I Mess Up While Dreaming vol. III

So I woke up in a bit of a panic this morning. I had a dream where I was about to get married. I'm a bit hazy about some crucial details (i.e. who the bride was, what she looked like, how she felt about sandals and socks, etc.), but I know that I was pretty excited to tie the knot. More excited than my awake self has been about anything I can remember in recent times, so that was a kind of funny feeling.

Still, I woke up nervous for a couple of reasons. Firstly, the whole dream seemed uncharacteristic of me; I'm afraid of commitment to the point where I wouldn't like to keep a may-fly as a pet for fear that it would tie me down to one place (this fear of commitment also manifests itself in not talking to girls just in case I ended up liking one). Furthermore, the fact that I was as excited as I was to get married to someone I may or may not have known is something I find troublesome. I leave this one open to interpretation.

What really concerned me most were the ramifications of my dream self getting married; I became concerned with all sorts of hypothetical questions that had me really worried about the well-being of my dream self. Would my wife become a recurring character in my dreams?  Would I have to remember anniversaries? Do chores? All of this had me worried.

Of all things, the most irrational was the guilt I felt. Like I said, in my dream, I was about to get married to a girl I felt strongly about (for whatever reasons). Before the actual event took place, I woke up, jilting my betrothed. Not to mention all the wedding guests who would have been angry that the reception wasn't actually going to take place. Poor breeding on my part, to say the least.

You'll Never Guess (Really).

I'm pretty bad at conversation to begin with, so I really hate when people make it even more difficult for me. There are a few ways to make conversation harder with me. One of them is to put a sock in my mouth and cover it with duct tape. Alternatively, you can have a really exciting piece of news, and say "guess what!" Here's how conversations where someone tells me to "guess what" normally turn out...

Friend: Hey Brendan, guess what!
Me: You were molested as a child. I am the first person you've ever said anything to. Oh my God, it makes so much sense why I've never heard you speak of your step-dad before. Ok, your turn to guess what!

Friend: Um... No. I was going to say I have an extra ticket to a movie and was going to invite you, but now I feel sort of uncomfortable doing that. Also, I was never molested. And I've never mentioned my step dad because my parents are both alive and still married.

Me: Oh. Well, in case you were wondering, you were supposed to guess that I'm all out of clean boxer shorts as of yesterday.

But really, "guess what" is a pretty useless phrase, and only serves to sidetrack conversations. There's almost no way the person who is supposed to "guess what" could possibly add to the conversation. Also, what would happen if the person actually did "guess what?" Conversation would come to a screeching halt. Let's re-imagine that first conversation.

Friend: Hey Brendan, guess what!
Me: You were molested as a child. I am the first person you've ever said anything to. Oh my God, it makes so much sense why I've never heard you speak of your step-dad before. Ok, your turn to guess what!
Friend: Um. Yeah. That made this conversation easier. And judging by the way you're walking gingerly, I guess you're all out of clean boxer shorts. Was I right?

Me: Yup. Good talking, friend! See you!

See? The person who says "guess what" really doesn't want you to guess what. That would spoil the surprise. He just wants to create some tension. In that case, why not just say, "Hey, something exciting came up. Would you like to hear it?" Probably because that would be too easy and straightforwards.

There are other variations on this theme. One of them is "Guess who I just saw!" Sure, I'll try to guess who you just saw. Let me look around for a mutual friend, first. Then, if I see that mutual friend, I'll say his or her name. That way, I know I have a chance of being right, even if that's not who my conversation partner had in mind.

Friend: Hey, guess who I just saw!
Me: Did you see Chester on the sidewalk five seconds ago? Because I just did!
Friend: Oh. Um, yeah. I did just see him. I actually meant that I just saw Elvis, and he winked at me!

Me: Oh. Well, did you ask Chester about the cut on his face? It's a good story.

My personal (least) favorite is when people say "You'll never guess what..." Of course I'll never guess what! You could have done any number of things! But I could probably guess what you didn't do. That sounds like a way more fun game for me. "I'll bet you didn't just get laid, you annoying twerp," I would reply. But no, I could probably guess what if you gave me more hints though. I don't know about you, but life isn't a huge game of 20 questions to me. If you really want me to guess, you need to be more helpful in telling me what I won't guess. Maybe tell me something like, "You'll never guess how much money I found in my jacket pocket from last year!" That would be more fun for all of us.

Fortunately, there is a solution to this. The trick is the same as the fortune-cookie game. Just add "in bed" to whatever your conversation partner asks you to guess.
Eg.

Friend: Guess who I just saw!
Me: In bed?
Now I'm interested. Was it as good as I would imagine?

Friend: Guess what I just did!

Me: In bed? Ooooooh.

TMI if it's a guy. If it's a girl, I'm really interested.

Friend: You'll never guess where I was.
Me: In bed? Do I want to know?
I do guess that you are a slut, though! Bonus points?

So keep that trick in mind. If we are all obnoxious together, hopefully, everyone will stop using the phrase "guess what." But really, does this bother anyone else as much as it bothers me? Please let me know so I can tell if I'm really neurotic or not. Hope all is well!

Conversations with a Floridian

So I was in upstate New York over this past weekend. Now, upstate New York is dangerously close to Canadia (In case you haven't read about my previous misadventures in Canada, see here or here). Right after maple syrup and hockey players with missing teeth, cold air is Canada's primary export, which means that areas by the border are pretty darn cold. Fortunately, I believe that the Canadian cold-weather gnomes were on strike (probably because they weren't given their maple syrup allotment), because this weekend was pretty warm.

Not that it being warm or cold makes much difference in how I dress (i.e. like a colorblind hobo). But really, there is rarely any correlation between  how much clothing I'm wearing and what the temperature outside is. Sometimes this works well for me. I'd say that about once a day, I overhear a beautiful woman say "Look at that underdressed doofus. That's way hot."*
*This is exactly as true as you think it is.


So no shit, there I was in upstate New York on a lake, beautiful day, and I wasn't wearing much (ladies...) As could be expected, this stopped the ladies from talking to me, but I was approached by an incredulous Floridian.

"Dude, you're crazy. It's freezing, how are you wearing so little?"
I shrugged. "I dunno, I don't think it's too cold."
"You're crazy man. I'm freezing, and I'm wearing way more than you are"
"No, you're crazy. You live in Florida. Have you thought about that? Alligators live there. It's not meant for human habitation. The only reason anyone went there in the first place is because some guy who was trippin' thought he would find a fountain of youth there. The average age of state residents is definitive proof that the Ponce de Leon was as crazy as his name suggested."

That frightened him off for a bit, mostly because he didn't know how to reply to my accusations. But really, the amusing part of this came on Sunday. We were on the water again. It was actually a bit warmer than it was on Saturday, but like I said, that has no meaning on what I wear. I know how to keep it classy, so I was rocking socks and sandals. Mr. Florida came up to me again, and started staring at my feet.

"Dude. Are those socks made of wool?"

I quickly evaluated what was happening.
1) He's hitting on me. Footwear is always how it starts. Probability this was the case: 25%
2) He's a fashion designer, and is really into my style. Probability this was the case: 0.1%
3) He has it in for sheep. Anything that makes them uncomfortable is a good thing. Probability this was the case: 0.9%
4) He was legitimately curious about my socks. Probability this was the case: 74%

"Um, yeah. Yeah, they are."
"That's awesome. I've heard people rave about wool. Is it really good?"

This was where I broke out laughing. Not to be mean, but seriously? I briefly considered that this was some religious thing, maybe like a rabbi asking "Are you eating bacon? I've heard people rave about it. Is it really good?"

But no. Turns out wool had never touched his skin. The natural material that comes from sheep. That we've had for thousands of years. Is this for real? Apparently, it is. People from Florida need to be exposed to the outside world. Perhaps they can organize a study overseas program in Canadia.

Hope all is well guys. Sorry for the lack of posting, there's a lot of outside pressure telling me that I need to do work, but hey. You all know my philosophy on working.

Comedy

So I owe the world an apology. Here goes.

Hey, World. For a long four days, I lost a lot of faith in you. You did not seem nearly as full of good people as I once thought you were. I thought you were filled with nasty people who lurk in shadows and, when the time is right, take my bike. I perceived your calm indifference to my plight as cruel disdain. I was wrong. You are a good place that treats me well; thank you for correcting my mistaken point of view.

What warrants this change in opinion? Well, I've been reunited with my bike, which is a pretty big deal to me. Spirits have been high; so high that many people having been asking me what drug I've been on, and more importantly, where they can get it. A typical conversation goes something like this:

Friend: My grandfather died recently.
Me: *grins blankly*
Friend: It was horrible.
Me: Aaaaaaaaah. You know that feeling you get when you have an itch on your back, and someone scratches it for you, really, really well?
Friend: He died of tuberculosis. His final words were hacking coughs in my direction. I think I'm wildly contagious, and I've definitely been coughing a lot around you...
Me: I feel like that, except plus the feeling you get when you kiss the girl you love.
Friend:  Brendan. Mortality, pain, suffering and loss.
Me: Mmmm. I feel like I'm in a Jack Johnson song.

So I may have lost a few friends this week because of insensitivity, but it doesn't matter that much to me, because I have my bike back. "But how?," you ask! Well, I suppose I should go back to the whole 'my bike was stolen' issue.

Here's the story that I didn't tell when the wound was too fresh. My friend Vick and I saw Scott Pilgrim vs. The World* on a touching man-date. We decided that the evening had gone well so far, and we didn't want it to end, so we went to the Pony bar** on 45th and 10th. I locked my bike up to a rack with two other bikes. I noticed that the rack was dangerously unattached to the ground, a lot like Shane, the wandering cowboy. "Nah, this will never be taken," I thought to myself.  An hour later, the rack was gone; Shane the rack had moved on, singing his lonesome cowboy song.  Thus began a dark period in my life; I looked suspiciously at all bike messengers, leered at bike racks, and shunned contact with the outside world and showers (not that these last two are that unusual).
*This is an awesome movie. It was like reading a comic book, playing a video game and watching a movie all at once. I recommend it if you enjoy fun things.
**This is an awesome bar. It serves beer! More specifically, it always has 20 delicious microbrews on tap for 5$ a piece.


Well, I went past the location where Shane the rack had disappeared from this past Friday. He was back; he didn't bring my bike with him, but he was there all right. "Those thieves are at it again!," I thought. I swore to myself angrily, and went up to a messenger who was unlocking his bike from that very rack. I noticed for the first time that the rack was stationed in front of a restaurant.

Me: *Trying to be as intimidating as Humphrey Bogart (I think I was as threatening as Elmer Fudd, in reality)* Is this your rack? 

Be very quiet. I'm hunting my bike.

Messenger: "Yes..."
Me: *Menacingly* Did you know I had a bike stolen from here Monday?
Messenger: Oh. A white one?
Me: Um... yeah?
Messenger: Yeah, it's inside. Want it back?
Me: Um... yes please?

I was so vewy, vewy wrong about the wocation and status of my bike. I also need to change my underwear from shock.

That was it. He went inside and talked to his boss, who rolled my bike out of the kitchen in the same shape it was in Monday. They had cut it off of the rack, and then they just took it inside and held onto it. They didn't sell it; the messengers weren't using it. They just didn't want it to be stolen if I left it there overnight. I was stunned, and in no state to talk. I fumbled for my wallet, handed the messenger a 20 dollar bill and hugged him through the tears. I then made out in public with my bike (more or less); after some PDA, I raced my way up Amsterdam avenue, emitting whoops of joy every time a taxi came within inches of killing me.

So, my bike is back, and all is well with the world, at least far as it pertains to me. And you know, I went back to where my bike was recovered that night because I was in the neighborhood. When I passed by, Shane wasn't there. "Come back, Shane! Come back!" I screamed to the empty city. And that's when the girl I was with ran away as quickly as she could.

God bless us, each and every one!

Tragedy

Because of the nature of recent events, this post may strike a more serious, meditative tone than usual (because that's really challenging to do). But yes, this post is my meditation on tragedy.

The recent tragedy that occurred was that my bike was stolen. I don't really expect the company that printed "Save Darfur" shirts to start printing "Please give a nice, well-meaning college student his expensive bike back," but that's the reaction I'd like to see. Then I'd like to get it back. More realistically, whoever stole my bike will sell it for a few hundred dollars to some customer who may or may not know that it's stolen, but who definitely doesn't care. So, that's sad.

But is this bike theft a tragedy? And if so, why? I've provided a few examples of situations that could be called tragic; I'm curious to know which of these really is tragic, and if there's something that sets them apart from those that aren't. I've done some evaluations on them myself, see if you agree with my logic...

Rules: Determine if the situation is actually 'tragic.' Read my interpretations afterwards.
1) That was horrible! He died in a tragic hang gliding/sky diving accident!
2) Boy, that hole-puncher tragedy was the worst thing that happened in the office last year. I can't believe she lost a leg from that.
3) That game of railroad chicken ended tragically for everyone on roller-blades.
4)  Tragically, he choked on a peanut m&m. Saving him with the Heimlich maneuver was the work of a moment, but the peanut m&m was wasted.
5) Man, what a tragedy that was when I found out that girl I met at the party was my cousin!

Answers:
1) Not tragic. He knew what he was getting into when he started pretending he was a bird. If anything, this was a very informative learning experience, but of limited usefulness, because once the lesson absorbed (approximately when the ground absorbed him), his ability to apply what he learned drastically decreased.
2) Tragic. And puzzling. Really, who would have thought this could have happened? And now she has one less leg, and the hole puncher is all stained.
3) Not tragic. If anything, morbidly amusing for the wonderful mental image it can create.
4) ABSOLUTE TRAGEDY. Any time a peanut m&m is wasted, it is a tragedy. This seems self-explanatory.
5) Tragic. Presumably, there is one less beautiful girl out of the dating pool. In case she remains in the dating pool, the product of that love would probably be a tragedy, a lot like in Jude the Obscure. Ew.

What I'm driving at is that tragedy, like a good ambush,  contains an element of the unexpected; it can't just be something upsetting that happened. On the opposite side, comedy should contain an element of the expected. Take this cookie monster clip for example. How will it end? Without even clicking, you know the answer. He will eat cookies destructively. And you will, at the very least, chuckle, if you have a heart.

The funny thing about my bike theft is that in a way, I did expect it. As I was locking it up, I noticed that the rack wasn't attached to the ground, and thought that thieves could conceivably take the whole rack. In this light, my bike being stolen  was pure comedic genius. But on a slightly more profound level, I think it really was a tragedy. Yes, I had conceived that it could have been stolen, but I did NOT expect it. I naively didn't think anyone would do such a thing, and wasn't concerned about it. The tragedy here is partly that my bike was stolen unexpectedly, but mostly that I've unexpectedly lost a good bit of faith and trust for man.

Sorry to get all profound on you, it won't happen often.

Canadian* Adventures

In my last post, I mentioned that I was going to Nova Scotia (which translates to "New Scotia." I think a scotia is a type of rash, but I could be wrong). I should clarify what I meant: I meant that I was trying to go to Nova Scotia. In my case, the difference between those two statements is similar to the difference between my saying "I have a lot of friends" and "when I have good dreams, I have a lot of friends" -- a substantial one.

I won't bore you with any foreshadowing because there was none. Emily (my roadtripping partner) and I were driving happily for two days. Everything was fine up to the border. The drive went well, Maine was pretty, and spirits were high. We waited for a few minutes at the border before pulling up to the gate. This was how I thought the conversation between me and the border guard would go:

Guard: Hi, eh?
Me: Hi. We'd like to enter your beautiful country, which is disrespected without reason by most Americans. Can we come in?
Guard: Hmmm... That depends, eh? Are you planning on smuggling guns, drugs, children or maple syrup in or out of the country, eh?
Me: No! We're planning on importing goodwill and friendship into your country, and exporting a great reputation for Canada through my huge blog readership!
Guard: Awesome, eh? Go on in, and here, have a shot of maple syrup that I keep handy in my flask!

That wasn't what actually happened. This is more along the lines of what actually happened.

Guard: Hi, eh?
Me: Hi...
Guard: Are you planning on smuggling guns, drugs, children or maple syrup in or out of the country, eh?
Me: Er, no.
Guard: Have either of you two ever been before a judge, eh?
Me: (thinking to myself) Aw, he's noticed how bashful I get before authority figures, and is trying to comfort me!
Me: Gosh, she hasn't, but I actually have! Funny story.
Guard: I don't really want to hear it. Go into the office now. If you just drop your pants now and bend over, it might save time later, eh?

This was when a pretty Canadian border guard grilled me (this is not as fun as it sounds, and no maple syrup marinade was involved, if that's what you were wondering), and then told me that I had reckless endangerment on my record (NB: If you googled me to find out if I have a record or anything, I really don't. This is an error, I swear). At this point, I was hoping against hope that she would say something like,"A wild one! You'll fit right into our untamed country. And what's more, you didn't even hurt anyone! That's like cautious endangerment. I have so much respect for you. Here's my number, call me when you guys are partying, I think it would be fun to join you, eh?"

That didn't happen, though. After she ignored me for two hours (I'm used to this - girls normally ignore me when I'm asking them out, so this didn't seem unusual), she smiled nicely, and told me that I had to sign a paper saying I didn't want to come into Canadia, anyway, and I wouldn't try to come back for ten years. The best way to think of this is that Canadia pre-emptively issued a restraining order against me. This is something that I actually have never had happen to me with a girl despite some of my best attempts, so I didn't know how to react. I wanted to find an adult, preferably a policeman, and ask for advice in between sobs. Emily's wiser counsel prevailed, fortunately, so we just went to a bookstore, got a guidebook for Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont, went to the public library to e-mail the people we were supposed to visit, and then started driving around.

So I never went to Canada on my road trip. Instead, we stayed in the northeast and had an awesome time. We also saw a moose, which was roughly the size of the largest town we saw in Maine.

Findings:
Maine: Very large. Very, very large.
New Hampshire: Not as large as Maine, not as happy as Vermont. We barely spent any time there.
Vermont: People are strangely happy in Vermont. I suspect the water is drugged with happy pills by the corporation that runs Ben and Jerry's. It's also beautiful.

Anyway, I'm still a bit disorganized, and I need to find a giant to step on my back to straighten it out after sitting in the traffic we hit in New Jersey. Stay tuned, I'll put some photos of the trip up eventually, and discuss a few more things that I noticed while staring blankly out the passenger seat window for hours (this is more dangerous than it sounds. I was driving).