I keep having dreams about moving away to a different city. Usually it's Las Vegas in my dreams, but sometimes it's not. Last night, for example, I dreamed that I'd taken a job in Seattle, so I moved back there. Then, later this morning, I had a dream that I'd been transferred to someplace in Northern California, so I moved there. Over the last couple of months, I've dreamed a lot about moving to South Dakota.

I'm very interested in dreams. I think they can, at times, display pretty interesting interpretations of what goes on in our heads and in our lives. It seems that I read somewhere that dreams are what we experience as our short-term memories and thoughts are filed away into long-term storage. I suppose that's as good an explanation as any, of the biochemical process involved. Not that I really care about that - I just like the symbolism and the metaphors.

And sometimes there are hot girls in my dreams. And I get to have sex with them.

But I digress.

I don't think that I keep dreaming about moving to a different city because I want to move. Or even because I fear moving. I think it's yet another metaphor. New jobs, new cities, those are just the symbols that my brain chose to use as it processed my desire for a new life. I could have a new life right here, with the same job, with mostly the same friends. A new life which would be entirely self-contained, in my own head. It can consist of nothing more than my own attitudes and interpretations of the world around me. All I have to do is choose to start over, and my new life could begin.

I think that's what I want. To start over. But I'm afraid that would require a leap of faith that I'm not ready to take. Just as dreams can turn into nightmares, so can lives.

---

Saturday afternoon, I took a nap. I dreamed that I'd gone to this guy's house, and he was cooking steaks for us. Problem was, he'd forgot to ask me how I wanted my steak cooked, so it came off the grill too rare for my tastes. So I put it back on the grill to let it finish cooking.

Once the steak had cooked, I took it from the grill and put it on my plate. It looked and smelled delicious. Then I woke up, before I got to take a single bite from the damn thing.

After I woke up, I was starving for a steak. I figured that I'd go to this Tucker's place and have one. I haven't been there for a while.

But, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that my dream hadn't really been about a steak at all. It had been about my own stubborn quest for perfection, and about my annoying tendency to wait too long for that perfection to arrive.

About how I wait too long, and how it's suddenly, terribly, horribly, too late.

MixedSignalGirl used to give me shit, if I didn't write something every day. She'd tell me about how she couldn't properly start her days until she'd had her coffee and read my blog. She was, along with many other wonderful things, my muse. Though that's not really the correct word. She didn't always inspire my writings. What she did was inspire me to write. The difference is subtle, but it's still a difference.

Anyway, the other day TremensGirl told me pretty much the same thing that MixedSignalGirl used to tell me. That I should write something every day. I tried to protest that my blog is boring now, but then I realized that being boring just might be a good thing.

I mean, if I write a boring entry, as I'm so wont to do lately, and somebody reads it first thing in the morning, well then they have nowhere to go but up. It's the contrast that's important.

Maybe, just maybe, I provide a valuable public service here, with my boring drivel.

Oh yeah, I spent several hours tonight talking with OddlyFamiliarGirl. She said that she was excited because she might be mentioned in my blog. Far be it from me to crush such lofty dreams, so I have indeed mentioned her.

Also, I had a new beer tonight.

Brooklyn Abbey Singel

(draft) Looks like a hazy pale lager. An odd aroma of what I guess is Belgian yeast. Flavor a bit like a saison, but weaker. It looked so much like a lager that I think I imagined lagerish components to the flavor and the finish that weren't really there. Decent, but that's it.

After that I had a pint and a half of Three Floyds Gumballhead (85) and then a Diet Coke.

It was a boring but pleasant night. Just what I needed after the drama of this past week.

A dude asked me tonight, when he saw me relax for the first time in hours, how I was doing. He was just being polite, I'm sure. It's just something you ask people when you kinda know them and can kinda sense that they're deep in thought.

"Hey Dave, how are you doing?" he asked.

He was just being polite. He certainly didn't ask for, or deserve, the crap I answered him with.

"Things are incredibly fantastic," I said. "And things are unimaginably terrible. There is no middle ground. But at least I'm not bored."

In other words, I told him the truth. And that truth led to even more truth. I couldn't shut the fuck up. It was a fucking endless loop, until OldBob joined us and managed to swing the subject to something besides how I was doing.

Thanks, OldBob.

What was I thinking? Very few people deserve to hear the unwashed truth from me, and even fewer people ask for that truth. And this guy was in neither group. I don't even know his damn name.

I should have said, "I'm fine" and let it go at that. Or maybe, "I'm just ducky." Because I say that a lot too, when I want people to leave me alone. It confuses people, when I say that I'm just ducky. They're not sure what it means. Gives me time to escape, or at least change the subject.

Does someone love you?
There are some who claim to do so. At least one I believe.

Do you know anyone named Dave?
Besides my lovely self, there's a bartender at The Pub, and a regular at Rich O's. Probably more.

Ever kissed anyone with the name starting with a J?
My first serious girlfriend was named Jackie.

Has anyone ever mistaken you for a family member?
I don't think so.

What colour are the walls of your parent's bedroom?
They were dark paneling.

Do you think that hair extensions look skanky?
I have no opinion either way.

Are you named after a grandparent?
No, after my dad.

Say you were given a drug test right now. Would you pass or fail?
I'd pass. I"m a good citizen.

Are you taller than 5'6"?
Yes.

Do you know anyone in jail/prison?
I'm not sure. I wouldn't be surprised.

Ever see a dead body?
At funerals.

Do you like the colour green?
On grass and trees, yes. On pizza, not so much.

What is your best friend's Dad's name?
Paul.

How old are you?
1344910813 seconds.

Who was the last person to send you a text message?
TremensGirl.

Ever drove into the ghetto to buy drugs?
Nope.

Last restaurant you went to?
The Pub.

What is the weather like today?
Unseasonably warm. I like it.

Last voice mail you received?
RockGirl telling me about travelling through time.

What did you do yesterday?
Worked, slept, watched some TV. Glared at my phone.

What's the first thing you would do with five million dollars?
Pay off my house.

What nationalities are you?
Most of the European ones.

How many hours did you sleep for last night?
Maybe two.

Any upcoming concerts you want to attend?
Nope.

Who's the last person that you felt was stalking you?
My stalkers must be doing a hell of a job, because I haven't noticed any of them.

What jewellery are you wearing?
None.

If all of your friends were going on a road trip, would
you?
It would depend on where and when. And who was going.

How much money do you have?
Enough to last until payday, I hope.

Do you swear at your parents?
I don't think I ever did. In front of them, certainly, but not at them.

Is your phone right beside you?
Always.

Have you cried today?
Nope.

Do you think that someone is thinking about you right now?
As I write this, I doubt this. As people read this, almost certainly.

Do you untie your shoes every time you take them off?
This is a stupid question that keeps showing up in these things. No.

What is the colour of your bedsheets?
Varies. I have gray ones and green ones.

Have you ever crawled through a window?
Yes.

Are you photogenic?
From far enough away.

What's your star sign?
Pisces.

Where do you spend most of your money?
Mortgage..

What was the last thing you did?
Checked the progress of a backup job at work..

Do you have a tattoo?
Nope.

Do you still watch cartoons on Saturday mornings?
Nope.

Is there a secret you've never told any of your friends?
Yes.

Have you ever told someone you loved them but didn't mean it?
No, but I've said it when I wasn't true. I only thoought it was true at the time.

Have you ever changed your clothes while in a vehicle?
When I first started dating my ex-wife, I'd take the baby to his grandparents house, pretending that I had to work. Then I'd change into my civilian clothes in my car and go play pool.

What are you doing in 2008?
I'll let you know.

What is your ring tone?
Varies between a standard ringer and a Homer Simpson "WooHoo" depending on who's calling.

What were you doing at 2am last night?
Shooting pool.

Are your parents married/divorced/separated?
They came within 13 days of their 25th anniversary before Mom died.

What are you doing tonight?
I'm keeping my options open.

What are you doing tomorrow?
Awfully concerned about my plans, aren't you?

Who did you last message on Myspace?
LaptopGirl.

What's your opinion on sex without emotional commitment?
I think that I need at least the potential for a commited relationship. I have strayed from this in the past though.

Does it annoy you when someone says they'll call but never do?
It destroys me.

What did you dress up as for your first Halloween?
Like I have a clue.

Favourite Disney movie?
I don't know.

What is the wallpaper on your cellphone?
A picture of the bar at The Pub.

There are certain things in this life that we can just take for granted. Immutable and immobile laws of reality.

Sunrises and sunsets. Death and taxes. Cats are finicky. Water is wet. I don't like hoppy beers.

Today I was at Rich O's after work, wondering about something and enjoying a beer. At about the time I ordered a second pint of the same beer, Roger (The owner of Rich O's) came up to me. Incredulous, he asked, "Do you really like that?"

Since I'd never lie about beer, I had to admit that I did. It seemed to be a bit more citrusy than I remembered, but it was still pretty damn good.

Roger then commented that it was, "Loaded with hops."

I guess I kinda sorta knew that already. It was an APA after all. But this isn't a normal hoppy APA. See, to me, hoppy has always meant bitter - especially in the finish. And this particular beer isn't bitter at all. Nope, instead of the usual piney hops, this one has what I can only call floral hops. I'm sure there's a more technical term than that, but floral is good enough for this humble venue in which I write.

The beer?

Three Floyds Gumballhead (53).

If you think you don't like hops, well then maybe you're wrong.

I know I was.

There's a first time for everything, I suppose.

For a while, an hour or so ago, I was thinking that it doesn't have to be like this. That it could be much better, easier, smoother. It could be good, even fun. Uplifting and revealing and relieving and shit.

But now, an hour or so later, now I'm not so sure. Maybe this is not supposed to be easy. Maybe these particular circumstances require a certain amount of uncertainty and impatience and trepidation just to ensure that they don't pass by unnoticed.

Not like that would ever happen, but maybe I'm the only one who knows that with any certainty. It's weird to be certain of anything, but here I am anyway.

I suppose that I'll just do what I always do. I'll wait and I'll see what happens. It won't be easy, waiting, but it's something I've become accustomed to doing.

I can do it for a while longer. As long as it takes, actually.

It won't kill me.

It was brought to my attention, earlier this evening, that I haven't written anything in a few days. Almost exactly three days, to be precise.

Well, that's not quite right. I've written a shitload of drivel since Sunday night. I just haven't posted any of it anywhere. And I've written one entry that I kinda like, but I haven't posted it here.

So I am writing stuff. But mostly I've been trying to keep this chicken ranch of mine running somewhat smoothly.

Just cleaning up their shit takes hours every day. I don't know why I talked myself into this.

I was going to write about something. I even wrote some preliminary thoughts and a rudimentary draft in my notebook. But I soon discovered that it was going to be really boring, no matter how much I tried to dress it up.

Plus, I thought of something else to write about. And my new thought pushed all of my old thoughts out of my head and they shattered when they hit the floor. So they're gone for good now, those old thoughts.

Now, all I have to do is write something good about the new thing that I thought of.

But not right now, because I thought of the idea quite recently, and I think it needs more time to develop.

So there.

Having totally failed to learn any sort of lesson about timing from Friday night, I got to Rich O's at 6:00 or so Saturday night. To be just a little less hard on myself, I had been planning to stop at Wendy's for something to eat, but then I remembered that I'd had a pretty big lunch, so I went straight to the bar.

They were having some art show thing in the special people area, so the place was full of weirdoes. Most significant for me was that the living room area was full of weirdoes. So I sat at the island by myself. I had an NABC Flat Tyre (83).

After a little while, this uberhot girl came in, clearly looking for a place to sit. She looked at me and I smiled. She smiled back and asked, "Are you sitting by yourself?"

I said that I was, then I followed with my standard joke. "Hard to believe, isn't it?"

So she laughed, and then she left. I never saw her again.

Oh well.

I spent some time sending emails and making phone calls. I had another Flat Tyre (103). Eventually I went to check out the art show, mainly to see if there was anything by MisunderstoodGirl or NotHideousGirl on display. There was nothing from either of them.

So I tried to call NotHideousGirl about the art show. I didn't have any success in calling her, so I had the brilliant idea to just go and see her. We've kinda been in a fight, and I've been really bothered by that. I figured that I'd do what I could to help mend things between us.

I was all prepared to throw pebbles at her window, but she ruined that idea by answering the door when I knocked.

For the rest of this entry, NotHideousGirl will be referred to as Sicky McSickypants.

Because she was sick, in case the new nickname didn't make that clear.

I talked to Sicky McSickypants for a while, and I drove her to the store so she could get some juice. Then I took her back home and talked for a few more minutes.

I feel like Sicky McSickypants and I are still on the outs, but not as far out. So that's good. I agreed to help her fix her car Sunday morning. Hopefully it's just a dead battery.

Anyway.

So I went back to Rich O's and sat in the throne, because the weirdoes had cleared out during my brief absence. I had myself a bottle of yummy Aecht Schlenkerla Marzen, and then MusicalYuppieDude and I split another bottle (1546).

One thing about art shows. Besides attracting weirdoes like moths to a flame, they also attract lots of pretty girls. There'd already been the uberhot girl earlier, and usually that would satisfy the Rich O's quota for the night. But not last night.

At one point, this other uberhot girl came in and looked around wildly. I called out and asked her what she needed. Hoping that she'd say she needed a 42-year-old man to take her home and ravage her.

But no, all she wanted was to know where the restroom was.

Never have I moved so quickly. I jumped from the throne, levitated myself over the loveseat, and landed gracefully at the girl's side. Taking her hand, I told her, "It's kind of hard to explain. I'll just take you there."

Yes, I really did that. Then I led her to the restroom, and I asked her if she thought she'd need any help finding her way back. She promised to call out if she got lost.

And so that made two good deeds that I'd done that night. The first being when I went to check up on Sicky McSickypants.

Talk about satisfying a quota.

Then, for some reason, I found myself babbling on and on to MusicalYuppieDude about various upcoming events. I'm fairly confident, however, that he won't go around blabbing. I still wish that I'd kept my mouth shut.

While I was babbling to MusicalYuppieDude, yet another uberhot girl came in. She came right over to me and sat at the kiddie table. She showed me her bar bill, and said something about how she wondered if I could do something about this one $23.00 item. I promised to do what I could do.

What I could do, well pretty much all I could do was give the ticket to the bartender and tell him that the uberhot girl with the cornrows had some kind of problem with the $23.00 item.

But that still made three good deeds for me, all in the space of about three hours. I was exhausted.

I also went out and told the girl that (a) I didn't work there, and (b) I'd brought her concerns to the bartender's attention, and that (c) I really liked her hair.

Then I went back to the throne and talked to MusicalYuppieDude and TremensGirl and TShirtDude for a few minutes, then I came home.

It was a pretty fun night. I found out this morning that, had I just stayed up for another 10 minutes, it could have been a great night, because I missed an email that came in 10 minutes after I went to bed.

One time, around 1990, my car (Suzuki Samurai) was in the shop for a couple of weeks. I got a rental car to tide me over. It was a Honda something or other, I think.

The car would talk to me. It would say things like, "Your headlights are on," and, "Please engage the parking brake."

Shit like that.

Anyway, one of the things it would always say, if I put my keys into the ignition before the door was fully closed or if I opened the door before I took my keys out of the ignition, was, "Your door is a jar."

Not that my door was "ajar."

Nope, it was two distinct words. And it was a long A sound. A pause jar period.

My door was "A Jar," it would tell me.

And I'd always argue with the car. I'd say, "No it's not, it's a fucking door, you stupid car."