There was a great noodle place in San Francisco's Chinatown that Joseph took me to once, but I could never remember where it was since going back. Maybe it, too, was a victim of economic blight. Anyway, I had a dream last night I met up with him again and this time we went to a little-known place that didn't look the least bit like a restaurant inside, and whose proprietor was some sort of Chinese artist who also worked on classic cars. He wore a parka and had a sharp, bespectacled eyes beneath his White head, and belied my temptation to describe him further with the trite word "wizened." There weren't any tables, but he quickly threw one together for us as he prepared our meal. Behind our seats was a wall of garage doors, and Joseph pushed the button to one, causing the decorative glassware hanging from it to drop from their precarious perches. I tried to catch them as they fell, making quite a show for other guests, but ran out of hands and missed several. One that broke open wasn't for sale but filled with a condiment.
I'm watching Sci-Fi Channel's Hulk marathon at home today and it dawned on me that every show's geared towards exposing poor Bill Bixby to the most maddening people—one-dimensional thugs, bloodthirsty mobs and drivers who don't pick up hitchhikers at the end but can't help but hit him when he's trying to cross the street—and situations, of course, to bring out the big green guns to deal with them. I've long since lost my perspicacity, but is there a form of drama akin to comedy or tragedy I can portmanteau into something like sitcom or sit-trag (aka the Korean soap), which instead of going for laughs or tears, induces anger? The neocon agenda could do it.
We got back pretty late Friday night, and the garage was quiet, so I was surprised to hear the elevator open in the distance. Even more so to see our old HOA president, a 60-something retiree emerge with a younger Black woman in a bright red and white outfit that otherwise looked very short because of all the leg showing. This is as much of his companion I could ascertain as he walked her to his car in the other direction, chattering away; his long-winded nature was what made him an outstanding candidate for the position. But who am I to comment on a single fellow's choice of weekend activity? I can only imagine if he put a cover over his bird cage for her.
Had a dream I parked my motorcycle on the side of a street in a seaside village, returned to it shortly thereafter to find a young man seated behind the rear wheel with a pair of pliers, backpack dropped to his side. I struck the would-be thief on the side of the head, felling him to the ground and continued to beat him viciously from above. He was pale-skinned and his belly bloated under his Blue T-shirt, and lie still after my blows. My arms grew weak, so I swung a bag of heavy items (seemed like combination locks) I happened to be carrying onto his listless head. But—and while it's not rare for me to feel during my overnight reveries, perhaps it's this particular sensation that struck me; more so that it stuck after waking—I noticed that the satisfaction of delivering punishment had gone. His hand somehow moved below and activated a message that contained almost testamentary instructions amidst a website-like menu, which left me wondering less about the merits of vengeance than whether it was even safe to attack a criminal armed with tools, or if someone in such a dangerous line of work might guard against a development like this. With maybe a panic button that, pressed or not, would trigger a getaway blast in his bag or call for help.
How pleasantly surprising that the prurient material didn't resort to obvious development! (I had hoped to share some 20th-century correspondence on the subject but currently don't have access to the archives. Suffice it to say that my thoughts of Real Doll's then-new website was less sensitive to the exploration of the human condition in this movie. Perhaps the lesson from Lars is there's a natural tendency towards overcoming one's weaknesses and self-healing, whether it's by blood clotting or spending $7K on the Internet …hmm, seemed to have veered off and forgotten I was amidst parentheses.)
How dare those evil spuds at McDonald's challenge the power of devolution! I'm so out of it; are there bands like them around anymore? There should be.
