A Very Fancy Turkey at Thanksgiving

It was Thanksgiving in my dream a few nights ago. (For all of my international followers, I know you don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, but just play along anyway. [Who am I kidding, I don’t have any international followers; I’m pretty sure I know every one of you. {But hey, if there's anyone from a country other than the U.S. reading this blog, say hi! Just by commenting, you will make my day! (Okay, I'm pretty sure I'm talking to no one right now. Whatever.)}]) 

My family discovered that we had some distant relatives that none of us knew about, so we decided to spend Thanksgiving at their grungy old farm. This is how I should have understood it was a dream, because my family is so tradition-bound that we would have never ever ever just gone to a complete stranger’s house for Thanksgiving without some sort of picketing by at least two people outside the residence.

While they were cooking up who-knows-what in the kitchen, a few of us went to go see what kind of animals they had. Among the cows and chickens, we noticed an enormous black and bright pink turkey trotting around the farm. Its trot was more of a waltz than anything else; this was a very fancy turkey.

I stood there staring at it. Then my dimwitted, distant cousin-once-removed turned to me. I’ll say his name was Dierks.

DIERKS: Wanna see something cool?

ME: Yes, of course, always.

DIERKS: That turkey’s scared of ducks.

ME: What? Why?

DIERKS: It just is. We like to chase it with ducks.

ME: Ducks?

DIERKS: Ducks.

ME: But why would a bird be afraid of a smaller, wimpier bird?

DIERKS: It just IS, okay? Gosh, do you want to see it or not?

ME: Jeez, okay fine. Yes show me the turkey.

DIERKS: Ducks!

ME: I know! We’re going to grab ducks and chase the turkey with them, right? That’s what I meant.

DIERKS: I don’t like your tone, sir.

ME: Could I please see the ducks?

DIERKS: Turkey!

ME: Oh come on.

So we grabbed some ducks and started running after it. The turkey squawked and tried to run away, but then stopped, trembling.

DIERKS: It’s going to do the eye thing!

ME: What’s the eye thing?

DIERKS: Just look!

The turkey then curled up one of its wings into a number eight-like shape, leaving a small space of bright pink from its belly showing inside of it. This place of pink must have had darker spots on it, because it ended up looking like a pair of bright pink, quivering eyes. All while the turkey was making a sound similar to a very birdlike motor scooter accelerating to full speed.  (I unfortunately do not have an example of that.)

The turkey then kept running, and we continued to chase it with ducks until we reached a large pond. Turkey’s can’t swim, I thought, but the turkey leapt into the air, did a fancy flip, and dove into the water, and swam across the pond. It was fancy. 

 

We kept chasing it, ducks in hand, and the turkey then stopped and spread all its feathers, very much like the spitting dinosaur in Jurassic Park. It didn’t spit, though. It just kind of thrashed its feathers around.

[It was a very fancy turkey, though it didn't have very good defense mechanisms.] 

ME: This is great!

DIERKS: Toldja. 

 

Just then Dierks’ mom came out. Let’s call her Camille. She looked a little flustered, but who wouldn't be when hosting a whole family of people you don't know for Thanksgiving?

ME: How's the food coming?

CAMILLE: My dog’s a skunk.

ME: Oh haha. That’s okay. I can handle smelly dogs.

CAMILLE: No, you don’t understand. I just found out that Trixie, the dog I’ve had for ten years, is actually a skunk. A large, smelly rodent. Not a dog.

ME: Oh sweet Jesus.

CAMILLE: Trixie was playing with your dog, and then she just turned around and sprayed her. She’s a skunk.

I then made to walk into the house, past my dog, who was covered in tomato juice, and past Trixie, the skunk dog. At first glance, she looked like a matted-haired, ugly old dog, but upon closer inspection, I could make out a white stripe hidden in her black fur. How could they not notice it?

 [Actually, once I think about it, it's kinda difficult to tell them apart. Just saying. I also may not have very much respect for Pomeranians. They're a**holes. ]

Then I woke up, and all I could think of is that my mom was totally going to blog about this story before I could. After gaining more consciousness, I realized, of course, that that was impossible.

In which I pepper a dream I had about Jenna Fischer with lyrics to probably the worst—but also somehow loved—song of our generation

 The other night I dreamed that I was in Disney World, which is good enough for a run-of-the-mill pleasant dream, right? I would have been very satisfied by that alone, thank you very much.

But it got better.

I shall tell you about it. And Anna Nalick will help, because I feel as though her insights shown through metaphors speak deeply to this story.

[You can sense sarcasm even though it’s typed, right? What I meant to say is that Anna Nalick’s Just Breathe (2am) song sucks giant ocelot balls and should only be sung by 11-year-old girls at their school’s talent show.]

Anway. So I was in Disney world, and it was just my dad and I. The moment we walked through the gates and into the park, my Dad grabbed a Mickey Mouse balloon and ran off giggling.

That didn’t really faze me. Plus, I don’t need a chaperone for Disney World; what am I, five? So I went off on my own to go Disney World the crap out of myself.  

At that point, my brain fast-forwarded and brought me to the end of the day, when I was sitting on a bench and eating a Premium Bar. 

Just then Jenna Fischer (yes, Pam Beesly Jenna Fischer, on whom I’ve been crushing since season one of The Office, and who has been in my dreams before) walked up to me. I remember what she was wearing like it was yesterday: a mint-green polo and knee-length safari shorts. Sexy. 

And she came over to me, yes ME! Wow, guys. I feel like I’m naked in front of a crowd, ‘cause these words are my diary screaming out loud.

 

JENNA: Hey there, how’s it going?

ME: Oh, uh, hi, Jenna Fischer! It’s going well!

JENNA: “It’s going well.” You know what, it’s so nice to hear someone use correct grammar when I ask them that. The people I work with here are just all, “I’m doing good,” “I feel good.” …Ugh it’s so annoying!

ME: Wait, do you work at Disney World?

JENNA: Yeah! When I’m not working on The Office, I’m here leading the Safari tours. A bunch of us do it. John Krasinski runs the digital simulation rides, and the lady who plays Phyllis works in one of the Scandinavian food restaurants in Epcot. It's great! I don’t know about other people, but I like to say that Disney World is the happiest place on earth.

ME: I SAY THAT EXACT SAME THING, JENNA FISCHER.

[It's a little difficult to show how hot she was while trying to draw a mint polo and safari shorts, okay? My drawing skills aren't necessarily honed enough that I can draw those kinds of subtleties with a Sharpie.]

Jenna Fischer and I ended up talking for a long time. And readers, don’t tell anyone, but we totally hit it off. We laughed together, we had the same interests, we talked about our childhoods…IT WAS SO AWESOME.

(Christie was somehow nonexistent in this dream, which is weird, but she can’t be mad because she also had a dream recently where I was nonexistent. So…tit for tat.)

After awhile, I thought to myself, “Wanna hold [her], maybe I’ll just sing about it.” But then I thought, “Why only sing about it? This is MY dream, I can do what I want!”  So I made to go hold her hand, which was kindly rejected. I wasn’t totally crushed, because our eyes had this conversation:

JENNA’S EYES: Hey, don’t worry, I’ll be totally fine with this on maybe our first date or something. You can’t jump the track; we’re like cars on a cable.

MY EYES: But life’s like an hourglass glued to the table!

JENNA’S EYES: Just be patient, Brian. I’m into you. 

So I felt all right about it. In the end, we had to say goodbye, but she gave me her digits (that means phone number, Mom). I made sure to put that in the most protected pocket on my backpack. "I guess I'll go find my dad. I hope he still has his balloon," I said.

And then I woke up. Without Jenna Fischer's digits. 

As someone once said,

There's a light at each end of this tunnel, you shout, but you're just as far in as you'll ever be out

[Spoiler alert: this means that you’re in the middle of the tunnel.]

The Rare Band

I am becoming increasingly interested in people’s perception of music. (Please note the double alliteration in that sentence. It’s quite quality.) All of it can be summed up into an obsession that today’s music lovers tirelessly pursue.

And this, readers, is the concept of The Rare Band.

Yes, The Rare Band. A band that only you have heard of, that you listen to endlessly on your iPod, and tell people about, knowing that the interaction will be something like this…

And soon you’re the cool kid on the block. People ask you how you’ve seen them three times live, and you reply...

YOU: Well, they’re pretty rare, so most of the time they were in secret basements of people that give these secret shows of only rare bands.

THEM: WOW! How cool! So are they like “indie” or something?

YOU: Indie? What? No, this band LAUGHS at Indie rockers. You clearly don’t understand the concept of The Rare Band.

THEM: Oh haha. I guess I have a lot to learn. So how can I see them? Can I go online to look them up?

YOU: HA! Online? What are they, Nickelback or something? No, you can’t go online to find these guys. They’re much more elusive. The only reason I could see this band is because I have connections. I know a guy who knows a guy who works with another guy who told me what to do. So on a certain rainy night I wore the correct color of Converse shoes as I walked past a the correct streetlight downtown and was given a password written in Braille that I had to translate into Chinese, then French, then English so I could read it backwards to they guy at the door while making the correct number of clicks and whistles with my mouth, just so I could see this rare band. They were awesome.

THEM: That’s totally rad. How many people were there?

YOU: Only a few. Super small secret venue. So awesome.

THEM: Wow. I wish I knew rare bands.

And you become even cooler.

But you must be careful, cool kid. You tell too many people about this band, and soon they’ll be showing up on…dare I say it? 

[May we take a quick second to talk about how this is not that far off from a majority of actual radio station logos? And it took me five minutes. On PowerPoint. Anyway...]

How dare I even joke about such a horrible thing! To imagine that your band, your beloved rare band who no one but you has ever heard, is now being played as background music in drab offices across the country, is simply painful. This formally rare band now has millions of fans from all over the place, instead of just you and a few others who were in the know. Humiliating! Infuriating! The only possible reaction that will save your dignity is this…

You knew them before they were big. It wasn’t you who changed, it’s them. So now you’re off to find an even rarer band, one who is so rare only you know about them.

The truth is, however, that the idea of The Rare Band is a complete fallacy. A good band will be noticed and shared and ultimately become successful. No band made up of committed people who have all given up their jobs to pursue their dream wants to be seen by only a few people. So even if a band is "rare" for awhile, it won't stay that way if it's any good.

(Allow me to also throw in that I'm not saying that all good bands will end up on mainstream radio. If I said that, I would also have to say that Britney Spears is a good artist. Absolutely not. No no no no no no no. No way in hell. Nope. Never. But good bands will be noticed. That's all I'm saying. Britney Spears doesn't count as an actual artist.)

So let’s give up this “rare band” idea, people. It's a waste of time. To help with this, I’ve created some message t-shirts as a sort of therapy. (I may or may not have gotten carried away once I discovered Zazzle offers models to help you see what your t-shirt will look like.)

Things I won’t believe exist until I see them in real life...

 1. The Red Wood Forest.   

Trees you can drive through? Get real. It’s way too easy to forge...

[It's about as easy to forge as the moon landing. However I do not doubt the moon landing; that’s just un-American.]

2. Narwhals.   

Unicorn whales? Yeah right. Yeah f***ing right. 

 [This may have a little bit to do with the fact that I thought they were mythical creatures until about a year ago.]

3. Possums.  

Seeing them squashed on the side of the road does NOT mean they exist. 

 [This was drawn after looking up "possum" on Google and drawing it from a thumbnail. I almost threw it away. But then I was reminded of the last time I showed a rejected picture and it was hilarious. So enjoy my drawing of a possum that reminds me of every animal drawing by every Yu Gi Oh! and WWF-loving a**hole kid I went to elementary school with. Don't ask me how I made that connection.]

4. Koala Bears: 

Prove it.

5. Santa Claus: 

I would be so pumped if it just turned out that he existed and the only reason adults don’t receive presents is because they just don’t...

6. Oceans:

(This used to be on the list, but was taken off because of pretty convincing evidence shown to me while in Florida a few years ago.)

7. Platypuses:  

Duck-otters? It’s just not possible. I deny their existence on principle.

 

 [Couldn't have said it better myself, you stupid, fake animal.]

This concludes "Things I won't believe exist until I see them in real life."

Thank you, thank you.

On a similar note:

A word I will never say because I’ll never be exactly sure how to pronounce it:

Bourgeois. 

I’ve even looked it up, and heard the pronunciation, and I’m here to say it’s still not going to happen. Same with Bourgeoisie. 

Dreambomb, or 50-word Dreams, or Love and Sex-related Unconscious Journeys

These 50-word dream segments—in which I write dreams I’ve had using exactly fifty words each—always end up having themes. First it was “It’s my time to shine.” Then it was Celebrities and Morality. This time, Love and Sex.

Don’t worry, conservative people (or Mom), they aren’t sex dreams…those are for a different blog…they just seem to be sex-related. As you will see, in the first one, sex would not be possible; in the second, sex would be waaaaay unprofessional; and the third dream, well, I’m just not interested for two reasons: (1) I have this little thing called heterosexuality that gets in the way, and (2) SWEET FANCY MOSES THAT WOULD BE SO DANGEROUS.

...silence...

 

...blink blink...

I bet you just can’t wait to read them now. 

 [I'm winking because I know that I have your attention wrapped around my little finger.]

[You ready? This is going to be good.]

 

[This gesture would be encouraging if it hadn't just come out of a minute of silence.]

I think I've held the suspense long enough. Here they are.

Dream #1

This creepy house is haunted by its former owner: a grumpy old maid—the kind who gives out books and dental floss for Halloween. As a distinguished ghost hunter, I had to take a visit. Oh look! Here it comes! …Natalie Portman? This is turning out better than I expected.

 

Dream #2

“Welcome to the ‘Fat Girls Deserve Love Too’ club!” I said proudly, sitting almost unnoticeably in a circle of rather large, beautiful, but also lonely women. This was a different kind of project for me, but I felt confident and excited for at least something to put on my resume.

Dream #3

Countless onlookers and news reporters gather to see Ryan Seacrest at Valley Fair. He’s decided to stand up naked on a roller coaster! Everyone seems excited, but all I can think of is that he is probably going to fall to his death and how his tan is extraordinarily even.

The end.

(10 points to anyone who can name which post each reference belongs to in my resume picture.)

Another New Texting Phenomenon

You’ve experienced and loved SongBomb©™, and now I have created a new texting phenomenon that is tearing up the charts of telecommunication!

It’s called…

Poem Invasion®©™

The rules are simple:

1.  You must first receive a text. (This adds to the “sneak attack” nature of Poem Invasion®©™, because the sender actually brings it upon themselves.)

2. You must respond to their text with a reply that rhymes with what they wrote. This will result in a stanza of poetry. (Extra points are awarded if you can also make the two texts rhythmically work together.)

3. Even though rhyming is difficult, it is immensely important to try to keep the conversation on topic. This way you can keep it going as long as possible.*

4. If the person you're Poem Invasion®©™ing gets uncomfortable and asks something about your conversation rhyming, quickly make one last line and say goodbye. (It’s kind of like the movie Inception; once the people become aware that you’re messing with their world, they’ll turn on you. In a Poem Invasion®©™, a sure sign of this is other party ending her or his texts with words like orange, month, or purple. Get out as soon as you can; they’re on to you!)

*In the event that the person you’re Poem Invasion®©™ing replies with “What?”, you are allowed to text them back with a simple, “Whaaat!” However, this transforms Poem Invasion®©™ into:

Rap Attack!!®©™

The rules of Rap Attack!!®©™ are almost identical to Poem Invasion®©™, you just have to add the words yo, krunk, and the suffix -izzle as much as you can. 

 

An Example of Rap Attack!!®©™

Friend: Kissing my boyfriend is such a drag. I wish he were taller.

You: Well if he ever needs a boost, just give a little holler!

Friend: What?

You: Whaaat!

Friend: What are you doing?

You: I’m krunk, yo! I’m on a boat, yo! Look at me, you mizzle fizzle, check out what I’m brewing!

(Any reference to I’m on a Boat automatically gives you extra points.)

Friend: You’re being weird.

You: Whoa! An insult from my bro! I guess I should watch out where I’m shavin’ my beard!

Friend: What?

You: Whaaat!

Friend: Orange orange orange  

You: Okay, see you at dinner. Bye.

It is encouraged to publish the work on facebook or submit it to a literary magazine as unintentional poetry. It's highly, highly conceptual.

From before the 19th to after the 19th.

These past couple weeks, I’ve been scrambling around like a rabbit on Red Bull. I’ve gone from packing in order to leave for a four-month trip to Guatemala knowing that I would graduate when I returned with a Reconciliation Studies Major and an Art Minor, to unpacking in order to stay here at school so I could passionately pursue an Art Major; and from that to having it brought to my attention after I was told my new plan was totally possible (and having expensively withdrawn from the study abroad program) that my new plan totally isn’t possible, unless I’m willing to stab myself in one eye with a paintbrush and black the other one out with a stick of charcoal, carefully but artfully cut off both my legs with an Exacto knife, staple about 290 syllabi (that’s about 400,000 credits worth) all over my body, drink about nine gallons of lead-based oil paint, and stuff my nostrils full of modeling clay for about the same amount of time it takes for a minke whale to go through its gestation period.

Then I could have the Art Major.

(I considered drawing that, but it all ended up looking too St. Sebastian-like.)

[An effective look for a martyr, not so much for an exaggerator.]

OR, I could go back to having a Reconciliation Major and an Art Minor, and be happily taking my favorite art classes for one more semester.

I chose the latter. Last Friday. And now I have to switch all my classes around to fit my new plan, rendering the first week of this semester (which was last week) pointless.

Shoot me in the balls, whydontcha.

While all that stuff (that I was talking about in the first half of that big paragraph up there) was happening, I was also directing, rehearsing, publicizing, and preparing for the encore of the musical I wrote, Forwards & Backwards: A Musical Bromance. (There’s a link to the show’s new website on my sidebar now, and hey look, the title I just wrote is blue because you can click it and it will take you to the same place!) I was busy.

I also had J-term finals at that time.

As Bilbo Baggins said, “I feel like butter that has been scraped over too much bread.”  Slide an anxiety disorder in all that mess and Bilbo’s words are still relevant; just freeze the butter.

And in all the hustle and bustle (that makes it sound way too jolly), I did something I’ll regret for another 350 days or so...



...I missed National Popcorn Day.

Reader Reactions at this Exact Moment:

 

 

There was a countdown on my sidebar, for crying out loud. I had been dreaming up different ways to celebrate, how the celebratory blog post would probably be my best ever because of the amazing and unexpected way I celebrated it, but the day came and passed and I didn’t even know. My dad texted me about it when it was far too late. Popcorn Day had been overlooked.

I did celebrate unknowingly, however, at lunch that day. No, I didn’t have popcorn, but that would have made it better, now that I think about it. We were working on getting the word out about the musical (Click the blue letters! Click the blue letters!), and I decided to have the cast do a flashmob performance of one of the songs at lunch that day.  So on Popcorn Day, January 19^th, at 12:25, we did it. Something went wrong with the sound in the beginning, but you’ll see that it turned out well. I'm the guy in the blue, on top of the table.

So Popcorn Day was celebrated. It was just like it was in my first post, except we were the people in the street, and the onlookers were the dreamers. Fistfuls of popcorn may have been the only thing that could have made it better. (That and no sound malfunctions.) And the musical went wonderfully, by the way. 408 people in attendance. Hot damn.

Anyway. My scrambling is slowing now, luckily, and my school problems are beginning to be solved. Like I said earlier, life definitely doesn't suck. Mark your calendars for the next January 19th, though, because MAN that's going to be one hell of a doozy.