0-42

Okay, this is getting a little ridiculous. I just lost my forty-second game last night. Well actually I lost my thirty-second, thirty-third, thirty-fourth…, and forty-first game as well last night. I was on a serious TILT. After getting to thirty-nine, I begged for just “one more game” (I had been begging for just one more game for at least the last five games); I was granted my request, but you know Kenji, he is cruel, as is the whole Japanese race, so it came with a condition. The condition was – if I lost I had to pound a 20 ounce can of Monster energy drink. It was 10pm. It is not a good idea to EVER pound an energy drink, especially approaching bedtime, but I have a serious gambling problem, so I accepted. Needless to say, I lost and pounded the drink.

What happened after I opened my throat and consumed the Monster is interesting. No, it is not interesting that I started making calls to the west-coast to give myself something to do; no, it is not interesting that I read an entire magazine cover-to-cover; no, it is not interesting that I brushed my teeth three times before bed and I can still feel the sugar caked-on-and-tearing-away at my enamel; nor, is it interesting that I had a dream my front tooth died, grew, turned to wood, and I accidentally pulled it out while playing with it. No! What is interesting is those last two games we played, after my eyes stopped watering were perhaps the best games I have ever played. No I didn’t win, please. Though, I do expect to win w/in the next ten games (if not ten games, then ten days fo’ sure). But, it was how I played those last two games. The Monster helped with my reaction time. Further, I was attacking the ball. Certainly, I further proved my opponent superior, but I got him to confess that he was afraid of my new Monster-induced attack style.

I now know what I have to do. It is so simple. It is as simple as the conversation that little-Bonds had with a younger pre-injury-every-season Griffey when Bonds told Griffey that he knew what he had to do to compete with the very hulkish-looking and Home-Run hitting Sosas and McGwires. Yep, I need to juice. In horse-racing they refer to it as drinking a milkshake (This better be an accurate term, Laura!). I will sweat like Giambi and train to the Kelis classic:

My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard,And their likeIt's better than yours,Damn right it's better than yours, I can teach you, But I have to charge

I know it is just ping pong, but this is getting serious. Someone circled the L in Cecil that is written on the score board. Meghan, I know it was you. Meghan, you broke my heart. Meghan should not be involved especially since I can batter her [at ping pong] with either hand, literally. Meghan should be studying for her architecture exam; Meghan should be packing so she can MOVE OUT; Meghan should write her name on the board and circle the H. Kidding, it is all love. I’m just ranting and raving and raging probably because I am still juiced from last night.

But What is a Fountainhead?

Three years and eight-hundred-plus pages later, I finally did it, I finally finished the Fountainhead. Oddly, though, I still don’t know what the hell a Fountainhead is. I know who the Fountainhead is; that’s easy, it is Howard Roark. But isn’t the Fountainhead a thing? I stayed up till 2AM last night reading the introduction and the prologue. Perhaps I did this because I wasn’t ready to give up the book, perhaps I did this because I was looking for further insight --- this truth, you all know, is I did this because I am compulsive and obsessive and I always read the introduction and prologue. I don’t do it for intellectual reasons (hell, I read even children’s books cover-to-cover); I do it because I have to do it. Seldom am I rewarded. In fact – almost never. One wonderful exception was A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. Eggars shared his mocking genius starting with the copyright page and justified my crazy on every page thereafter. Yes, I even read the copyright page. I wish I were kidding.

Anyway, I was not rewarded by reading Ayn Rand’s introduction nor by reading some scholar’s unoriginal love-obsession with her at the end. In fact, I was punished. First, I am tired now. Second, I failed to find something I wasn’t looking for – justification, purpose, a one-sentence definition of “objectivism,” whether Rand sees herself as Dominique Francon, and what the hell a Fountainhead is. Third, full-notice that my COD is completely out of control. This is exemplified by the fact that I couldn’t stop reading a boring and pointless extroduction just as much as by the fact that I carried Purell into a meeting yesterday and used it about as much as I used my pen. Fuck, I am slipping.

The book, itself, I highly recommend. It is in my top 5, all time. It was well-written, interesting, and encouraged me to think. Hell, the book even got to me emotionally. At times I woke up depressed, others inspired. Further, the book has helped me grow into not being afraid of saying “no” or hearing the answer “no” to a question I was formally afraid to ask. You know what question I am talking about ----the only important question --- “will you grab drinks with me?”

Thank you, Taylor and Leslie, for presenting it to me on my twentieth-something birthday; thank you, Taylor, for the beautiful and appropriate inscription on the inside jacket; thank you, Leslie, for hiding your inscription on page 231. (Please note: I just wrote the longest sentence fragment ever!) I now better understand why people, my protective other friends, were upset with Taylor for his selection. Yes it is a dangerous book, yes Ayn Rand is a crazy $#*. She makes some points worth noting, others worth ignoring, and still others to be despised, but she respects her readers who know the difference and doesn’t care about the readers that don’t. That is her right, she is the author and I’ve exercised my right, as the reader, to learn and grow from her book as well as call her a crazy $#*.

An almost Ashley Olsen sighting last night

Does seeing the side of her head count? Last night on way to see 10pm showing of Dark Knight, I was riding up the escalator with a couple of friends. Typical two blonds are coming down the escalator --- I’m commenting on how hot this girl is [her friend]; I’m looking at the girl, but not staring, and she’s looking back in my direction. (At me??? Likely not! Though, I was wearing a very trendy “Family Dollar” tee-shirt) I’m wondering why no one is paying attention to my comment. As soon as we pass Ashley, my two friends were like – “Did you see Ashley Olsen?!?!?” I turned quickly, but only saw her head. How is it that everyone around me was looking at one person, and I am looking at a different person? Further, why is this not shocking to anyone who knows me? Am I destined to always be on a different page? I haven’t the foggiest.

I Will Not Censor.

Okay maybe I will a little. If you are crafty, you will note that I censored the title of this blog – I deliberately did not include an exclamation point. Oh, the irony that only exists in my head.

Anyway, I thought about this subject by way of (1) a friend emailing me to tell me to “be careful on this front with what you write into perm record” and (2) all of the hoopla over the recent cover of the New Yorker.

First, I appreciate my friend’s words. I understand that this is public record and in light of employers and friends and potential love-interests being google-happy, I understand that these words may come into question one day. I do watch what I write – a little – but feel that I keep it at a level such that anyone who has a problem with what I write and the way I write – employers included – is a little too conserve-o for my taste anyway, so perhaps this is a way to screen out misery and drama.

That said, I still censor; thus, I probably have a notion of what constitutes going too far. Now, did the New Yorker cover go too far? It took me a couple of days to form some words around this because I teetered back-and-forth on the issue. The question is whether the picture is offensive or hilarious, or both. (you know, three years of law school and I still don’t know whether to end this sentence with a period or question mark…) Can it be both? Are offense and hilarity mutually exclusive? I’m not 100 percent sure. I think I’m ready to express an opinion and go ahead and disagree with what many of my friends have noted and what my employer has written on the matter. I’ll admit that it is a little f’d up, but mostly hilarious. Sorry.

I mean, come on ----- it is f’d up (I think f’d up, btw, is a step down from offensive…but far enough down where it is allowed to be also hilarious). The artist had a field day with the photo. The questions I asked when I thought it was offensive (for like a day) were: why does Michelle have to be holding an AK-47? Why does she have to have a fro? Why are her and Barack doing the fist bump? Is there really a flag burning in the fireplace? Why is there a picture of Osama in the background? Why Barack’s ears are so big --- oh wait, they are!!! Anyway, all combined it is pretty damn funny.

The critics, oh the critics… The New Yorker went too far. The Editors must know that the masses will not understand the irony. The New Yorker should be above perpetuating stereotypes. Give me a break. I mean, yes, people are stupid, but not that stupid. I understand humor is in the eyes of the beholder. I know this well. The first time this idea hit HOME was once, a long time ago, when I was watching a Chris Rock stand-up with my cousin. My cousin is a smart guy, but unfortunately he dropped out and got his GED. I won’t elaborate on that because it is too touchy and beyond the point ---- the point is we were enjoying the stand-up – laughing, both of us… everything was funny, Chris was on a roll… until he touched on the subject of GEDs being “good enough diplomas” and went on a rant about that. My cousin was no longer laughing, he didn’t find it funny at all; in fact, he looked pissed. That’s all fine, but what isn’t is the fact that I couldn’t laugh. Further, his discomfort was so strong that I felt uncomfortable sitting there to merely watch the segment. I recall the environment strongly and carry the feeling with me.

I think if the Chris Rock wants to talk about GEDs, he should talk about GEDs; if the New Yorker wants to depict Barack as Barney the Purple Dinosaur, it should be able to. Also, I decided that my opinion isn’t based on the First Amendment or any other overly-intellectual basis, but it is based on my disgust for people who lack a sense of humor. Further, also watch for those who are blind followers. What if Barack issued a statement like “The picture is F’d up, but hilarious.”? What would have been written about the New Yorker cover then? Unfortunately, he didn’t – he said it was “tasteless and offensive.” So I guess that’s what we should go with, right? Perhaps, but if that is what YOU think. Think about it.

Rhinoceros in a China-shop

Today certainly was not the smoothest of days. After a standard start to my day – oversleeping (typical), taking too long in the shower (typical), I got to work around 9:15AM only to see my co-worker in a full suit. I gasped as I immediately remembered that I, too, was supposed to wear a suit because we had a video conference with a client. I thought, whelp, I’ll just return home and change. I asked my co-worker, “what time is the meeting?”; “Nine-thirty” he replies. Nice. Then my brain started racing as to how I could get out of the meeting… As I’m processing, my boss runs over to my desk. She needs me to print X, Y, and Z and save X, Y, and Z to my desktop and be prepared to answer any questions the client might have. My co-worker just started last week, and the only other three people scheduled to attend the meeting are: our media person, my boss, and her boss (Partner and co-founder of the Company). Yep, I’m the advanced pion, so my attendance is required.

My boss, in her rush, luckily didn’t notice that I am not only NOT wearing a tie and jacket, but I am not even wearing a solid shirt. I don’t even know how to describe the shirt I am wearing; I’ll just call it modern-plaid. Shut-up, it is not ugly!!! As all of this is going through my mind, my boss asked if I finished printing X, Y, and Z. Nope, I’m still LOOKING for X, Y, and Z on the shared drive. I reply “on it now.” She said “don’t be late.” I reply “Y is 120 pages long.” She replied “she doesn’t care, just don’t be late.” It is 9:23am. I locate the documents, send them to the printer and run to get coffee. I take my coffee, notepad, and computer into the conference room. Since the video conference was already active and I am wearing inappropriate attire I decide to enter the conference room through the back door. Much to my chagrin the backdoor is blocked by all of these billboards propped up on tripod stands. I knock all that shit down. Quite a fucking scene; quite a fucking entrance. I quickly pick up the billboards with my co-worker’s help. I then inform my manager that I need to get the printouts. I run out to do that.

The meeting starts - with, by the way, a very conservative fortune 500 company (name one. Yep, you guessed it!) – and I made it through the introductions without hitch. The presentation starts. I’m logged in, checking email and looking over the data when suddenly my co-worker gets up. She was walking around the table to do something when she bumps one of the billboards. All of the billboards fall - and one fell onto my hand just as I was picking up my coffee. Coffee spills all over the table, all over my computer, all over my notebook. I get up to rush out to get a napkin, but the billboards are in my way. My co-worker and I start to pick them up when the partner tell us “just take all the billboards down.” As he tells me this, he definitely looked at my shirt and rolled his eyes. It goes that way sometimes… I’m just relieved I didn’t wear a suit/tie and one of my good shirts.

Jesse Jackson – OMFG!

What the hell is wrong with Jesse Jackson? Did you really say “[Barack] really talks down to Black people” and then add “I want to cut his nuts out”? Really, Jesse Jackson; come on, really? Are you kidding me?

The statement is absurd on so many levels; I don’t even know where to begin. I mean Jesse Jackson, you are 66 years old. 66 year-old men should not be talking like that. I mean, saying you want to cut someone’s nuts out is just gangster. Further, you are a Baptist Minister, Civil Rights Activist, and used to roll with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. And you want to cut someone’s balls out? Wow.

Second, you thought the microphone was turned off… at Fox News? Are you fucking kidding me? It’s Fox, first, and secondly a news studio. Where did you think you were? I mean you ran for the democratic nomination twice, and you are a black man, and your son works for Obama’s campaign, and you thought Fox wouldn’t have that place hot? Shit, anything less than a microwave in there would’ve been grounds for layoffs. Nothing is off the record, Jesse Jackson, you know better! Aren’t you a man of history? Did you miss the time that George W. Bush and Mr. Cheney agreed that a New York Times reporter was a “major league asshole.” Or what about everyone’s favorite classic ---when Ronald Reagan said “My fellow Americans….we begin bombing the Russians in five minutes.”? Fun times.

Actually, while we are on the subject of cutting nuts off, I actually do want to cut Barack’s nuts out right now. Barack, how could you vote for the Surveillance Bill? WTF, Barack? I am so pissed at you right now. Not pissed enough to vote for McCain, but pissed enough to be pissed and do nothing but write three sentences about it.

Please know though, buddy, that you are the “presumptive” nominee. Please don’t make my worse nightmares come true. It is no secret that I am (was) a Hillary Clinton supporter. I adore Barack, don’t get me wrong, and, in fact, I was split 51-49 Hillary-over-Barack... but part of the reason I wanted Hillary to be the next President is because I thought she, being the hard-nosed politician she is, would be more likely to keep all of the promises both she and Obama made during the primaries. I see Obama as too conciliatory by nature and believed Hillary to be the better person to ruthlessly undo much of the damage left by the Bush administration.

Alas, that is spilled milk, and I am all about “unity” now, so I’ll drop the subject. Yet, don’t forget, I am not a reverend, and I am not 66, so if you can vote to take away my civil liberties with the mere statement - “I wouldn't have drafted the legislation like this, but, in a dangerous world, government must have the authority to collect the intelligence we need to protect the American people" – I can say I want to cut your nuts out. It is only fair.

Cecil v. Craig

So it is happening again. Yesterday my boss called me Cecil twice! Well, actually she called me Cecil Craig the first time, saw me cringe, and thought it was funny to call me Cecil again at the end of the day. This is all fine and well, but she doesn’t know about the Cecil virus and that a joke here and a joke there will result in more people calling me Cecil – likely permanently – and an inevitable name-identity crisis.

I know this all sounds overly-dramatic, but it has been happening for years. By way of background, I do not like the name Cecil. My mother calls me Craig, and in fact also hates the name Cecil; the rest of my family calls me Craig. Certainly, my name is Cecil Craig Jackson III. It is best put in Spanish – mi nombre es Cecil; me llamo Craig. I call myself Craig. Simply Cecil sounds like an old persons name akin to Grady or Virgil; if I were white, it’d be like the name Walter. It doesn’t suit how I see myself. My father doesn’t even go by the name Cecil. My father is (or was RIP, Dad) CJ, or Junior, or I even heard one of his [many] girlfriends call him Craig. I didn’t much like that and shot him a death (no pun intended) stare, I saw the guilt in his eyes and he understood. My grandfather goes by Cecil. But he is my grandfather. His name could just as well be Grady or Virgil.

Anyway, I always introduce myself as Craig. Even when people introduce me as Cecil, they say – “this is my friend Cecil”, I shake their hands and say “I’m Craig, nice to meet you.” It starts off every new such encounter on an awkward note. I love it. Anyway, from that point on, the battle ensues – will they call me Cecil or will they call me Craig? It shouldn’t be a battle, but it always is. I feel like Cecil-people try to recruit other Cecil-people. They shouldn’t, but they do. Cecil people say they like it, it’s unique. No fucking duh, it is unique; very few people are named Cecil in our generation for a reason, it doesn’t belong!

But it has to be something more than just that – it is. I like the name Craig because it is boring, plain, and suits my mid-west conservative (I vote Democrat, so leave me be) background. Further, kids in Ohio would always make fun of me when they found out my name is Cecil. I’d never tell them, but it always happened that we’d have a substitute teacher – the idiot would clearly see the name Cecil slashed out in red ink with Craig written next to it and still call for my attendance under the name Cecil. There would be silence, people would look around, and I would try to quickly raise my hand – it would be over! Kids would say it in a funny tone and tease me in only the way kids tease by saying my name over and over again in a sing-songy tone until I wanted to cry; people even called me see-saw. It wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t even participate in friendly hazing without someone shooting back – “Ce-cil!” It spoke for itself.

I had more success in college. I’ve built a strong Craig contingency among my Kenyon friends. In Chicago, less luck. I had my college friends and a few friends from high school in Chicago who called me Craig, but the freaking bank, despite my request put Cecil Craig Jackson on my business cards, my name plate, and on all my orientation materials. I pushed for Craig, but oddly most of my closest friends from the bank call me Cecil. Law School was just like grade school. There are volumes written to support the notion that law school is nothing but a reversion to grade school – lockers, cliques, eating in the cafeteria, crushes, etc., etc. Needless to say, I graduated from American with a split – half Cecil and half Craig. I’d say my closest friends call me Cecil, which encourages others. I’ve often been pulled aside by Craig-friends who tell me they feel like an “outsider” being the only person calling me Craig. I tell them they are much appreciated.

Anyway, I’ve ranted for paragraphs about this. The point is, I am Craig at work (actually my business cards say C. Craig Jackson – which I know probably begets curiosity) and I want it to stay that way. One other kid knows my first name and, as we were joking back and forth, said “don’t make me call you by your first name.” He attended a Historically Black College and understands a name like Cecil is social suicide.

0-24

Frustration defined: Not yet winning a single game of ping pong against Kenji since we purchased the table. Absurdity defined: making a bet that I’d win ONE GAME within 20 or I’d have to do a 15 minute power point presentation on the history of ping pong with time for question and answer. As you have noted there are several absurdities. First, why should I not be able to win one game in twenty? Second, now I have to give a 15 minute presentation. Finally, why do I keep making bets with Kenji when I never win? Okay, three is not several, but I’ve made my point.

About this presentation. I’m annoyed first because I don’t want to do it. I am sure it will be awful, as well as boring. But more than anything, it will be embarrassing. I can guarantee you that Kenji is likely composing an evite and compiling names to invite to a “presentation party” such that I have to present in the most awkward environment ever. He’s already hinted at folks he might invite. My stomach is turning as I write this. I’d much rather present the state of the economy to a joint commission of Federal Reserve liaisons than speak in front of my friends.

I will try to get out of this presentation. Two things will likely happen – Kenji will deny me. The Japanese are a cruel race (ala Bridget Jones’ mother). Or, I’ll come up with an adequate double-or-nothing counter and will lose that too! I always LOSE – even when I should win. One of my favorite (or least favorite) case-in-points is the time I made a bet that I would ask (yes, simply ASK) three girls on a date by some date (likely a month from the time we made the bet). I lost, of course, because I am a loser (in every sense of the word in this case), and had to give up meat for a month. This sounds easier than it is. Two weeks in, I was begging for a new challenge. It came. It came in the form of two-on-two basketball – the teams Kenji and Chris against me and Tara (Chris’ wife). I am decent at basketball. It is perhaps the one sport I can definitely beat Kenji at. I figured I’d just go Kobe and I’d be off to Brazilian BBQ to celebrate. Nope! - lost by ONE. I’m still scratching my hair out, literally. I lost meat for another month!

About losing. I hate losing. HATE. I can deal and lose gracefully when I lose to someone better or I don’t beat myself. Actually, change “or” to “and.” Kenji is better at ping pong than me. I am getting better, much better – some rallies last for minutes. However, more points end with me either hitting the ball long or the ball into the net. I actually lost to twenty gracefully. Kenji expected more frustration. He often recalls the time when we use to play tennis in the morning, and one morning I calmly walked off the court and smashed my racket repeatedly on a bike rack, dumped it in a trashcan, and walked off without saying goodbye. Yeah, I have it in me, bitches, watch out! I didn’t explode because he is better; I have been trying my best, and have improved. However, in the 4 games since 20, I’ve been driving myself wild. I’ve somehow lost my urge to go for the big shot. There have been several sitting ducks --- certain slams ---which I know I can smash. Suddenly, I have started to calmly hit those back and continue the point until I hit it into the net. If this keeps up, something will get broken!

Nothing.

Today I have absolutely nothing to blog about. Today, I will openly proclaim that that is okay. I was talking to a good friend about blogging/journaling and she said she doesn’t because she is afraid that she can’t keep it up. After several emails back and forth, we decided that is not a good excuse.

To come to that conclusion, we had to jump the hurdle of guilt. I, at first, agreed with Rachel that maintaining a blog/journal is difficult. But why should it be? It is my blog, my journal and we should write when we want to/feel compelled. Anything more is another annoying task. Who needs that? I am already annoyed 50-plus hours per week with work. Not to mention when my week is complicated by travel – traveling is annoying (whereas arriving – where you want to be is wonderful ---but then you must return), packing is annoying, unpacking is annoying, and laundry on both ends of travel is uber annoying. Dry-cleaning is no better, because wire hangers are uber annoying and returning them (because I both loathe wire hangers, but love the environment too much to toss them out) is annoying. But those aren’t necessarily task and I am way off subject, so I’ll cease.

Anyway, the point is one should write when he wants and what he wants. If one would browse my journal that I keep hidden (from even myself) in my room, not only would you think I am ab-so-lutely insane, but you would note how many paragraphs I wasted apologizing to myself for neglecting my journal. That in and of itself is a little odd – if not compulsive or obsessive even.

That means today, I will not be blogging. This isn’t a blog, but rather a rant on why I am not blogging today. I certainly will not be blogging this weekend from my mother’s place in Columbus, Ohio. Whenever I go to Columbus I do nothing but lie around brain-dead watching movies.

Runners up to blogging about nothing:

Blogging about how I am easily the worse-dressed person in the office today. I am wearing a wrinkled orange polo (ironing and apparently folding clothes are also annoying) with khakis that I am pretty sure I’ve already worn this week (it is only Wednesday) with shoes that are comfortable, but far from corporate. I pray that I don’t get called into a meeting today, and I am working with a frowned-determination that says please don’t talk to me I am very, very busy but really I just don’t want anyone to see what I am wearing.

Blogging about how I (yes me) suggested to my boss that I get to work early today so that I could help in case any pre-presentation emergencies came up, but instead came in later than usual. Contrast that with the fact that I told her I need to leave by 5pm today to catch my flight, but now I need to leave at 3pm today because I did not pack for said trip. (Packing is much too annoying to do the night before).

Finally, I wanted to share how Jessica and I walked by a guy (around 10pm last night) working out on the side walk in Tribeca. Dude was wearing a headscarf, no shirt, workout shorts, pulled-up white socks, high-top sneakers, and he was blaring music out of a boom box. He was doing fake-ass push ups on poles as we walked by. As is typical of New York, no one even broke stride as they walked by this man doing his thing.

Have a happy 4th!

First Dream About Her...

And so there is a first time for everything. It happened. I had a dream about her. Warning I am entering dream land now:

So I’m walking home from work and talking to my friend Michelle. Why Michelle? Because I always talk to Michelle. What were we talking about? Very likely nothing. But we were loving it. We were likely putting each other down, putting our jobs down, putting the random people we encounter down, and then lifting ourselves back up with laughter ---obnoxious child-like giggling. I enjoy said conversations. Then I get call-waiting. I’m annoyed by the sound of the beep in my ear, but I look down to see who it is that dares to ring me while I’m in therapy. OMG it’s her. I tell Michelle. What do I do? Do I pick up? Should I continue that game that no one is playing but me? She exclaims “PICK UP FOOL.” So I click over.

It’s her and I am nervous/anxious. “Hello” I say tentatively. “How’s it going?” [Okay, no more quotes – I can’t quote and maintain a solid train of thought]. She says – hey. I didn’t call to talk about THAT or the job search, but rather I have a funny story to tell you. She starts talking, but suddenly I can’t really hear her. I’m trying to concentrate, but suddenly there is the overwhelming sound of construction in the background. All I can make out is random words like “Professor,” “grant,” “$250,000” – so little where I don’t know what’s going on, but enough where I am wondering why we are talking about this and where this is going. So I end the conversation. I say, I’m sorry, the construction is overwhelming… Can I call you back?

I immediately call Michelle back. I can hear her perfectly. I’m telling her about the conversation and was being a little mean. She’s scolding me and explaining why the professor story is interesting. I can’t understand why she’s saying what she’s saying, but her words made total sense. Just then, I walk through a big swarm of NATS. Eyes, Nose, Mouth – I’m gagging. I explain what just happened and decide it was my punishment for making fun of the professor story. We decide that I need to call her back. I do. It rings and rings, but she doesn’t pick up. I recall, clearly, the feeling that she had come to her senses and no longer wants to talk to me. I recall the feeling that I have just given back the power by calling back and her not picking up (everything is a power struggle, including who is the last to call, isn’t it?).

I call Michelle back to whine. Just then, I hit another swarm of NATS. Now it is not just a swarm, but I am completely surrounded by them. I fall. I am laying on the ground freaking out. Suddenly the number 7 bus goes by and I really want to catch it, but I can’t get up. I try to hail it from the ground, but it pulls off. What’s strange is --- I was outside of NJPAC (Dirty’s Performing Arts Center) and I was lying, under the NATS, at the light rail station. There is no bus. I’ve never taken the number 7 bus anywhere in any of the cities I’ve ever lived in. But that was my bus.

Suddenly, I am no longer on the call with Michelle, but I am talking to Lydia Lawless, who is pissed that I am on the ground. She makes me get up and proceeds to scold me about why I go to bed so late and how I need to get my life together, etc. Just as she was really laying into me I wake up. I’ve blown 40 minutes past my alarm. Exit Dream land.