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Dreamboy 07
Merry Christmas!
How about a nice helping of surreal scatology to go with that egg nog?
...dreamboy!, December 1994, is finally here!
Hello everyone. Particularly my new subscribers. Every new inidividual who
signs up for dreamboy! makes my efforts more and more enjoyable. Spread
the word, and pass dreamboy! along to your friends like a communicable
disease. Christmas is the season of giving.
Thursday, December 22 is a special day. It marks, obviously(?), the end of
my third year of dream writing. By the time volumes two and three of
DECEMBER 22 see print, I'll have just under a thousand pages of this stuff.
The pit is bottomless, and I'm out to prove it--the hard way. My
subconscious is evolving into a fine-tuned, yet uncontrollable machine.
Pure capitalism.
If you've the time or the energy, I'd like some specific input. Particularly
from the longer readers. Which dreams, if any, stand out? Not including this
issue, and without going back to read old printouts or anything, which
dreams or which parts of dreams, if any, lurk in your grey matter? Tell me
why, too, if you can. In fact, let's make this a little interesting to make
your
efforts almost worth it. Answer the above question as thoroughly as possible
and send it along with your surface mail address. Three entries will be picked
at
random. Those three picked will receive a free copy of DECEMBER 22, volume one.
If you've already purchased DEC 22 and your name is picked, I'll instead
send a copy of volume two/three when it comes out (Volumes two and three
will be printed together, in one 700+ page book), some time in 1995. Entries
should be received before dreamboy! 8 is released.
I hope that sparks some interest.
Maybe I should offer some t-shirts?
*****
Holy Moley! dreamboy! currently has 90 subscribers!
*****
December 1, 1994
Star Trek.
We're from the past--earth's distant past--and we're returning to the
future. Millennia have gone by, leaving the language and people entirely
different. We're very small.
Our team journeys through the thick forest in search of something.
Anything. We follow a babbling stream down the side of a hill. Where are
we going? The water leads to a huge fountain, along the outside of some
strange building. The fountain, actually, is more like a huge pool.
We look up and notice tremendous monsters. Fifty times the size of a man,
and many more times uglier. These brown, hairless creatures notice us, and
approach. They want to capture us, it seems, so we dive into the pools
and swim to the bottom. We hide, among the submerged objects, and
swim from side to side. Serpentine maneuvers prevent us from being
captured.
They grab one of us, I think, but no one understands. We try to talk, but
none of the words are coherent. This is a problem.
There's a female among our group. She's a healthy female, and talks
with a thick, semi-sexy accent. But now's not the time.
The captain is jealous, I think, because the huge creatures seem to be
listening to her. He wants to be the total focus of her attention even if
it means not saving the crew. Love does strange things. He orders everyone
to return to the vehicles, but the large humanoids won't let us. They won't
let us go, which is bad, because we really want to.
To be continued.
December 3, 1994
David Letterman is in my back yard, taping the monologue for tonight's
show. He's in a suit and it's nighttime.
Incidental light reveals thin webs stretching across the patio, like
trip-wires. Every time a web is activated, a large black widow creeps
from a nearby tree, towards Dave. The branches are rustled, and black
widow egg sacks fall from the leaves, landing on Dave's shirt. Without
a thought, he smashes them.
No. He inadvertently smashes them. His real intent is simply to brush
them off. But haste causes destruction.
The branches continue to rustle, producing even more egg sacks. One
even lands in Dave's mouth, much to his horror. He has to crunch down on
the sack before the eggs hatch and infest his mouth. The babies would
bite, making him very sick.
Dave's crew is also shooting background scenery for The Yeti Show.
Yeti's a celebrity, you know, and he's really good at posing for the
camera. My Yeti. But he killed a bird, and now there are millions of ants
crawling over the semi-decayed carcass.
Everyone is unhappy with Yeti.
I look to my left and notice a pile of branches and leaves. Someone was
pruning, it seems. From under the pile, I notice a broken cat's leg. Is
that Fuzz?!?
Yes.
She fell from the heater, they tell me, and died. She froze, physically,
and tilted right over, shattering her jaw and skull on the bricks below.
Her fall was "totally two dimensional."
I'm very surprised and even more saddened.
* * *
I'm rubbing my sweetheart, which reminds me of Johnny Suede. We just
watched the film together. I look at her and ask if I know where "the
button is."
She says, "No."
No!?! "You've been letting me go all along without saying anything?"
That's bad.
She shows me. I start rubbing the button correctly and her vagina
expands to the size of a very large, very wet, pink banana slug. It gives
off slurping noises and everything.
Wow!
I really didn't know. I feel so much better now.
December 6, 1994
I'm frolicking in a park, similar to Temescal Canyon. Maybe it's more
like a cross between Temescal Canyon and Roosevelt Park. I'm jumping
over tickweeds, in a large expanse of underdeveloped land. I was dropped
off here, so I can take a shower.
I have no clothes on. I have something on, but it can't really be
classified as clothes. Just what is it?
I run to the tree. Is that where I'll shower? No, because the sprinklers
won't reach that far. I search for the ground sprinklers and then wonder,
"Do they really exist?"
I dart through a spray of liquid, covered with soap and water. Rinsed off,
I search for a clean area to place my clothes. I see a couch. Two
couches, in fact, but each are getting hit with the spray. One is less wet
than the other, though. Deciding against the old, dirty couches, I run
around the partition and come across a pile. A pile of paintings?!?
I'm in cave and see piles and piles of canvases, boards, and other flat
surfaces--all of which have been painted on. I flip one over and read
"Jenny Groener" scribbled on the back. All this work was stolen from
her place, and taken here. That's my guess. And the person responsible
has been painting over her work.
That's terrible.
"Is he or she coming back?" I wonder. "Or has this place been long
deserted?" Is any of my own work here? No, but I sympathize. I've had
work stolen before.
I find a baseball bat. It's a new, 36-inch Louisville Slugger and it feels
good. I want to use it to destroy. To crack open a few heads like a
crazed maniac. But I don't. I just walk softly and carry it along. I have to
find Jenny, to tell her about her work.
I meet Robin Conover and Amy Gerstler along the way. Ben Weissman,
too. I tell them about everything and ask if they'll join my search party.
Yes? No? I have to find Jason Heath and Greg Stone. We'll catch those
fuckers and beat 'em silly.
December 8, 1994
My family and I--and Joyce, too--are in an amusement park toy store.
We're looking for exciting items to commemorate our visit.
No. It's a museum park. It's the same as a museum, only bigger and with
some topical rides referring to the current show's content. We begin in
the first room, looking at approximately fifteen inch-sized paintings of
Peanuts characters. Charlie Brown, Linus Van Pelt, Snoopy. They're all
really cool.
Snoopy is actually with us, attending the show. He enters the room and
immediately goes to the Snoopy paintings. I laugh and laugh and point
Snoopy out to everyone.
Time to go. We descend the steep stairs, and I become scared of falling.
They're cold and hard, and I know I'd really hurt myself, but I manage
not to fall. At one point, though, I'm forced to ask a woman to move
aside. Gravity got the best of me.
We find ourselves at the end of a very long line. Everyone--and we're
talking more than a hundred people--is waiting to purchase the museum
catalog for the show. Forget that. I tell my father we should wait until
the end of the day to buy our books--the store will be empty then.
We pass the Peanuts paintings again, and I think I should make similar
paintings of myself. I'd call it "One Chris, Two Chris, Big Chris, Small
Chris."
My father and I walk to the back aisles. I see Brian Inerfeld and Lori
Kriegsman, grab the both of them, and give 'em a huge hug. They laugh
and I let go. The hug is over, so I leave. There are too many people in my
group, as it is, so I don't ask them along. I take off and meet up with my
family.
We're sitting together is a small area. I realize we're in the seating
area for a rollercoaster-type of ride. My mother complains the space is
cramped, of course. We're like cattle, heading for slaughter. They're
moving us along too quickly, damn it, and we don't get to see everyone.
You know, it's just a crying shame.
December 11, 1994
Scott asks, "Do you know whatever happened to your friend?"
I assume she never called back. She didn't want the job, I guess. That's
what I heard
"No!" he screams.
Hua was hired for a day and then quit. She got a job elsewhere, with a
severely increased salary.
"Oh." I feel really dumb.
I find Hua, later in the day, and I'm surprised by her super-thick pubic
hair. It's like a barbed, wiry bush--thick enough to cut your tongue.
Lacerations. Beware of the briar patch.
I'd better be careful.
* * *
At Hi De Do, I'm milling around, looking at comics. I walk into the back
room and check the hold box. Some stupid kid yells at me. I look up and
say, "What?" I want to check the box like I always do. What's the
problem?
Marisa is in the back room. Her bare stomach is showing, and I can tell
she's lost some weight. Good. Good for her.
I find some old and interesting comics, but they're labeled with people's
names. That's stupid. I remove the labels while I hunt.
* * *
I'm getting married to my cousin Danielle. She's looks totally different
from what I remember and she's much closer in age. Her hair is long and
brown. We're getting married and Carole is teasing us. She's writing
notes and messages, making me out to be a horrible monster.
It's actually kind of funny.
I'm sitting at a table with a bunch of others. We're discussing the large
fields of dandelions. Things like rate of growth and radial limit come up.
Computer diagrams illustrate the exact flow of cross pollenization,
much to my heart's content. I find it amazing how tall and neat the
patches are. Order from chaos.
I'm practicing the rules.
Danielle shows her lovely face and the two of us joke. We're going to get
married to one another, but not right now. Maybe a little later.
December 12, 1994
My father is bothering me, asking to see my latest paintings. I haven't
done any work in weeks, though. I don't tell him, because I know he
won't like the sound of it. I try to change the subject, but he insists on
seeing some work. He's serious, like he has a real investment in it.
"They'd better be good," he says. Deadpan.
Oh well. What can I do?
* * *
Sleeping with Hua. It's like doin' a pre-schooler.
December 15, 1994
I'm at my old work. The one I try so hard to forget. Like a slug, I sit
there at a desk, pathetically watching three women talk. Young, black
women. Two of whom leave the room. The third, remaining female starts
making fun of the first two. She's making fun of their choice of radio
station and the music they listen to.
"They listen to black music," she says.
"What do you like?" I ask.
No answer.
"Would you like some peanut brittle?"
I walk over to the counter and show her the secret pieces of candied
peanuts encased in an orangy-brown tin. They were left here by other
workers, along with a strange array of game pieces.
She mumbles something, cynically.
"Hey!" I say. "You're black too!" It just hits me. She's short and fat and
basically like the girls she's ridiculing. I run over, hug her from behind,
squeeze both her extremely large boobs with all my might, and spin
around the room. Then I lose my balance, let go, and toss her in the mud.
It's like a large, slippery doo-pit.
*****
Entire Contents Copyright(C)1994 by Christopher Romano. All Rights Reserved.
