May 26th, 2009

wtf

oliver hardy hates me

I just woke up from a dream in which I was standing up with my upper back leaning against a wall, while I was reading a newspaper and drinking a glass of lemonade. (For some reason, I remember very clearly that the glass was rounded, tall, and had a handle on it, exactly like the new glasses my mother got when I was in high school.) I folded the newspaper over, leaned back, and took a drink of lemonade -- whereupon I was punched moderately hard in the solar plexus. The kind of blow you'd get from somebody who hit as hard as they could, which wasn't all that hard.

Because it was a dream, I didn't bite down on the glass and break off a chunk in my mouth, causing hideous lacerations. I did bend over a little, whereupon I swallowed the lemonade and looked to see who had hit me.

It was Oliver Hardy.

Yes, of Laurel and Hardy.

Yes, that one.

He was giving me a glare of utter hate and barely-suppressed indignation, which was obviously sincere but was also really funny, because he was Oliver Hardy.

"Jesus, Ollie," I said, "what did I ever do to you?"

No response, just that glare of hate. Then he turned away and walked on. I went to throw the newspaper away, and took another mouthful of lemonade, then turned back to see that he had stopped halfway down the hall and was giving me that Oliver Hardy glare again. I'd interrupted him planning to sneak up on me and hit me again. Then he turned and walked away, for real.

The odd thing is that in the dream I knew exactly why he'd hit me, and I'd totally deserved it. It's fuzzier now, but essentially I had played some cruel practical joke on him that I had thought was funny but that had really hurt his feelings. I think it had something to do with a woman. Maybe I made him think a woman he fancied liked him back, when she really didn't.

Anyway, so in my dreams Oliver Hardy and I are eternal enemies.

Just thought you'd like to know.
wtf

...wow.

I thought the Obama comic book thing had gone as far as it could possibly go.

I was wrong.

(Do I get a visit from the Secret Service if I wonder if this book will see the President of the United States cut off his hand and replace it with a chainsaw? Might make dealing with North Korea easier.)
cass groovy

APED: "a nice rain"

The rain that falls about us now
is quieter than first it was.
Not always so. Remember how
it rattled hard, as cruelty does:
the first men shivered, wet and cold,
beneath the drops that fell like lead,
it chilled the sick. It took the old.
We wakened, warm and dry in bed.
The covers warm and drawn around.
You held me close, and then you said,
the water on the roof. That sound.
The quiet spatter was a song.
It made us happy, for we knew
we'd never have to brave it long,
as long-dead strugglers had to do.
One seeing us would not be content
to see our lot, and curse his fate.
His sodden heart, too cold, and bent:
he would have killed us both, for hate.