Where Are You Sleeping?

22 Feb


The Bird Collector


Orginally published on February 22, 1997

I sent this to Steve earlier this morning. Just to tide you over until I can focus on DAY 2 of the Fevers...

In other words, what is your current address? All I've got is those Taft Street digits. This morning early, after waking up in a fit of harrumph from an intrusive dream starring the "bar none kidz" Tim & Jennifer, yes, after listening to them prattle on about how much they didn't appreciate this and that about how badly I treated them last month...of course Jennifer was doing most of the squawking while bringing out the PERQUACKY gameboard she wanted to engage with Tim, while strong silent type Tim was in the kitchen elbowing Sue in helping himself to the coffeemaker, and suddenly I realized I had a hard-on, typical morning wakeup dream, and my nemesis because all the women I had ever known were slow risers or late sleepers who had to rush off to the office and preferred late night delights when I was too tired to make the effort...

I've been busy since early in the wee scratching out postcards, lovely postcards I threw together a couple of years ago on heavy stock with various old and contemporary photos of me, and of me and the Suzy, all embossed with typical GT crytic title. Sent my dad a batch back then but I was told he never received them. Thought I'd send you one since I'd already addressed and stamped a batch, knowing you'd probably appreciate the younger Mohican Gabriel. It would be a shame that you've never had a sleeping chance to get a good laugh of me in the Eighties.

Reality is indeed a wicked business, full of overloads, overlords, and understudies. Marsh grasses, foggy bottoms, and tricks of the trade. But even in the beer leagues one plays to win.
Back to the dream. The "bar none kidz" had arrived at the back door together wanting to make amends, which in their vernacular, was to point out my unprovoked rudeness. At one point Jennifer blurted out that she wanted the money she had spent on me returned, uh, she bought me a hamburger at Ruby Tuesday's on Monday's field trip to the shopping Mall (oops, that part of the story hasn't been written in blood yet!), and she came bearing a bottle of champagne the Saturday she arrived, but that pretty much sums up to the penny (well, gasoline to drive down) the whole of Jennifer's financial support in 12 years of Dollhouse maneuvers. I told her to forget it, no way, no mula. How about her share in the $500 bucks we plunked down for limo, booze, and food when she was here?

She backed off with the wince of an Ellis Island immigrant. Uh, geez, and I thought she knew how to make an argument. At one point I grabbed her in a bear hug, and walked her upright to the backdoor, but as soon as she was free she rocketed off on how she didn't appreciate being manhandled that way, and besides she hadn't played her game yet. In my drippiest sarcasm I mock the easily offended sensibilities of a woman scouring the AOL gutters as a submissive painseeking thrill artist while shoving this big fat lie of forever love up the nose of somebody she has known way too long to shaft like this. Meanwhile Tim is grumbling in the kitchen in his best Rodney King, "Can't we just get along" reasoning. I had finally had enough. I go beserk, trumpeting all arms akimbo:

"Wait a damn minute. I tossed both of you out of here, and I haven't invited either of you back and from the general sniff of things nor do I intend to, and yet here you are, making yourselves quite at home. Tim, get OUT of my kitchen! Jennifer, PUT that board down. It's not even mine. It's Steve's..."

That's about the gist of it. I grabbed her up again and was making my way to the backdoor since she had once again adopted the diningroom table as her podium, before I woke from the sofa, and noticed my hard-on was gone. Sharing this whole cinematic reel du force with Sue just a few minutes ago, with the summation that as boring as the dream sequence was, unfortunately, there's not much distortion in that version from what we both imagine, knowing them as symptomatically as we do, in how Tim and Jennifer could waltz in proud as peacocks to the beat of their own hummer humming six weeks, six months, six years from now...

I allow myself to feel a slight remorse that I pushed the envelope of no return by taking a stick to old friends, but like your own proverbial red-face, it flushes and soon passes. Reality is indeed a wicked business, full of overloads, overlords, and understudies. Marsh grasses, foggy bottoms, and tricks of the trade. But even in the beer leagues one plays to win.

Guess Day 2 of the Six Day fever is overdue, but to borrow a phrase, I'm playing it by ear, having too much fun tweaking the nipple on my Macintosh laptop, my Destouches dream dancer...


© 1997 - 2013, Gabriel Thy. All rights reserved.

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"Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones, but die beneath bankers' hours.""