To recap earlier episodes of The Chronicles, Michael is still on the road selling drum boxes, is still recovering from Heart Surgery, and is still missing his sense of taste (which must be very annoying). To cap this off, he's having dumb dreams, but I admire the fact that he has the energy to wake up from those dreams and write them down before rolling over and going to sleep again. That's more than I can say.
Thursday, Feb 6
Dumb Dream
You’d think I could catch a break. I was sleeping so peacefully tonight when I found myself on a transatlantic flight to a country I’d never heard of on one of those megaliners with about eighteen seats across. The first thing I saw was that the overhead screens were showing a game involving black ants playing soccer. I don’t care for soccer. Don’t play the game and have no earthly idea what they’re up to.
Soccer fan doesn’t care. He (she) goes nuts watching it and can become extremely animated. Problem one: ants are playing - not humans. Black ones. Problem two: none of the ants is wearing a uniform so how people are rooting for a “team” is a mystery to me, but all these people are going nuts cheering anyway. Problem three: ants, even big ones, are notoriously small. They can’t really kick anything around. I guess the upside is that they’ll never get a foul for using their hands because they have none. Who cares?
So the ants have limited choices. They seem to surround the ball in huge numbers and are carrying it forward while the opposing team is amassing twigs and other shit down field in front of them to create impediments to forward movement. Passengers on this flight, mostly from Somethingvakia are all cheering. Still can’t figure out why. Thankfully at last there is a break in the action. The overhead lights come on and carts begin rolling around with what I assume to be refreshments.
Something is wrong, I can tell almost immediately. Flight attendants normally dress in company uniforms so they can be distinguished as legit and official. Not these ones. No, not these ones. These ones are dressed randomly as if having been selected from among the passengers themselves. I spot a guy in a business suit with a tie that keeps dipping into the pitcher of what he is serving. (I find myself disturbed by this but no one else seems at all daunted.) Incidentally, any variety of beverage is offered on any normal flight - coffee, water, juice, soda - even booze. The pitcher into which this guy’s tie is dipping is filled with prune juice. It is the one and only drink available on this particular flight. Tie flavored prune juice.
There is a girl in a tennis outfit pushing his cart, smiling all the time but saying nothing to anyone. The second cart is piled with what looks like bite sized chunks of brightly colored lava biscuits. It is piloted by a kid with a very runny nose and the server is a nurse wearing a baseball cap, canted sideways with the bill folded up. At this point I begin to think I must be having someone else’s dream. I’d like to find him and give it back.
The guy next to me reaches out to receive a rose colored lava chip but before he takes a bite he examines it closely, turns to me and asks me in a language I don’t know yet clearly understand if I think the thing will taste good. I tell him I don’t know because I recently had open heart surgery and thus nothing tastes right. I do, however, advise him not to bite it because it is made of rock. Yes, he says, but do I think it will taste good. No, I offer. It is not digestible. He bites it anyway, despite my good Samaritan advise, and I hear teeth disintegrating. I am nonplussed by this but what can I say? Then all hell breaks loose.
The flight attendants suddenly move aside to allow the onrush of some sort of air cops. Multicolored lights begin flashing as though we are in a casino and someone has just won big at a slot machine. They stop at my aisle and point at a lady wearing a Carmen Miranda looking hat with fake fruit all over it. In the unknown language they say in absolute unison, “you’ve been drinking.” The other passengers begin hissing and the poor woman turns beet red with embarrassment. She is summoned to the aisle and informed that she can either endure a breathalyzer test or a mobile chest X-ray. Bewildered, she chooses the latter.
Hell comes in degrees. Hell, Hellier and Helliest. What transpires next is the last and obviously most profound of the three. The largest of the four cops - a male - slips his hands under her blouse and moves them up to cover her breasts. She is so shocked by this that she exhales suddenly and vehemently. The other three officers lean forward to smell her breath. The look at each other and around at the surrounding passengers and proclaim, “Nope, she’s not drunk.” Relieved, she matter of factly pushes the officer’s hands off her chest (which have by this time been lingering for no justifiable reason) and matter of factly returns to her seat.
The lights dim once again, the cops and flight attendants fade away and the ant soccer game returns to the overhead screens. Once again we’ve returned to normalcy. Soccer fan is going nuts. The guy next to me is staring into his left hand examining a few broken teeth. I lean over. “I told you that was a bad idea.”
I need to locate the guy whose dream this is and return it. I’d rather dream about motorized pomegranates on a go cart track or watch ticks playing baseball. Think I’ll try to get back to sleepThursday, Feb 6
Dumb DreamDumb Dream
You’d think I could catch a break. I was sleeping so peacefully tonight when I found myself on a transatlantic flight to a country I’d never heard of on one of those megaliners with about eighteen seats across. The first thing I saw was that the overhead screens were showing a game involving black ants playing soccer. I don’t care for soccer. Don’t play the game and have no earthly idea what they’re up to.
Soccer fan doesn’t care. He (she) goes nuts watching it and can become extremely animated. Problem one: ants are playing - not humans. Black ones. Problem two: none of the ants is wearing a uniform so how people are rooting for a “team” is a mystery to me, but all these people are going nuts cheering anyway. Problem three: ants, even big ones, are notoriously small. They can’t really kick anything around. I guess the upside is that they’ll never get a foul for using their hands because they have none. Who cares?
So the ants have limited choices. They seem to surround the ball in huge numbers and are carrying it forward while the opposing team is amassing twigs and other shit down field in front of them to create impediments to forward movement. Passengers on this flight, mostly from Somethingvakia are all cheering. Still can’t figure out why. Thankfully at last there is a break in the action. The overhead lights come on and carts begin rolling around with what I assume to be refreshments.
Something is wrong, I can tell almost immediately. Flight attendants normally dress in company uniforms so they can be distinguished as legit and official. Not these ones. No, not these ones. These ones are dressed randomly as if having been selected from among the passengers themselves. I spot a guy in a business suit with a tie that keeps dipping into the pitcher of what he is serving. (I find myself disturbed by this but no one else seems at all daunted.) Incidentally, any variety of beverage is offered on any normal flight - coffee, water, juice, soda - even booze. The pitcher into which this guy’s tie is dipping is filled with prune juice. It is the one and only drink available on this particular flight. Tie flavored prune juice.
There is a girl in a tennis outfit pushing his cart, smiling all the time but saying nothing to anyone. The second cart is piled with what looks like bite sized chunks of brightly colored lava biscuits. It is piloted by a kid with a very runny nose and the server is a nurse wearing a baseball cap, canted sideways with the bill folded up. At this point I begin to think I must be having someone else’s dream. I’d like to find him and give it back.
The guy next to me reaches out to receive a rose colored lava chip but before he takes a bite he examines it closely, turns to me and asks me in a language I don’t know yet clearly understand if I think the thing will taste good. I tell him I don’t know because I recently had open heart surgery and thus nothing tastes right. I do, however, advise him not to bite it because it is made of rock. Yes, he says, but do I think it will taste good. No, I offer. It is not digestible. He bites it anyway, despite my good Samaritan advise, and I hear teeth disintegrating. I am nonplussed by this but what can I say? Then all hell breaks loose.
The flight attendants suddenly move aside to allow the onrush of some sort of air cops. Multicolored lights begin flashing as though we are in a casino and someone has just won big at a slot machine. They stop at my aisle and point at a lady wearing a Carmen Miranda looking hat with fake fruit all over it. In the unknown language they say in absolute unison, “you’ve been drinking.” The other passengers begin hissing and the poor woman turns beet red with embarrassment. She is summoned to the aisle and informed that she can either endure a breathalyzer test or a mobile chest X-ray. Bewildered, she chooses the latter.
Hell comes in degrees. Hell, Hellier and Helliest. What transpires next is the last and obviously most profound of the three. The largest of the four cops - a male - slips his hands under her blouse and moves them up to cover her breasts. She is so shocked by this that she exhales suddenly and vehemently. The other three officers lean forward to smell her breath. The look at each other and around at the surrounding passengers and proclaim, “Nope, she’s not drunk.” Relieved, she matter of factly pushes the officer’s hands off her chest (which have by this time been lingering for no justifiable reason) and matter of factly returns to her seat.
The lights dim once again, the cops and flight attendants fade away and the ant soccer game returns to the overhead screens. Once again we’ve returned to normalcy. Soccer fan is going nuts. The guy next to me is staring into his left hand examining a few broken teeth. I lean over. “I told you that was a bad idea.”
I need to locate the guy whose dream this is and return it. I’d rather dream about motorized pomegranates on a go cart track or watch ticks playing baseball. Think I’ll try to get back to sleepThursday, Feb 6
You’d think I could catch a break. I was sleeping so peacefully tonight when I found myself on a transatlantic flight to a country I’d never heard of on one of those megaliners with about eighteen seats across. The first thing I saw was that the overhead screens were showing a game involving black ants playing soccer. I don’t care for soccer. Don’t play the game and have no earthly idea what they’re up to.
Soccer fan doesn’t care. He (she) goes nuts watching it and can become extremely animated. Problem one: ants are playing - not humans. Black ones. Problem two: none of the ants is wearing a uniform so how people are rooting for a “team” is a mystery to me, but all these people are going nuts cheering anyway. Problem three: ants, even big ones, are notoriously small. They can’t really kick anything around. I guess the upside is that they’ll never get a foul for using their hands because they have none. Who cares?
So the ants have limited choices. They seem to surround the ball in huge numbers and are carrying it forward while the opposing team is amassing twigs and other shit down field in front of them to create impediments to forward movement. Passengers on this flight, mostly from Somethingvakia are all cheering. Still can’t figure out why. Thankfully at last there is a break in the action. The overhead lights come on and carts begin rolling around with what I assume to be refreshments.
Something is wrong, I can tell almost immediately. Flight attendants normally dress in company uniforms so they can be distinguished as legit and official. Not these ones. No, not these ones. These ones are dressed randomly as if having been selected from among the passengers themselves. I spot a guy in a business suit with a tie that keeps dipping into the pitcher of what he is serving. (I find myself disturbed by this but no one else seems at all daunted.) Incidentally, any variety of beverage is offered on any normal flight - coffee, water, juice, soda - even booze. The pitcher into which this guy’s tie is dipping is filled with prune juice. It is the one and only drink available on this particular flight. Tie flavored prune juice.
There is a girl in a tennis outfit pushing his cart, smiling all the time but saying nothing to anyone. The second cart is piled with what looks like bite sized chunks of brightly colored lava biscuits. It is piloted by a kid with a very runny nose and the server is a nurse wearing a baseball cap, canted sideways with the bill folded up. At this point I begin to think I must be having someone else’s dream. I’d like to find him and give it back.
The guy next to me reaches out to receive a rose colored lava chip but before he takes a bite he examines it closely, turns to me and asks me in a language I don’t know yet clearly understand if I think the thing will taste good. I tell him I don’t know because I recently had open heart surgery and thus nothing tastes right. I do, however, advise him not to bite it because it is made of rock. Yes, he says, but do I think it will taste good. No, I offer. It is not digestible. He bites it anyway, despite my good Samaritan advise, and I hear teeth disintegrating. I am nonplussed by this but what can I say? Then all hell breaks loose.
The flight attendants suddenly move aside to allow the onrush of some sort of air cops. Multicolored lights begin flashing as though we are in a casino and someone has just won big at a slot machine. They stop at my aisle and point at a lady wearing a Carmen Miranda looking hat with fake fruit all over it. In the unknown language they say in absolute unison, “you’ve been drinking.” The other passengers begin hissing and the poor woman turns beet red with embarrassment. She is summoned to the aisle and informed that she can either endure a breathalyzer test or a mobile chest X-ray. Bewildered, she chooses the latter.
Hell comes in degrees. Hell, Hellier and Helliest. What transpires next is the last and obviously most profound of the three. The largest of the four cops - a male - slips his hands under her blouse and moves them up to cover her breasts. She is so shocked by this that she exhales suddenly and vehemently. The other three officers lean forward to smell her breath. The look at each other and around at the surrounding passengers and proclaim, “Nope, she’s not drunk.” Relieved, she matter of factly pushes the officer’s hands off her chest (which have by this time been lingering for no justifiable reason) and matter of factly returns to her seat.
The lights dim once again, the cops and flight attendants fade away and the ant soccer game returns to the overhead screens. Once again we’ve returned to normalcy. Soccer fan is going nuts. The guy next to me is staring into his left hand examining a few broken teeth. I lean over. “I told you that was a bad idea.”
I need to locate the guy whose dream this is and return it. I’d rather dream about motorized pomegranates on a go cart track or watch ticks playing baseball. Think I’ll try to get back to sleep.
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