Perchance, to dream

It was a beautiful thing, this beer store.

Rows upon rows of bottles.  Trappists, Lambics, Stouts, Pales, and any assortment of high gravity craft brews.  In my hand I clenched  a bottle.  The label read Spaten.  I lifted it to my face to get a closer look and noticed an odd logo perched towards the top.  Schlitz, it read.

Eh?  That’s confusing.

No matter.  I wasn’t in the mood for a Spaten anyway, not with this palace of pleasures that awaited me.  I placed the bottle on the rack and headed down the aisle, following the sparkles of light that bounced and glistened off the glass and led me further and further in.

Suddenly the bottles began to rattle and bounce off each other, as a horrid screaming noise pierced the paradise.  And I watched in horror as the beer store began to engulf itself, pulling its reality inward, imploding, until it was gone.  And I was left floating within a deep black void.

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP

And then I was awake.

The alarm clock screamed in my ear, and I instinctively turned towards it to mash my fist onto the snooze button,  give me one last chance to swim back through the haze of that dying dreamworld and spend 9 more minutes of bliss in that wondrous ethereal beer shop.

But I then noticed the glowing demon eyes of time that stared back at me from the clock radio.  3:45 am.

“Ah hell,” I groaned.   “It’s deployment day.”

There’d be no snoozing this morning.  No, I’d be getting up and trudging through my cold kitchen to make a pot of coffee, then sitting down in front of my laptop and calling into the bridge line.  Where I would join the disembodied voices of tired techies, and altogether, in a symphony of yawns and coffee sips, we’d begin the multi-hour process of giving birth to a new piece of software.

That was 14 and a half hours ago.  And that was one long day of work.

But you know,  when things don’t go completely to shit on deployment day, it almost seems worth it.  Doesn’t it, other nerds?

And now I sit here at my computer, both wired and tired,  and drinking from a bottle of McChouffee Belgian brown ale, perhaps trying to recreate that sense of joy I’d experienced last night.  And it makes me think of the innocent days (not really) back in high school where a pretty girl from class would show up in my dream and… well, it didn’t necessarily have to be one of those dreams… but then I’d see the girl the next day and feel an odd sense of kinship with her.  Hey, thanks for dressing up in a fish suit with me last night and rewiring electrical circuits!  We were a helluva team!  And for the rest of the day I’d feel a bit closer to her, like we’d shared a special adventure together, until the next night, where I’d spend an unconscious 6 hours in hell, screaming.  The demons have returned.

Kidding.

But I was telling a pal at work about my beer store dream, and he joked,  “In my dreams, I don’t have to pay for the beer.”   We decided that my dream must express my love of two things – beer and commerce.   Makes sense, I guess.

Usually hearing someone talk about their dreams is terribly uninteresting, and I imagine this is no different.   But give me a pass, won’t you?  It’s been a long day.  And I keep checking my Blackberry to make sure no panic-emails pop up to alert that “Everything’s gone to shit!  We’re all doomed!”  And, really,  chances are that if the emails are going come, they’re going to wait until this bottle of McChouffe is empty and I find myself accidentally (not really) Belgium-buzzed and happy  and… then…  “Everything’s gone to shit!  We’re all doomed!  Join the conference call!”

But until then, shall we continue to talk about dreams?   No?  Ok, so one time when I was a young kid, I dreamed that my stuffed animals came to life and started creeping around my bedroom floor.  It was a terrifying dream, the way they moved so quickly, and so small.  I ran out of the room, only  to stumble upon my stuffed Ziggy lurching down the hall.  In a moment of psychotic dream-rage, I grabbed Ziggy by his evil bald head and threw him over the banister.  I peered down at the floor below me to see that little son of a bitch pick himself up and race into the kitchen.

Speaking of  Ziggy, I remember when I got that stuffed little guy.  I was stoked.  Could really relate to his awkward, Woody Allen-esque sentiments.  Not really,  I was 5.  But  yeah, so I got this stuffed Ziggy, and my little brother got himself a plush pig.  Later that afternoon we walked through the neighborhood to our friends house, our new stuffed friends in hand, chanting “Ziggy and Piggy and Ziggy and Piggy and Ziggy and Piggy. “  I remember thinking how clever we were.  30 years later, and I’m still spewing stupid chants and thinking how clever I am.   There was a hot tub on the back deck of our friends house.  On this particular day it was covered.   My brother and I decided to toss Ziggy and Piggy onto the middle of the cover.

Bad move.

We realized that there was no way to retrieve our stuffed companions.  Couldn’t reach them. Couldn’t crawl across the hot tub cover to get them.   We were going to have to get crafty.  We grabbed a nearby ski pole and… no, that would have been a logical idea.  We didn’t do that.  Instead we convinced our buddy to turn on the bubbles of the hot tub, expecting that the motion of the bubbles bouncing up against the bottom of the cover would eventually cause enough disturbance to rattle Ziggy and Piggy into our awaiting kid hands.

You know, that’s actually pretty smart for a couple of stupid kids.  Stupid, but smart.  Know what I mean?

Anyway, our friend’s dad came out onto the back deck to see three kids screwing around with his hot tub, and man, did he yell.  Hoo boy, the dude gave us a yelling.

And there was no singing on our long walk home,  as my little brother and I carried our heads in shame, stuffed animals in shaking hands.

Ziggy, you bastard.

You rotten bastard.  You got me again.   But don’t worry, you son of a bitch.  I never forget.  Oh yes, I think I’ve made that quite clear. I NEVER FORGET.  You’ve attacked me by water, you’ve attacked me by dream.   But there’s one frontier for which you dare not dwell.  For I am the MASTER of this frontier.

The frontier of fun.

Yeeeeee!!!!  Let’s all have some fun!   Pass me that beach ball, pall!  I’m gonna send that thing flying!   Weeee!  Ha ha! Let’s laugh some more!  I’m running now!   Now I’m rolling.  Now I’m falling.  We’re holding hands!  We’re spinning!  Look at my smiling face as the background whisks behind me!  Oh look at you!  You’re smiling too!  We’re smiling and spinning!  We’re having fun!

You’re a fucking goner in the frontier of fun, Ziggy.  Anytime, brother.  Anytime you want it.

Sweet, no emails on the Blackberry.  We can continue to talk.    So, according to all the people on Facebook, it was supposed to snow today.  I don’t believe in weather, so reading all of these hopeful updates was about as engaging as reading friends’ updates to cheer on their alma mater’s football team.  Anyway, this following evening’s Facebook friend updates were caked in disappointment at the apparent lack of snow.   But not me, for I don’t believe in snow.   And so I win.

Ahh, well, for my friends’ sake, I hope this false idol – this… weather – hears their cries and grants them what they want.    And while he’s at it, maybe this weather can grant me what I want.   A flying carpet.  It could really improve my life.  It could satisfy my unending desire to fly through the air without having to sit next to Coughing Joe and the Fats in a dumb tube.  And it would really be a nice addition to the Hookah Room.

Dear weather, please give me a flying carpet.

…

…

Well?

No?

Hmm… No flying carpet has zipped into my room to whisk me away on an evening of adventure, Arabian Nights, and nachos.

So apparently there’s no such thing as weather.

Checkmate, assholes.  Beat that logic.  Oh, you can’t?

Didn’t think so.

Face.

Ok, well, McChouffe is almost gone, and there’s no chance that anyone is still reading this, and if they are, well… perhaps they’d reconsider my offer from earlier?  A 69 for a ride to the mall?  I gots to get me some Orange Julius.

I’m tired.

So very tired.

Watch your back, Ziggy.  I’m not afraid of you anymore.  You fucking asshole.