Looking back, I definitely should not have been transporting the infant in a plastic orange jack-o-lantern.
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dreams. Show all posts
Friday, April 29, 2011
Dream Baby
Last night I experienced a vivid dream wherein I held my tiny child and felt a very real, very strong emotional bond with him or her.
Looking back, I definitely should not have been transporting the infant in a plastic orange jack-o-lantern.
Looking back, I definitely should not have been transporting the infant in a plastic orange jack-o-lantern.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
An Idiot Asleep
Last night I dreamed I met Karl Pilkington out at a bar, where he was playing in a 3-piece band. He played the keyboard. The band claimed one song was the theme to "The Dukes of Hazzard", but it sounded nothing like the Waylon Jennings classic.
We've seen season one of HBO's "The Ricky Gervais Show", but what's really put Karl on my mind is "An Idiot Abroad", which is currently airing on The Science Channel for some reason. (And, thank God, it's also available on demand.)
"An Idiot Abroad" is the best travel show ever because it's the most honest. We are not all Anthony Bourdain or the Bizzare Foods guy - some of us don't need to see a lion in the wild if it means being exposed to malaria, and some of us don't want to see the Taj Mahal if it means squatting in sub-outhouse quality restrooms. Karl's show doesn't make you feel guilty for your lack of interest or your middling sense of adventure.
We've seen season one of HBO's "The Ricky Gervais Show", but what's really put Karl on my mind is "An Idiot Abroad", which is currently airing on The Science Channel for some reason. (And, thank God, it's also available on demand.)
"An Idiot Abroad" is the best travel show ever because it's the most honest. We are not all Anthony Bourdain or the Bizzare Foods guy - some of us don't need to see a lion in the wild if it means being exposed to malaria, and some of us don't want to see the Taj Mahal if it means squatting in sub-outhouse quality restrooms. Karl's show doesn't make you feel guilty for your lack of interest or your middling sense of adventure.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Tom, Chef
Man, I did all that work looking for a good Gmail account when info@fbi.gov was available?
I downloaded the attachment and replied to their message. I signed my full name with my social security number so they'd be sure it was really me.
* * *
Win Butler and Tom Colicchio were both hanging out in my dream last night. I spent all my time talking to an amused Tom about some "Top Chef" suggestions.
First, I brought up my longstanding theory on "The Real World": the show would benefit from an unexciting setting. Instead of placing the young human nightmares in 24-hour parties like New Orleans or New York, MTV should set the show in places like Iowa or Utah. This would force the kids to make their own fun, with disastrous and hilarious consequences.
This theory doesn't work as well for "Top Chef", since it airs very little content outside of the kitchen. Still, maybe my dream self's idea could work for the show. It could be refreshing to see the contestants shopping somewhere other than Whole Foods -- running around the Des Moines HyVee's tiny organic section searching for microgreens and artisanal cheese.
My second, better idea for Tom was an elimination challenge: instead of catering a wedding reception, serve food at a funeral. (Preferably a funeral in a small German Catholic town. Noticing a pattern, I once asked an old monsignor if he'd ever been to a funeral where they did not serve ham and green beans. "Never in my life," he replied.) Tell me you wouldn't watch this episode! Think of the possibilities!
How would the chefs respond?
Would the grieving attendees give more honest feedback than usual?
Judge's table would be the best ever!
I downloaded the attachment and replied to their message. I signed my full name with my social security number so they'd be sure it was really me.
* * *
Win Butler and Tom Colicchio were both hanging out in my dream last night. I spent all my time talking to an amused Tom about some "Top Chef" suggestions.
First, I brought up my longstanding theory on "The Real World": the show would benefit from an unexciting setting. Instead of placing the young human nightmares in 24-hour parties like New Orleans or New York, MTV should set the show in places like Iowa or Utah. This would force the kids to make their own fun, with disastrous and hilarious consequences.
This theory doesn't work as well for "Top Chef", since it airs very little content outside of the kitchen. Still, maybe my dream self's idea could work for the show. It could be refreshing to see the contestants shopping somewhere other than Whole Foods -- running around the Des Moines HyVee's tiny organic section searching for microgreens and artisanal cheese.
My second, better idea for Tom was an elimination challenge: instead of catering a wedding reception, serve food at a funeral. (Preferably a funeral in a small German Catholic town. Noticing a pattern, I once asked an old monsignor if he'd ever been to a funeral where they did not serve ham and green beans. "Never in my life," he replied.) Tell me you wouldn't watch this episode! Think of the possibilities!
How would the chefs respond?
"I'm taking a big risk with this devil's food cake, but when she wasn't crying, the widow seemed like she had a great sense of humor and a sweet tooth."
Would the grieving attendees give more honest feedback than usual?
"This beef is tougher than my old man was on me. *sigh* Rest in peace, Dad."
Judge's table would be the best ever!
"Your celery foam was wholly inappropriate for the occasion."
"In situations like these, heirloom tomatoes take on even more importance. I'm sorry, but your dish did not respect that."
"This being an Irish wake, I understand your choice to serve corned beef and cabbage. Unfortunately, it just didn't work. And frankly, your loaded baked potato was insulting."
Wednesday, July 07, 2010
Mr Jean Dreams
(click to enlarge)You're a weird guy, Bill.
* * *
dn: I dreamed I went to your funeral and everyone was wearing jeans. I thought that was pretty disrespectful.
Matt: What the fuck are you talking about?
dn: I am just saying, if you died I would wear a suit out of love and respect for you. Unlike those jeans-wearing yokels in my dream.
Matt: Fuck them. I would wear a panda suit to your funeral.
Matt, standing before the curiously named "Chigger Choker" firework on Independence Day.Friday, July 02, 2010
Never Nude
Monday night I had a dream.
Michael Jordan agreed to appear in an advertisement or film for our av crew. The shot featured him, lying face up on some rocks on the shore. The camera showed his face, and panned down past his topless torso, and down to his HANES brand boxer briefs. But the boxer briefs were cutoffs, like jean shorts. And the cut-off portion, these small rings of jagged cotton, were still around his legs, an inch beneath the shortened boxer briefs.
He seemed to present us with a large apple tart in a box - packaged like it came from a catalog or was on the shelf at Bed Bath and Beyond - the next morning, to show he was in on the joke? And the tart looked like a pie but who am I to argue with my subconscious, let alone with the greatest NBA player of all time?
Michael Jordan agreed to appear in an advertisement or film for our av crew. The shot featured him, lying face up on some rocks on the shore. The camera showed his face, and panned down past his topless torso, and down to his HANES brand boxer briefs. But the boxer briefs were cutoffs, like jean shorts. And the cut-off portion, these small rings of jagged cotton, were still around his legs, an inch beneath the shortened boxer briefs.
He seemed to present us with a large apple tart in a box - packaged like it came from a catalog or was on the shelf at Bed Bath and Beyond - the next morning, to show he was in on the joke? And the tart looked like a pie but who am I to argue with my subconscious, let alone with the greatest NBA player of all time?
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Dreaming My Dreams
Last night in my dream:
*The Royals scored 36 runs and still lost.
*Gav and I were in Texas, eating biscuits and gravy at a nothing-but-biscuits-and-gravy place.
*The Royals scored 36 runs and still lost.
*Gav and I were in Texas, eating biscuits and gravy at a nothing-but-biscuits-and-gravy place.
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
Cisco & Transco
A few weeks ago I was in a post-asleep, pre-awake purgatory where all I could think about was the Cisco commercial starring Ellen Page and two group of schoolchildren shouting "hello" in Chinese to each other. An endless cycle of NI HAO!!!!! It was unpleasant.
I guess Cisco advertises because no one knows what they do. Routers? What does that even mean? I always think of the Simpsons episode that shows an email transmission -- it travels through Patty and Selma's fiber optic cable, makes a brief stop at a Cisco router, and continues on to Artie Ziff's computer.
Anyway, no one knows what Cisco does, so it only makes sense that they recruit the world's most famous actress, Hard Candy star Ellen Page, to portray herself. She visits various settings in a small Canadian town, and is wowed by how Cisco connects them to the world. She visits this classroom, and sees a video conference set up between the Canadian kids and a school in China.
The Canadian kids are super excited to see their Chinese counterparts. Being the polite maple leafers they are, they greet the Chinese with a hearty "NI HAO!!!!!"
The kids in China respond by shouting "NI HAO!!!!!".
Uh, China? Pretty fucking rude, guys. According to the zero fact checking I've done, you don't own Canada like you own the U.S., and you haven't defeated Canada in a great war. Show some respect and greet them in English! Or even better, in Canadian: "Howdy, eh?".
And now, even though I've explained it all in perfect detail, I will embed the commercial in question below. Ellen and Cisco went through all that work to get this out to the people, and I'm honored to be the first website ever to social media the shit out of it:
I guess Cisco advertises because no one knows what they do. Routers? What does that even mean? I always think of the Simpsons episode that shows an email transmission -- it travels through Patty and Selma's fiber optic cable, makes a brief stop at a Cisco router, and continues on to Artie Ziff's computer.
Anyway, no one knows what Cisco does, so it only makes sense that they recruit the world's most famous actress, Hard Candy star Ellen Page, to portray herself. She visits various settings in a small Canadian town, and is wowed by how Cisco connects them to the world. She visits this classroom, and sees a video conference set up between the Canadian kids and a school in China.
The Canadian kids are super excited to see their Chinese counterparts. Being the polite maple leafers they are, they greet the Chinese with a hearty "NI HAO!!!!!"
The kids in China respond by shouting "NI HAO!!!!!".
Uh, China? Pretty fucking rude, guys. According to the zero fact checking I've done, you don't own Canada like you own the U.S., and you haven't defeated Canada in a great war. Show some respect and greet them in English! Or even better, in Canadian: "Howdy, eh?".
And now, even though I've explained it all in perfect detail, I will embed the commercial in question below. Ellen and Cisco went through all that work to get this out to the people, and I'm honored to be the first website ever to social media the shit out of it:
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Who Fucked Out The Feeling?
I keep a notepad on the end table next to my bed, so that I can quickly document any overnight revelations. At 5 a.m. Tuesday, only seconds after waking and still chuckling to myself, I scratched out a short phrase in the darkness: "fucked out face".
In my dream, Shawn used this terminology to describe a young woman's facial expression. He thought that she looked "fucked-out", as in, she was exhausted from all the fucking.
I make this distinction because one may easily interpret "fucked out face" as something far more vulgar or misogynistic. Indeed, I expect that many will find this post while searching Google for examples of this other interpretation.
* * *
Elsewhere...
Jeff Johnson provides the definition of a great 2.0-era blog post.
The Onion is still great.
In my dream, Shawn used this terminology to describe a young woman's facial expression. He thought that she looked "fucked-out", as in, she was exhausted from all the fucking.
I make this distinction because one may easily interpret "fucked out face" as something far more vulgar or misogynistic. Indeed, I expect that many will find this post while searching Google for examples of this other interpretation.
* * *
Elsewhere...
Jeff Johnson provides the definition of a great 2.0-era blog post.
The Onion is still great.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Underwater (You and Me)
Dear Adrienne,
I keep a notepad and pen on my nightstand. The items are there in case I want to record something I think of while I'm in bed, or something I dream overnight.
Usually, should I dream something that warrants documenting, I'm too lazy to do so -- either I don't want to open my eyes, or I don't want to turn on the light. At best, I might grab the pen and attempt to scrawl a note in the dark. At worst, I think, "I'm sure I can remember that in a few hours, and I'll jot it down then, after I'm awake.
Well, this morning, I was lazy, and I chose not to write down my dream immediately after experiencing it. To my shock, I actually DID remember it several hours later, when I was lucid. And you were in it! Here's what happened:
Everyone in town, and presumably the world, was excited to watch this movie. For an optimum viewing experience, this particular film had to be viewed while underwater.1 So, a theater/tank structure was filled with water, and everyone took some pills that allowed them to breathe underwater2, including myself. When I realized that you couldn't laugh while you swimming, I abandoned the movie and exited the tank.
Later, after the movie, people began to suffer from a rather dramatic side-effect of the pills -- they began to explode. They didn't explode like a bomb went off; they just kind of turned inside-out and popped3.
Many people expired in this fashion. I saw some people punching holes in the walls of a house whose owner had blown up.4 I guess they were releasing their frustration by destroying the house.
Anyway, at this stage, people were beginning to wander around, trying to find others that were still alive, banding together. That's when I found you. You and I met at the intersection of 135th and 37th, near Wichita5. (135th wasn't paved, though, like it is in the present-day Earth. Also, in the present-day Earth, people are not exploding due to defective medications.) Two others were in your group: a very obese woman from Missouri, and a young child of unknown ethnicity. Our groups merged, and we walked west on 37th to continue our search. As we walked down the hill, I carried you on my shoulders -- not piggyback-ride-style, and not with you saddled over one of my shoulders, but with your body cradled around my head, with one of my arms around your back, and the other arm around your legs. This was when we started singing, "Lost Girls"6
I eventually put you down, and we somehow found our way to the moon, which was where the refugees were being settled. Upon entering the moon facility, we passed a sign-up sheet, where fellow outcasts could enroll for a job planting moon wildflowers.7 Everyone congregated in a large gymnasium, where two movies were being projected onto two large, adjacent screens. The screen on the right was showing "An Inconvenient Truth"; I saw it and thought that it was an odd choice. "A film about global warming? On a planet we just abandoned?" I turned my attention to the other screen, which showed two older, Jewish gentlemen being interviewed. One of them was saying, "I am an orthodonist. My father was an orthodonist. I don't know how to plant wildflowers." He was pretty concerned about how he was going to make a living on the moon, and it was kind of touching, and I question the director's choice to cut immediately to a man demonstrating how he made coffee cakes.
That's when my dream ended, so I'm sorry I can't say whether or not we etched out a living on the moon, or if that fat chick from Missouri adopted you and the ethnic child, or if that movie that had to be viewed underwater was lauded by what was left of The Academy.
Until next time,
dn
1. "The Shape of Things" was on before I went out Saturday night, so I re-watched it. In that movie, Phillip and Jenny plan to get married underwater.
2. I'm reading "Sirens of Titan" right now. On Mars, everyone has to take pills called goofballs, which let them breathe in the oxygen-depleted environment.
3. Saturday night at Henry's Upstairs, Molly brought up some "Inside Out Guy", who I had never seen or heard of, but it made me think of the PopMart tour, when Bono wore an anatomically correct "muscle" shirt. It also made me think of a Simpsons Halloween episode where there was poison gas that made everyone turn inside-out.
4. I recently repaired such a hole in my own wall.
5. I grew up near here.
6. Friday's workday shuffle: Tilly and the Wall, The Shins, The Fiery Furnaces, Neko Case.
7. I recently picked up a packet of Kansas wildflowers, which I plan to plant in my backyard, next to the fence that separates the interstate ditch from my lawn.
I keep a notepad and pen on my nightstand. The items are there in case I want to record something I think of while I'm in bed, or something I dream overnight.
Usually, should I dream something that warrants documenting, I'm too lazy to do so -- either I don't want to open my eyes, or I don't want to turn on the light. At best, I might grab the pen and attempt to scrawl a note in the dark. At worst, I think, "I'm sure I can remember that in a few hours, and I'll jot it down then, after I'm awake.
Well, this morning, I was lazy, and I chose not to write down my dream immediately after experiencing it. To my shock, I actually DID remember it several hours later, when I was lucid. And you were in it! Here's what happened:
Everyone in town, and presumably the world, was excited to watch this movie. For an optimum viewing experience, this particular film had to be viewed while underwater.1 So, a theater/tank structure was filled with water, and everyone took some pills that allowed them to breathe underwater2, including myself. When I realized that you couldn't laugh while you swimming, I abandoned the movie and exited the tank.
Later, after the movie, people began to suffer from a rather dramatic side-effect of the pills -- they began to explode. They didn't explode like a bomb went off; they just kind of turned inside-out and popped3.
Many people expired in this fashion. I saw some people punching holes in the walls of a house whose owner had blown up.4 I guess they were releasing their frustration by destroying the house.
Anyway, at this stage, people were beginning to wander around, trying to find others that were still alive, banding together. That's when I found you. You and I met at the intersection of 135th and 37th, near Wichita5. (135th wasn't paved, though, like it is in the present-day Earth. Also, in the present-day Earth, people are not exploding due to defective medications.) Two others were in your group: a very obese woman from Missouri, and a young child of unknown ethnicity. Our groups merged, and we walked west on 37th to continue our search. As we walked down the hill, I carried you on my shoulders -- not piggyback-ride-style, and not with you saddled over one of my shoulders, but with your body cradled around my head, with one of my arms around your back, and the other arm around your legs. This was when we started singing, "Lost Girls"6
I eventually put you down, and we somehow found our way to the moon, which was where the refugees were being settled. Upon entering the moon facility, we passed a sign-up sheet, where fellow outcasts could enroll for a job planting moon wildflowers.7 Everyone congregated in a large gymnasium, where two movies were being projected onto two large, adjacent screens. The screen on the right was showing "An Inconvenient Truth"; I saw it and thought that it was an odd choice. "A film about global warming? On a planet we just abandoned?" I turned my attention to the other screen, which showed two older, Jewish gentlemen being interviewed. One of them was saying, "I am an orthodonist. My father was an orthodonist. I don't know how to plant wildflowers." He was pretty concerned about how he was going to make a living on the moon, and it was kind of touching, and I question the director's choice to cut immediately to a man demonstrating how he made coffee cakes.
That's when my dream ended, so I'm sorry I can't say whether or not we etched out a living on the moon, or if that fat chick from Missouri adopted you and the ethnic child, or if that movie that had to be viewed underwater was lauded by what was left of The Academy.
Until next time,
dn
1. "The Shape of Things" was on before I went out Saturday night, so I re-watched it. In that movie, Phillip and Jenny plan to get married underwater.
2. I'm reading "Sirens of Titan" right now. On Mars, everyone has to take pills called goofballs, which let them breathe in the oxygen-depleted environment.
3. Saturday night at Henry's Upstairs, Molly brought up some "Inside Out Guy", who I had never seen or heard of, but it made me think of the PopMart tour, when Bono wore an anatomically correct "muscle" shirt. It also made me think of a Simpsons Halloween episode where there was poison gas that made everyone turn inside-out.
4. I recently repaired such a hole in my own wall.
5. I grew up near here.
6. Friday's workday shuffle: Tilly and the Wall, The Shins, The Fiery Furnaces, Neko Case.
7. I recently picked up a packet of Kansas wildflowers, which I plan to plant in my backyard, next to the fence that separates the interstate ditch from my lawn.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Wincing The Night Away
I had a terrible night's sleep last night. I had a cold, and was unsuccessfully coughing a lot, but the worst part was the slightly-out-of-consciousness dreamworld inspired by my bedtime reading.
Take it from this guy: you don't want to half-dream about the horrors of Sudan all night. It's pretty bogus. Last night didn't crack my all-time top five Worst Nights of Sleep, but it could be in the top ten.
Coming Soon: My all-time top five Worst Nights of Sleep.
Take it from this guy: you don't want to half-dream about the horrors of Sudan all night. It's pretty bogus. Last night didn't crack my all-time top five Worst Nights of Sleep, but it could be in the top ten.
Coming Soon: My all-time top five Worst Nights of Sleep.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Scrambled Eggs*
Fresh off designing the Toaster of the Future, my mind produced another nugget. Half awake, very early Friday morning, the phrase "Don't blame the sun for what your shadow is doing" streamed through my half consciousness.
"I should write that down before I forget it, using the pad and paper I placed on my end table for this specific reason," I thought.
"I am still very tired and don't want to move," I responded, sure that the brain that manufactured the phrase would store it as well.
But does the phrase belong to me, or have I lifted it from somewhere? The closest thing to a match I could Google was "you blame the sun as the cause of the shadows on the wall", a Yo La Tengo lyric from a song I've never heard. Before I start pasting my phrase on inspirational posters, or inserting it into a soaring chorus, I feel the need to confirm its copyright.
*Fun fact: Paul McCartney had a similar problem with the melody of "Yesterday". He woke up with the song in his head, convinced it was already recorded, and was eventually convinced that it was his own. In its draft form, "Yesterday" was "Scrambled Eggs". Same number of syllables, see? Do you see?
"I should write that down before I forget it, using the pad and paper I placed on my end table for this specific reason," I thought.
"I am still very tired and don't want to move," I responded, sure that the brain that manufactured the phrase would store it as well.
But does the phrase belong to me, or have I lifted it from somewhere? The closest thing to a match I could Google was "you blame the sun as the cause of the shadows on the wall", a Yo La Tengo lyric from a song I've never heard. Before I start pasting my phrase on inspirational posters, or inserting it into a soaring chorus, I feel the need to confirm its copyright.
*Fun fact: Paul McCartney had a similar problem with the melody of "Yesterday". He woke up with the song in his head, convinced it was already recorded, and was eventually convinced that it was his own. In its draft form, "Yesterday" was "Scrambled Eggs". Same number of syllables, see? Do you see?
Saturday, November 04, 2006
My Dream Toaster
Lots and lots of wild dreams lately -- women with shaved heads, women who take a job as a reporter for a local Fox affiliate and therefore haven't called me in a while -- but the filet of my subconscious appeared last weekend, as I slept in the Hampton Inn off Garth Brooks Boulevard.
The dream showed me a new (although I haven't researched the topic, I assume this is a new idea) type of toaster, wherein there is no lever or dial to set the degree of toastedness. Instead, the light-to-dark ratio is determined by the main lever -- the one that drops the bread into the machine. Machine? Simple machine. Appliance. The one that drops the bread into the appliance. For dark toast, push the lever all the way to the bottom. For lighter toast, don't push the lever so far down.
NB: I had not eaten toast for a number of days prior to the dream, and had no recent conversations about toast. I do think about toaster more than the average person -- maybe 70% greater than average. This is because I've owned the same toaster since 1997, and I hate it, but I don't see a good reason to replace it, as it still operates satisfactorily, and a new toaster, while nice, would be a bit excessive.
The dream showed me a new (although I haven't researched the topic, I assume this is a new idea) type of toaster, wherein there is no lever or dial to set the degree of toastedness. Instead, the light-to-dark ratio is determined by the main lever -- the one that drops the bread into the machine. Machine? Simple machine. Appliance. The one that drops the bread into the appliance. For dark toast, push the lever all the way to the bottom. For lighter toast, don't push the lever so far down.
NB: I had not eaten toast for a number of days prior to the dream, and had no recent conversations about toast. I do think about toaster more than the average person -- maybe 70% greater than average. This is because I've owned the same toaster since 1997, and I hate it, but I don't see a good reason to replace it, as it still operates satisfactorily, and a new toaster, while nice, would be a bit excessive.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Like Mike
I had a dream last night that I was on a movie set with Michael Ian Black and Michael Showalter. I tried to be cool around those guys, and Black rewarded my coolness with an errand -- retrieve his DeLorean from a place down the road, where Oprah was sitting. Pretty standard, really.
Paul gave me a shout out during my waking hours today:
Paul wrote on 07/10/2006 12:35:38 PM:
hey dan,
i'm not sure if you've seen this article yet, but it's worth looking at. it may be the most ridiculous lawsuit ever.
http://msn.foxsports.com/nba/story/5766288
and if you can explain to me the rationale behind how this guy arrived at the amount he is suing for, i'd really like to know. i know how he calculated the figure, but the rationale behind the calculation still eludes me.
dn wrote:
I haven't even got past the calculation yet. $416 million each? His age times 7? Is he 59.428571 years old?
I like how his character has been "defamed". Because people despise MJ and all...
And, on a nerdier note, defamation would literally mean being made unfamous: de-fame. MJ is one of the world's most famous people.
Paul wrote on 07/10/2006 01:48:13 PM:
What I would give for this to actually go to trial, even though there is a 0.000001% chance of that happening. Does this guy expect Jordan to get plastic surgery to rectify the situation?
And, based on the definition of defamation, couldn't Jordan more accurately file a countersuit of defamation? Doesn't this guy actually defame Jordan?
And who are these people at this guy's local gym that mistake him for Jordan? Do these people honestly believe Jordan has shown up to play against them?
So many questions..........
dn wrote:
I'll bet you $416 million that this guy carries a basketball around with him everywhere he goes. AND that he got his earring specifically so he could look like Jordan. AND that he's hired a Pippen look-alike. AND that he calls every white guy he meets "Pax".
At least when the lady sued Letterman for sending her messages through her TV, you knew she was crazy. This guy is just annoying.
Paul gave me a shout out during my waking hours today:
Paul wrote on 07/10/2006 12:35:38 PM:
hey dan,
i'm not sure if you've seen this article yet, but it's worth looking at. it may be the most ridiculous lawsuit ever.
http://msn.foxsports.com/nba/story/5766288
and if you can explain to me the rationale behind how this guy arrived at the amount he is suing for, i'd really like to know. i know how he calculated the figure, but the rationale behind the calculation still eludes me.
dn wrote:
I haven't even got past the calculation yet. $416 million each? His age times 7? Is he 59.428571 years old?
I like how his character has been "defamed". Because people despise MJ and all...
And, on a nerdier note, defamation would literally mean being made unfamous: de-fame. MJ is one of the world's most famous people.
Paul wrote on 07/10/2006 01:48:13 PM:
What I would give for this to actually go to trial, even though there is a 0.000001% chance of that happening. Does this guy expect Jordan to get plastic surgery to rectify the situation?
And, based on the definition of defamation, couldn't Jordan more accurately file a countersuit of defamation? Doesn't this guy actually defame Jordan?
And who are these people at this guy's local gym that mistake him for Jordan? Do these people honestly believe Jordan has shown up to play against them?
So many questions..........
dn wrote:
I'll bet you $416 million that this guy carries a basketball around with him everywhere he goes. AND that he got his earring specifically so he could look like Jordan. AND that he's hired a Pippen look-alike. AND that he calls every white guy he meets "Pax".
At least when the lady sued Letterman for sending her messages through her TV, you knew she was crazy. This guy is just annoying.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Sleep Tooth
Thursday Night
Dreamt that I lost two large teeth, and a third - one of the small ones in the lower front - was very loose. I have these "tooth dreams" regularly, and I hate them. It's my least favorite dream theme. I'd much prefer to relive other bad dreams of my childhood, like when the evil guy from the Dungeons and Dragons cartoon enslaved my family in a mine. Or the Halloween dream.
Friday Night
Dreamt that Death Cab For Cutie was playing a gig at Louise's Downtown. The bassist and I were friendly. Imagine my shock when I learned that, in seven alternate realities, the bassist had been kidnapped or killed or something by aliens or something.
(I might still be drunk.)
Dreamt that I lost two large teeth, and a third - one of the small ones in the lower front - was very loose. I have these "tooth dreams" regularly, and I hate them. It's my least favorite dream theme. I'd much prefer to relive other bad dreams of my childhood, like when the evil guy from the Dungeons and Dragons cartoon enslaved my family in a mine. Or the Halloween dream.
Friday Night
Dreamt that Death Cab For Cutie was playing a gig at Louise's Downtown. The bassist and I were friendly. Imagine my shock when I learned that, in seven alternate realities, the bassist had been kidnapped or killed or something by aliens or something.
(I might still be drunk.)
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Good Way To Spend A Friday
If you're like me, you spent Tuesday night dreaming about the death of Fiona Apple, and Wednesday night struggling through a boring dream featuring Project Runway's Santino. Take a break. Try reading IMDB quotes from Arrested Development
Michael: Gob, I'm going to need you to sneak Mom out of rehab.and Stella
Gob: Gee, I didn't think the woman I'd be checking out at Spring Break would be Mom.
Buster: She's better than the whores you date.
Gob: Don't call my escorts whores.
Buster: Mom's still got it!
Gob: I don't date whores!
Lindsay Funke: Stop it, both of you! This objectification of women has got to stop!
Michael: It's just Mom and whores.
Michael: Oh, God, this rat race is killing me. I'm so exhausted.
David: I know. I can barely keep my eyes open.
Michael: I can barely keep my pee hole open.
Michael: My urethra shut down at 4 o'clock today. That's how tired I am.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
California-Style Dreamin'
I often have dreams I think are very, very funny. They're very funny when I am dreaming them, and when I wake up for a few moments during the night, and when my alarm goes off.
Then, after I become fully conscious, I realize my dream is anything but funny.
Case in point, about two weeks ago I had a "funny" dream about George Washington. I can't recall the "funny" plot exactly, but it involved George and Betsy Ross, and how President Washington could bag any woman he wanted post-Revolutionary War.
That was an especially active night for dreaming. Dream #2 featured by cousin Mark, an sports medicine guy living in Texas that I haven't seen for at least 4 years. Mark was staying in the same hotel/casino as me; everything was fine until he stabbed the my softball team's shortstop to death and cut off the fingers of a piano-playing friend. I woke up before I could alert the hotel police.
In dream #3, I was offered a handjob by a woman who specified that she would only perform the act via "reach-around or California-style". Before I could discover what the Golden State had to offer, an ex-girlfriend (and ex-blog reader) entered our hotel room. The three of us watched TV.
Then, after I become fully conscious, I realize my dream is anything but funny.
Case in point, about two weeks ago I had a "funny" dream about George Washington. I can't recall the "funny" plot exactly, but it involved George and Betsy Ross, and how President Washington could bag any woman he wanted post-Revolutionary War.
That was an especially active night for dreaming. Dream #2 featured by cousin Mark, an sports medicine guy living in Texas that I haven't seen for at least 4 years. Mark was staying in the same hotel/casino as me; everything was fine until he stabbed the my softball team's shortstop to death and cut off the fingers of a piano-playing friend. I woke up before I could alert the hotel police.
In dream #3, I was offered a handjob by a woman who specified that she would only perform the act via "reach-around or California-style". Before I could discover what the Golden State had to offer, an ex-girlfriend (and ex-blog reader) entered our hotel room. The three of us watched TV.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Wedding Weekend
It was a wild night Friday - not because of our activites in Westport (I lost this time), but because Chicago had one too many Ketel One drinks. As I (and Jeff and Heather and Kim...) know from experience, Ketel One will cause both vomiting and memory loss. When he finally passed out on the couch, I tucked into my sleeping bag and experienced two disturbing dreams.
1. Kevin Federline impregnates Mandy Moore. No graphic scenes in this dream, but the very fact Captain Jerkoff made it into my subconscious was troublesome. Oh, and if my dream was any indication, you'd better pray to your God that he doesn't knock up another woman, because the media coverage will be unbearable.
2. It involved HIV / AIDS and an odd retroviral therapy wherein the patient inserts beads into his ass.
Saturday I bought a camera, which I used at that night's wedding. Interested parties can view the photos at my Flickr account. (Each photo has an explanatory comment.)
1. Kevin Federline impregnates Mandy Moore. No graphic scenes in this dream, but the very fact Captain Jerkoff made it into my subconscious was troublesome. Oh, and if my dream was any indication, you'd better pray to your God that he doesn't knock up another woman, because the media coverage will be unbearable.
2. It involved HIV / AIDS and an odd retroviral therapy wherein the patient inserts beads into his ass.
Saturday I bought a camera, which I used at that night's wedding. Interested parties can view the photos at my Flickr account. (Each photo has an explanatory comment.)
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Dreaming my Dreams of Cruise
When did Tom Cruise hit rock bottom? His Oprah appearance? His Today appearance? For me, it was last night, when I dreamt he was at a busy intersection, brandishing a pistol, threatening to kill everyone at the conference hotel. Jamie Foxx and I ran across the street to another building. Jamie had a rifle. "Is that a sniper rifle?" I asked the Oscar winner, planning to ice Maverick from the safety of an upper story window. "Nah, man, this is an assault rifle." Fucking Jamie Foxx - what an idiot.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Not With A Bang But A Quiver
Last night, in my dreams, the end of the world was nigh. Because, like, there was some sort of earthquake that affected whole world or something.
It was strange, because some municipalities must have been more devastated than others. The one I was living in - I assume it was somewhere in Minnesota - was relatively unharmed; still, we all had a feeling of dread.
With dread in my heart, I was trying to back out of a driveway in a gigantic SUV. The driveway sat to the right of a large house that Jeff, his sister, some other dude, potentially others, and myself were either living or squatting in. It was dark, and I accidentally hit a garbage can with the back bumper.
The police were there immediately, asking me questions about "my house" on the porch. See, they weren't there because I knocked over the trashcan with poor driving - they were there because a neighbor had complained about the smell of rotting eggs coming from the backyard. I explained to them that it was not my house, that I was from Kansas, went to graduate school in Minnesota, and it was somebody else's house. That seemed to be enough information to excuse me entirely from the matter. I suppose it's a good sign that, in a time of impending doom, law enforcement had enough resources available to send out a pair of officers to deal with a smell complaint. It's somewhat of an indictment against the system, though, that these two didn't see anything wrong with a group of youngsters squatting in a house that was actually owned by some dude who left eggs to rot in his backyard. I mean, for all those cops knew, we had the homeowner's dead body locked in the pantry. I suppose the more seasoned policemen were busy responding to the earthquake disaster thingy.
How would we get water? Oh, nevermind, I just turned on the tap and there was water. But what about food? Yes, we seemed troubled about our food supply - especially concerned was Some Other Dude, who suggested we go hunt for food. Naturally, we made our way to some sort of public hunting area. As I suspected, we were too late - the place was all out of animals to hunt. The trip wasn't a total bust, though - there was a dog track next door. The track was odd. Most tracks are shaped like…tracks - they've got long, straight stretches connected by gradual curves. [I just wrote a sentence explaining what a track looks like. Jesus.] This track was barely oblong, so the dogs had to slow down a lot to make the turns; when they slowed down, they stood on their hind legs, carefully walking around the bend as if the aforementioned men in blue had ordered them to complete a sobriety test. Run. Decelerate. Walk on hind legs. Dash. Decelerate. Walk on hind legs. The dog that was dyed pinkish purple won. Its owner was ecstatic - perhaps the victory meant the owner could afford to buy food now, or perhaps a victory meant the dog would be not be eaten. In any case, I thought it was odd that people would throw money away gambling in the post-earthquake world.
Oh yeah - a few doors down from our place lived a preacher that looked and talked precisely like a Sandlot era James Earl Jones.
That's the only part of the dream that makes sense - I watched the first 30 minutes of Star Wars right before bed.
It was strange, because some municipalities must have been more devastated than others. The one I was living in - I assume it was somewhere in Minnesota - was relatively unharmed; still, we all had a feeling of dread.
With dread in my heart, I was trying to back out of a driveway in a gigantic SUV. The driveway sat to the right of a large house that Jeff, his sister, some other dude, potentially others, and myself were either living or squatting in. It was dark, and I accidentally hit a garbage can with the back bumper.
The police were there immediately, asking me questions about "my house" on the porch. See, they weren't there because I knocked over the trashcan with poor driving - they were there because a neighbor had complained about the smell of rotting eggs coming from the backyard. I explained to them that it was not my house, that I was from Kansas, went to graduate school in Minnesota, and it was somebody else's house. That seemed to be enough information to excuse me entirely from the matter. I suppose it's a good sign that, in a time of impending doom, law enforcement had enough resources available to send out a pair of officers to deal with a smell complaint. It's somewhat of an indictment against the system, though, that these two didn't see anything wrong with a group of youngsters squatting in a house that was actually owned by some dude who left eggs to rot in his backyard. I mean, for all those cops knew, we had the homeowner's dead body locked in the pantry. I suppose the more seasoned policemen were busy responding to the earthquake disaster thingy.
How would we get water? Oh, nevermind, I just turned on the tap and there was water. But what about food? Yes, we seemed troubled about our food supply - especially concerned was Some Other Dude, who suggested we go hunt for food. Naturally, we made our way to some sort of public hunting area. As I suspected, we were too late - the place was all out of animals to hunt. The trip wasn't a total bust, though - there was a dog track next door. The track was odd. Most tracks are shaped like…tracks - they've got long, straight stretches connected by gradual curves. [I just wrote a sentence explaining what a track looks like. Jesus.] This track was barely oblong, so the dogs had to slow down a lot to make the turns; when they slowed down, they stood on their hind legs, carefully walking around the bend as if the aforementioned men in blue had ordered them to complete a sobriety test. Run. Decelerate. Walk on hind legs. Dash. Decelerate. Walk on hind legs. The dog that was dyed pinkish purple won. Its owner was ecstatic - perhaps the victory meant the owner could afford to buy food now, or perhaps a victory meant the dog would be not be eaten. In any case, I thought it was odd that people would throw money away gambling in the post-earthquake world.
Oh yeah - a few doors down from our place lived a preacher that looked and talked precisely like a Sandlot era James Earl Jones.
That's the only part of the dream that makes sense - I watched the first 30 minutes of Star Wars right before bed.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
It Hantas My Dreams
I had a dream on Saturday night. It was really involved, but I only remember a small part of it. (I didn't have to write that last sentence, did I? No one remembers entire dreams. So much for brevity.) It was one of those dreams - you wake up and you think your subconscious has uncovered something profound, and you're excited about the possibilities of this new idea that will revolutionize an industry or comprise the theme of your bestseller. Then your brain starts to work, then you realize your subconscious is just as stupid as you are.
My dream was about a group of scientists with a theory: the hantavirus was introduced to America via a contaminated Egyptian sarcophagus.
The only problems with this theory, the theory I thought was AMAZING during my first 3 post-sleep minutes, are:
My dream was about a group of scientists with a theory: the hantavirus was introduced to America via a contaminated Egyptian sarcophagus.
The only problems with this theory, the theory I thought was AMAZING during my first 3 post-sleep minutes, are:
*Very few Egyptian sarcophaguses (sadly, the plural is not sarcophagi) have made it to the New World (fucking Britain!), and even fewer have arrived unopened.
*No hantavirus has ever been found in Africa so far as I can tell.
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