Storytelling

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It Was All Just a Dream: Tiny Niece at Volleyball Creek

Most nights, I have a few different dreams. But usually there’s only one I can remember the next day, if any. It would be a shame to let these dreams remain entertainment for only one person.

I ended up at a lodge up on a hill where a party was going on. At the top of the hill there was an underground creek that was exposed for about five feet. In the likeness of those things at bowling alleys that shoot the ball back after it hits the pins, I was able to put items in the exposed part of the creek, then I could run down to the bottom of the hill where there was another opening of the underground creek.

From that point, I could pick up the item I sent through from the top of the hill. Like a laundry shoot. But underwater.

At the party, I saw my friend Sarah whom I haven’t seen in a while. She had brought her 9 year-old niece. Her niece was like Tiny Tim in the fact she was only about 18 inches tall, but not a “little person” or dwarf. Just a tiny person.

I got my hands on a volleyball that had a built-in trap door in which I could hide items inside. When my friend Sarah wasn’t looking, I put her niece inside the volleyball and dropped it into the creek at the top of the hill.

A few minutes later, the volleyball popped up at the other end of the creek. Sarah’s niece managed to let her self out of the volleyball and the creek, getting soaked in the process.

She marched back up to the top of the hill and looked at me with such sad eyes. I felt horrible. Somehow what I thought was a funny prank was instead a cruel joke. Then I realized that it was not my friend Sarah’s niece, but instead my own niece.

End of dream.

If I remember a dream, I tend not to ever forget it. There are dreams I clearly remember from my childhood. I have a feeling I will always relate this dream to my niece every time I see her. Hopefully, my guilt won’t follow me forever on this one.

Something that is new in my life is that I recently bought some incense at an Indian store next to my new favorite Indian restaurant. I don’t burn it. I just keep it by the bed for its aromatherapy factor. That could be the cause of my recent particularly strange dreams.

 

Follow-up Questions:

1) Why would any company manufacture a volleyball with a built-in door leading to a hidden compartment?
2) Why was my niece so tiny in the dream? And why did she start out as Sarah’s niece but then later I realized she was my niece?
3) Why was I so mean to her?

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John Hancock

 

“Sell your soul for an autograph.” -“Big Bang Baby” by Stone Temple Pilots

There is no way for me to count all the concerts I’ve been to throughout my lifetime. But there have been a lot. Most of them were during my high school years and almost exclusively involved Christian alternative rock bands that most people weren’t familiar with like Plank Eye and The Supertones. But to me, they were famous rock stars. And I got their autographs. And that made me cool.

It’s a funny thing as a 15 year-old kid to ask a band member for their autograph. Because unless I had a question to ask about the meaning of a particular song or unless I generically told them what a huge fan I was like everyone else in the merchandise line, there wasn’t much else to say.

This year on Valentine’s Day I was at Fresh Market buying some flowers for my wife.  I noticed that most of the customers were graviting towards the back of the store.  The rumor was that Keith Urban and Nicole Kidman were sharing lunch at the store’s deli.

I laughed at all the crazy people caring so much about the celebrities there.  Just to make sure it wasn’t a hoax, I journeyed to the back.  It was really them.  Enjoying their private lunch as if no one was around.  As if no one was gawking, whispering, and calling their friends.  And before I knew it, I had snapped a blurry picture of Keith and Nicole with my camera phone.  And they both happened to look up and see me do it.

I realized I was adding to the noise, at that moment.

We put celebrities on a higher plane than ourselves. Yet in the act of admiration (often infatuation and sometimes even obsession) we ironically tend to treat them as being on a lower plane than ourselves. Like a magical charm. Not exactly a human being.

While it’s our respect for their talent we admire, we equate their value to a tangible imprint. An autograph or a camera phone picture is sometimes all we really want from them when we are actually given the opportunity to speak with them as fellow human beings.

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Dreaming about a Russian Mafia in a Warehouse and Pepperoni Pizza

Most nights, I have a few different dreams. But usually there’s only one I can remember the next day, if any. It would be a shame to let these dreams remain entertainment for only one person.  Follow-up questions included.

 

I ended up with some distant ties with the Russian mafia, somehow. Location: New Orleans. Two men were tied up in a warehouse. The building had been doused in gasoline. My mission: To simply walk by the front of the building, shielding my face from the security camera, and throw a lit match on the doorstep of the warehouse. Which would inevitably remove the existence of the two unfortunate men inside who found themselves at odds with the Russians.

I walked up to the building and attempted to strike the match, but my nervous fingers failed me. But if I didn’t complete the mission, I could easily end up in that warehouse with the other guys who were tied up to chairs with handkerchiefs in their mouths.

 

Then I got distracted because my wife called me to let me know we had been invited over to dinner at another married couple’s house. I ended up not striking another match but going to the dinner instead. But then, a terrible thing happened. The other couple had graciously made a delicious pepperoni pizza for us, not knowing that neither of us ate pork. Awkward.

End of dream.

 

Follow-up Questions:

1) What was the Russian mob doing in New Orleans anyway?
2) Was I actually willing to finish off the Russian mob’s victims?
3) How did the other married couple not already know we don’t eat pork? It’s our responsibility to let them know beforehand.

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The Irony of Praying Before a Meal of Junk Food

Bless this greasy burger and these Twinkies to the nourishment of our bodies and our bodies to your service…

Saying the “blessing” before a meal is a complicated and trying process when there is a group of three of more people. I was made most aware of the awkwardness/intenseness involving the procedure during my Junior High and High School years with my church youth group. It always amused me that we were constantly eating fast food and asking God to bless it to the nourishment of our bodies.

The intensity of it is this: I was a hungry kid with a high metabolism. There was food in front of me, but I couldn’t eat it because I had to wait for everyone to be ready for the prayer. That’s cruel for a kid of any age. (Even at 28.)

The awkwardness of it is this: No one knew who was going to be asked to pray. There’s a bit of a short waiting game as the Designated Pray Person is elected. (And by now, I’ve learned to elect myself.)

 

But for those who suffer, there is mercy. I’m referring to the It’s Okay to Eat Fries, Peanuts, and Chips & Salsa Before the Prayer rule. For some reason, God isn’t concerned with us not asking his blessing for unofficial appetizers. However, if there is an actual appetizer, like a Blooming Onion for example, a prayer of tha

 

nksgiving and blessing is required.

And one must always be aware of the Salad Bar Clause. When dining at a restaurant with a salad bar or optional buffet of any kind, it’s important to make sure that someone prays before the first person leaves to go to the buffet. Otherwise, everyone will be obligated to wait for the buffet-goers to get back to their seats before the prayer can be said and everyone can begin eating.

Such anxiety! It’s a mad, mad, mad, mad world.

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Animalspeak Volume 3

Twenty-two years ago (November 1987) in our first grade class, my teacher Ms. Sparks gave us all a blank sheet of paper and told us to draw a picture of something we were thankful for.  I was excited.  Thirty minutes later, our teacher walked by everyone’s desk to see the art we had accomplished.  As she came closer to me, I heard her reading off what each of my fellow students said they were thankful for.

“My family.”  “My friends.”  “My parents.”  “My sister.”  “My brother.”

Those were the things I was hearing.  As I looked up from my drawing, I started to realize that maybe mine was a little bit different that everyone else’s.  Ms. Sparks looked down at my picture.  “Animals.”  I was six year-old at the time, but I somehow was keen enough to notice that she that my drawing was weird.

“Yes, animals.  We can be thankful for the animals.”  She went on to the next student, trying to hide the confused look on her face.

I had drawn a picture of a picnic table.  On top of the table were several live animals: a fox, a raccoon, a cat, a bird, a dog, a possum, a squirrel, and I want to say… a horse.  (I really liked the Nick at Nite reruns of Mr. Ed back then.)  At the top of the page, I appropriately titled my masterpiece with an orange crayon:  ANIMALS.

 

Not necessarily animals that I ate.  Just animals.  I had a pet goldfish that I had won a few weeks before at the fair that I named Nippy.  (It was cold outside when I tossed the ping-pong ball in the goldfish bowl.)  But that was really the only exposure I had to animals.  No other pets than Nippy the Goldfish.

I’m still trying to figure out why all these random animals would show up on a picnic table and why I was thankful for them.  Kids are weird.

 

Animalspeak Table of Contents

Volume 1 http://wp.me/pxqBU-f2
Volume 2 http://wp.me/pxqBU-f8
Volume 3 http://wp.me/pxqBU-gu