass without it. Were they cheaters Whabadoo? And maybe there should be an asterisk by Van Gogh's name for using opium. That sure enhanced his (or her) performance as a painter. And, what about the old school ballers like Wilt and Bill Walton. John Wooden let Bill Walton smoke up because he knew it let him play better, more fluid.

Whabadoo: An asterisk by his name? Where? What are you going on about Babadoo? Maybe they should call themselves, Phish* or Led Zeppelin* or maybe even William Shakespeare*? How 'bout this: Jesus*! Click this link, Bab.

Babadoo: Or what about the millions of people who take Prozacs who perform better at work and in their relationships because they don't want to die no more? Is that cheatin' Whabadoo? Jimmy didn't beat his wife, but we are forced to put an asterisk by his behavioral performance today.

Whabadoo: You get the point. And then there's Viager - it enhances ole daddy's "performance" from what I can hear - talk about "cheating on your wife." And I take Ginko Biloba and some multi-vitimins and a tramadol or two. And the Egyptians ate lotus flowers, probably did something for them, those fucking cheaters! Let's get a Congressional Probe to see if the Egyptians cheated when they built the pyramids! Should I get a discount because the guys that installed my carpet were a bit high? What about Otto?

Babadoo: Yeah, now you see why I'm confused Whabadoo. Nicole Simpson and pez? That ain't right.

Whabadoo: Maybe...the asterisk can become the new universal symbol for PEDs. That way, we bring all the cheaters out into the open. How 'bout that, Babadoo*?

Whabadoo*: Well? How 'bout that, Babadoo*?

Whabadoo: JEHOVAH!!! YOU IDIOTIC WHORE!!! YOU MAGGOT!!! YOU CAN'T UNDERSTAND THIS, DOWN HERE!!! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING, YOU TYRANT!!! YOU DON'T LOVE ME!!! YOU DON'T LOVE ME!!!!! BUT I DON'T CARE, BECAUSE I HATE YOU!!!!!

Babadoo: Whabadoo! Wake up, man! Whabadoo!!

Whabadoo: Huh, wha?!

Babadoo: Whabadoo, you were screaming in your sleep. Something about Jehovah and maggots and tyrants. What were you dreaming about?

Whabadoo: Oh, I was just dreaming that I was reading the newspaper.

Babadoo: Whoa, that's a whopper!

Ty: Hey, guys?

Whabadoo: What you want, Mister Ty?

Babadoo: Yeah?

Ty: I brought a friend, he's religious, so be nice, okay?

Babadoo: Okay, who is this culty fuck?

Whabadoo: Babadoo, cut that shit out, dude. Chill. He looks cool...for a man of the cloth or whatever.

Ty: Guys, this is the Rev. DJ Richie-Scratchy, you can call him Rich.

Babadoo: Hello, Mister Reech.

Whabadoo: Where's your collar?

DJ Richie-Scratchy: Ha-ha guys. I don't wear a collar. I'm a virtual minister; an Internet preacher. Praise God to all!

Ty: Okay, Rich. Tell the fellas what you were telling me.

DJ Richie-Scratchy: Guys, I'm hear to tell you that God is mad. Angry. Pissed the hell off. The end is near! Praise Allah!

Whabadoo: Really!?

Babadoo: What we do? How do you know?

DJ Richie-Scratchy: In addition to feeding tubes for the Pope and no feeding tubes for the Terri, God gave us earthquakes in the same brown part of the world not too far from Christmas and Easter. I bet he meant them to be on Christmas and Easter but when you have to throw them from so far away (the other side of the universe) you can be off by a couple of days. Praise Buddha.

Plus, Jerry Falwell is bleeding out the asshole and Johnnie Cochran got a wicked brain tumor - the fun inoperable kind. "If the tumor's too big; nigga, get a shovel and start to dig!"

Ty: Dude, that was cold! The brotha's just doing his ca-zash bizz-niz. You don't have to hate...

DJ Richie-Scratchy: "...if homie's got a lump in the head; get yo po ass outta bed..."

Babadoo: Whabad-- What the fuck is that?!

Whabadoo: Well, I got to thinking. Terri had one. John Paul has one. I got me a feeding tube! I hear they'll be all the rage soon. I read that Jennifer Anniston is getting one in her stomach and that Beck has had one out his nose since last November. He even had Thanksgiving dinner through his. So, when you told me about getting all sick and shit, I got to thinking...

Babadoo: You cannot be serious. A feeding tube? Dude, that is so wrong.

Whabadoo: What's so wrong? A friend of mine said they saw Karl Rove with one at a party in Virginia. He was downing Michelob like a motherfucker...

Babadoo: I'm going back to sleep; this is one fucked dream--

Whabadoo: ...and college kids are using theirs to in highly sexual ways.

Whabadoo: Babadoo?! Where you been, man?

Babadoo: I have been very, very ill. I was at death's door. I was one foot in, man.

Whabadoo: Whoa...why didn't you tell me? I could have brought you some soup or something.

Babadoo: Soup! I couldn't eat no fucking soup. I was really goddamn sick, man. I had tubes and shit in my nose. I couldn't talk. I couldn't move. Nothing. They said my heart stopped a time or two.

Whabadoo: Shit man, what happened?

Babadoo: Those Republicans, man... The doctor says I had reached, whathesay? "A threshold." My system couldn't take it anymore. I was so full of their nasty, vile polluted shit, I overloaded. I thought I had taken as much as possible, then Bolton, then Wolfowitz, then Hughes, then steroids, then Schiavo. That shit put me over.

Whabadoo: I hear Jerry Fallwell is sick too. Maybe he die? Pope too?

Babadoo: I'm feeling a little better.

Babadoo: Yo, Whabadoo. I have a question for you.

Whabadoo: I'm not here to talk about the past; I'm here to be positive about the future.

Babadoo: B-b-but, Whabadoo, you haven't even heard my questio--

Whabadoo: I'm not here to talk about the past; I'm here to be positive about the future.

Babadoo: Dude, what the fuck? Can I even ask the question?

Whabadoo:

Babadoo: Shithead.

Whabadoo: I am not here to talk about the past; I only want to be positive about the future.

Whabadoo: LOOK AT ME BABADOO, FUCKING LOOK AT HOW RIPPED I AM!

Babadoo: You roidin' again, Whabadoo?

Whabadoo: OPEN YOUR GODDAMN EYES AND FUCKING LOOK AT MY PECS! GODDAMN, MY ABS ARE LIKE RIVERSTONES!

Babadoo: Oh, please don't send me into the cornfield again.

Whabadoo: WHAT?! I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU, MOTHERFUCKER! DO NOT EVER DISS ME AGAIN, YOU PUTRID LITTLE ASSHOLE!

Babadoo: That was good. Next time when you do the "putrid little asshole" part, bug your eyes out a little more. The neck vein thing was perfect.

after the shakes, the sweats, the grumpiness and the "flu," life is so worth living again. food is tasty and so is the sun.

but, the mind races. dangerously.