I had a strange dream last night.
What I think happened (it's often difficult to piece together the logic in many of my dreams) is that there was some sort of zombie apocalypse, but some twisted person thought it would be lucrative to make a game show out of it. I and eleven others had to get through an underground series of tunnels and rooms. Interestingly some tunnels and rooms were bare rock, and others were completely finished, as though they were inside some classy old house. Other contestants would be placed strategically in certain areas to hide and frighten and kill the rest of us. So we had zombies to deal with, as well as sick individuals that would kill for money. We were unarmed and were trying to quickly make our way through the labyrinth to get to a room with a door that was sturdy, and could be locked. We entered a wide open hall, lit by weak gymnasium lights. As I walked past a pillar, someone popped in behind me and fired up a chainsaw and started to saw into me where my neck meets my shoulder. It didn't hurt, but it could definitely feel the force downward on me. I dropped, and jolted out of the way. He was grimy, and was dressed in filthy overalls with matted black hair. He was a new contestant. He came at me again, and lunged with the chainsaw, but I grabbed his arms. He shifted in such a way that he was able to nick away at both of my forearms. Again, there was no pain, just blood. I shifted my weight and he fell down. I grabbed the chainsaw, and while he was on the ground holding his arms up for protection, I sawed his arms off just below the elbow. Another player bandaged him up while I kept on, looking for a decent room. It was our understanding that the dominant player would get the safe room for the night. We found it shortly after, and it was decided that I would get the room. I was the dominant player at the time, likely because I was the only one with a chainsaw and obviously wasn't afraid to use it. We all entered the room together. It was a dank, but clean room that resembled a 70's motel room. There was wood paneling on all the walls, a hide-a-bed with white sheets and a tan colored, itchy looking blanket and maroon shag carpet. The doors were painted white, apparently many times, as they were very glossy, and I could see imperfections and drips painted over many times. I told everyone to leave the room and when they did, I checked every closet, kitchenette cupboard, and door, to make sure there wasn't anyone else hiding in that room, and that all the doors were locked and secure. Then I sat down on the bed and put down the chainsaw, exhausted.
Then I woke up.
I can't wait for hockey season to really get going.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The day I got Burned.
I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before, but on the side, I like to sell sport drinks. I do this as a leisurely way to pass the time, not for the money. It's not the drinks themselves that I am interested in, it's the salesmanship, and the strategy of setting up shop in the ideal spot.
A few months back, I was in the locker room at my gym, and was discussing the greater contribution to society that athletic people make, when compared to non-athletes. I went further to say that athletes should be given preferential treatment. I believe the group I was speaking to was in agreement, because they offered no opposing view, in fact, very little was said at all in reply to my statements. I assure you they weren't ignoring me though, because when I changed the subject to my sport drink endeavors after an excruciating lull in the conversation, one person spoke up.
I feel it is important to mention what this person looked like. He had hair that looked like a woman's. It was red, and looked clean and brushed. It reached almost down to his tie-dyed trunks. He also had a thick, curly beard of the same color. On his chest, he had a tattoo of a woman's face, with straight blue hair parted down the middle with a band around her forehead with a flower on the center of it. Behind the woman was some floral, yet tribal design. I couldn't look too long, because I didn't want him to think I was gay. I think he had the same idea, because he wasn't making eye contact with me either, but I was pretty naked after my shower.
He spoke. "You should sell your drink at burning, man. Lot's of thirsty people there, man."
This confused me. "I should sell it at burning? What are you talking about?"
"No. Burning MAN, the festival." He spoke as though he was saying something that was obvious to everyone. What planet was this guy from?
"Should I now?" I said with a hint of disagreement. "I'm not taking a trip across town, just to sell a few drinks to some little party."
"Actually, it's in the desert near Reno, and I think 48,000 people went last year." I realized he was giving me a sales tip.
"Alright. Thanks. I'll look into that." I thought maybe I could catch the Vegas to Reno desert race while I was down there.
Flash forward to a select few experiences from my trip down there.
1. As soon as I arrived at the lake bed where this festival takes place, I knew I found the planet that guy from the gym comes from.
2. The people here are strange and they all expected the drinks to be free. Someone explained to me that the purpose of the festival was to create a community where everyone contributes something. Everyone brings something to give away to the community, and they take something home with them, be it a spiritual truth, an experience, a skill or talent, whatever. I think he just wanted free juice.
3. These were not the type of people to experiment with the sales pitch: "Electrolyte replacement promotes proper rehydration, which is important in delaying the onset of fatigue during exercise." They laugh at such remarks.
4. I got so many complaints when I put up the banner advertising my sport drink that I started telling people it was art.
5. I questioned a group of customers whether recycling the plastic bottles is worth the effort. This was a grave mistake. This was a turning point in the first morning of the festival. My only friend at this point was a member of the Washoe County Sheriff's Office. We were outcasts here.
6. A useless fact I learned from overhearing some older ladies talking about drugs. Nevada doesn't recognize that medical marijuana is legal. Why would senior citizens know this? I also heard that the police use night vision goggles to detect drug use. I figured these old stoner ladies were paranoid, but then my cop friend confirmed it.
7. There didn't seem to be any cool car buffs there, and people put stupid ugly crap all over their cars here. Someone tried to put a ceramic daisy on my car and I got after them and nearly made them cry. They said something about bad vibes and I knew I couldn't stay here for a week.
So I packed up my kit and spent the rest of the morning and afternoon in Reno. It was nice, walking around, being normal. I saw some people who were clearly involved with that festival being spoken to by police. I thought to myself, I could get away with a lot, like I could go into a store right now and steal their security television, but the cops wouldn't suspect me, because I look normal, unlike these other people. On my way out of town I saw another car pulled over. It was covered in snow globes. Apparently ugliness is illegal in Nevada too. I couldn't wait to get home and put on the game and live a normal life again.
I saw that guy in the gym again. He looked like he was smirking when he walked by and my jock friends were asking about burning man. I take comfort in the fact that I am a winner, and he is a loser. I mean, just look at him. I'm so glad I'm not weird. But even if I was, like if I had a medical condition where I just dressed terribly, I'd still make sure I could beat up anyone who said anything about it. I thought about the discussion I had in the locker room and realized that athletes do get preferential treatment. It's because we're not weird that we fit in, and everyone looks up to us because we can do what they can't, what they wish they could do. They love us because they compare themselves to us and see that we are simply better.
That night I had a pizza with Coke for supper, and watched football over a six of Bud. This was my protest against all that happened at burning man.
A few months back, I was in the locker room at my gym, and was discussing the greater contribution to society that athletic people make, when compared to non-athletes. I went further to say that athletes should be given preferential treatment. I believe the group I was speaking to was in agreement, because they offered no opposing view, in fact, very little was said at all in reply to my statements. I assure you they weren't ignoring me though, because when I changed the subject to my sport drink endeavors after an excruciating lull in the conversation, one person spoke up.
I feel it is important to mention what this person looked like. He had hair that looked like a woman's. It was red, and looked clean and brushed. It reached almost down to his tie-dyed trunks. He also had a thick, curly beard of the same color. On his chest, he had a tattoo of a woman's face, with straight blue hair parted down the middle with a band around her forehead with a flower on the center of it. Behind the woman was some floral, yet tribal design. I couldn't look too long, because I didn't want him to think I was gay. I think he had the same idea, because he wasn't making eye contact with me either, but I was pretty naked after my shower.
He spoke. "You should sell your drink at burning, man. Lot's of thirsty people there, man."
This confused me. "I should sell it at burning? What are you talking about?"
"No. Burning MAN, the festival." He spoke as though he was saying something that was obvious to everyone. What planet was this guy from?
"Should I now?" I said with a hint of disagreement. "I'm not taking a trip across town, just to sell a few drinks to some little party."
"Actually, it's in the desert near Reno, and I think 48,000 people went last year." I realized he was giving me a sales tip.
"Alright. Thanks. I'll look into that." I thought maybe I could catch the Vegas to Reno desert race while I was down there.
Flash forward to a select few experiences from my trip down there.
1. As soon as I arrived at the lake bed where this festival takes place, I knew I found the planet that guy from the gym comes from.
2. The people here are strange and they all expected the drinks to be free. Someone explained to me that the purpose of the festival was to create a community where everyone contributes something. Everyone brings something to give away to the community, and they take something home with them, be it a spiritual truth, an experience, a skill or talent, whatever. I think he just wanted free juice.
3. These were not the type of people to experiment with the sales pitch: "Electrolyte replacement promotes proper rehydration, which is important in delaying the onset of fatigue during exercise." They laugh at such remarks.
4. I got so many complaints when I put up the banner advertising my sport drink that I started telling people it was art.
5. I questioned a group of customers whether recycling the plastic bottles is worth the effort. This was a grave mistake. This was a turning point in the first morning of the festival. My only friend at this point was a member of the Washoe County Sheriff's Office. We were outcasts here.
6. A useless fact I learned from overhearing some older ladies talking about drugs. Nevada doesn't recognize that medical marijuana is legal. Why would senior citizens know this? I also heard that the police use night vision goggles to detect drug use. I figured these old stoner ladies were paranoid, but then my cop friend confirmed it.
7. There didn't seem to be any cool car buffs there, and people put stupid ugly crap all over their cars here. Someone tried to put a ceramic daisy on my car and I got after them and nearly made them cry. They said something about bad vibes and I knew I couldn't stay here for a week.
So I packed up my kit and spent the rest of the morning and afternoon in Reno. It was nice, walking around, being normal. I saw some people who were clearly involved with that festival being spoken to by police. I thought to myself, I could get away with a lot, like I could go into a store right now and steal their security television, but the cops wouldn't suspect me, because I look normal, unlike these other people. On my way out of town I saw another car pulled over. It was covered in snow globes. Apparently ugliness is illegal in Nevada too. I couldn't wait to get home and put on the game and live a normal life again.
I saw that guy in the gym again. He looked like he was smirking when he walked by and my jock friends were asking about burning man. I take comfort in the fact that I am a winner, and he is a loser. I mean, just look at him. I'm so glad I'm not weird. But even if I was, like if I had a medical condition where I just dressed terribly, I'd still make sure I could beat up anyone who said anything about it. I thought about the discussion I had in the locker room and realized that athletes do get preferential treatment. It's because we're not weird that we fit in, and everyone looks up to us because we can do what they can't, what they wish they could do. They love us because they compare themselves to us and see that we are simply better.
That night I had a pizza with Coke for supper, and watched football over a six of Bud. This was my protest against all that happened at burning man.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Get well soon, Ken-Yon!
The Calgary Stampeders are losing their receiver temporarily due to injury. In Friday's game against the B.C Lions, Ken-Yon Rambo suffered a leg injury. Rambo had to leave the game late in the first quarter after a bold offensive move by Lions linebacker Javier Glatt. Rambo has a surgery planned that will clean out his knee joint and reattach his anterior cruciate ligament.In an attempt to bring more interest to my football reporting, I've decided to include the banter between the players recorded on the overhead microphones in this story. The following was recorded in the moments immediately after Rambo's injury.
Lookout! He's packin' heat!
That's a tackling dummy.
Dummies don't shoot.
He must be here!
We've gotta kill that guy!
Go get him!
You have to find him first, Barnes!
Hayes, Smythe, get over here! Green, cover me, now!
Oh my leg! Hayes, make a tourniquet!
We've gotta get him to a doctor! - And fast!
Anyone see a first aid kit?
It's still in my locker.
Where did that maniac get the gun?
From Olson.
Doesn't matter. He's out of bullets.
What do you mean?
That mascot wasn't killed by a bullet.
Ken-Yon, open your eyes. You can't fall asleep.
Open the tourniquet. Okay. Do it up again.
We've got this guy. He's got no bullets.
He never should have killed our cheerleading squad.
Get that guy. Now!
OK. Everybody take a knee and listen up.He's ours.
We'll walk over there slowly. Don't let him stop you.
Don't let the fear get you.
Let's go get our prey.
Our prey? We're the prey!
Rambo gained 179 yards this season but has yet to score a touchdown.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
With friends like these.
A "friend" of mine has been illegally smuggling black-footed Ibérico hogs from Spain via medium-sized aircraft. I took this picture with my phone. These Iberian wild boar descendants feed mostly on acorns in their designated oak forests. I agreed to help this "friend" unload 50 hogs from his airplane last month in hopes that he'd reduce the $2000 price tag. That may seem like a lot to pay for a pig. But for an athlete like myself, consuming one of the only breeds of pig that contains Omega-3 (ω−3) fatty acids is of utmost importance. That carbon-carbon double bond three down from the methyl end of the fatty acid is what my muscles want, and it's what they get. Plus, my doctor says I simply must stop snorting powdered baby formula. That sucks, because I think it was finally starting to work. I've tried eating fish but I fear that it may hinder my entrance into certain bodybuilding competitions due to exceeding the maximum permissible acumen. So I drove several hours to his huge property that actually has a long, but run down airstrip on it, among barns and a pretty run down house, all being swarmed by grass and weeds. He was 20 minutes late when I saw an airplane approach in the distance. I was a little nervous being parked at the end of the airstrip when he came in for the landing. That nervous feeling was replaced by a fear that felt like an egg in the back of my throat. He eventually opened the door and I angrily asked him what the heck he thought he was doing.He replied stupidly. "What?" He's such a redneck. I hate him.
"You're illegally smuggling pigs and you paint your plane like that?"
"That's to get them off the scent. The cops would never suspect pig smuggling in a airplane painted like this! Anyway, it came that way, and it was cheaper because of it."
"I'm not helping you again. You're begging for people to ask questions."
So I helped him unload the cargo and I gave him $1500 for a pig. I brought it home and have been eating it here and there for a few weeks now. I don't know if he hit some turbulence up there or something, but the meat tastes pretty bruised or something. It's kind of like really gamey bacon. And I've felt pretty nauseous for a few days now too, so I haven't been able to work these fatty acids into my muscles either. Can someone get physically sick from buyers remorse?
Idiot.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
The Worlds Most Perfectly Developed Man
Remember this?
On my travels, I met Herc, Charles Atlas' son. I went to see why Charles hadn't been answering my letters. Turns out he died in 1972. Herc was not impressed. Long Beach NY was nice. Didn't go to New York city at this time. It seems like it would be boring. I just stayed on the beach and played volleyball and lifted weights, in spite of Atlas' regimen. Nobody kicked sand in my face.
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