Terrible Analogies

I had a nightmare (if you can call it that) last night.

There I was, a miniscule version of myself, walking around in my own mouth.  I was traversing the vast expanse of my molars, sliding gracefully down my canines, and trudging over my slick gums as I slunk in awe under the etherial arches between my teeth.  My bicuspids were islands, set deep into my pink flesh, each with moats of spittle pooling together, surrounding my enamel with a protective ocean barrier.  My lower incisors were massive flat towering sheets of ivory, stretching high into the atmosphere, forming a jagged, shadowy skyline in the heavens.

On my tongue, in place of taste buds was an uncountable, rolling carpet of Curly heads (the guy from the Three Stooges).  They spotted me and in unison said, “it’s not what you do, but the way that you do it.”

And then I woke up.  

Ever have one of those dreams?

One of the more disturbing animated .gifs I've seen in a long while...

…What kind of toys are kids playing with nowadays?

In the span of a single afternoon I happened to stumble upon:

Disgusting Anatomy Heart:  Have you ever found yourself standing in your darkened kitchen late at night, with the only light coming from the single dim frosted bulb inside your open refrigerator?  There you are, slouching into the open box, your arm draped heavily over the door as you slowly scan its chilled contents.  Unsure what you want to eat you’re suddenly overcome with an overwhelming, insatiable desire to hold a slick, pulsing, quivering human heart in your bare hands.  

No?  Strange…I can’t believe I’m the only one ever to have that feeling.  

+1 for the bonus eyeball kit.

Gabby Girl: High creep factor with this toy.  I’m not sure where the manufacturer was going with this doll, but the posable mouth, flickering tongue, beady, vacant eyes, and 80′s inspired clothes propels this toy into the high stratosphere of the uncomfortably abnormal.  

Recently I’ve been having this reoccurring nightmare of waking up in a cold sweat and seeing that sometime, in the dead of night, this life-sized doll had silently pulled up a chair next to my bed and has been patiently sitting there, in the dark, inches from my face, watching me sleep.  The only sound I hear is a sticky, rubbery *smack* *smack* as it gums it’s lips together, her dead eyes staring straight into my shivering, cowering soul.

This doll eerily resembles a cousin of mine who lives in San Francisco, but with fewer facial piercings, no chronic cough, and absence of strict vegan diet for “religious reasons”.

Gummy Tapeworm: Knowing that by eating this it’ll soon be working its way through my colon is enough to make me want to wash my hands after handling the package.  I wonder, if I ever had an opportunity to eat a real honest-to-gosh tapeworm, would it taste like apple?  Who knows what a tapeworm tastes like?

Okay…that’s enough disturbing thoughts for one night…

Whelp, it looks like Edgar Mitchell, pilot of Apollo 14 and record holder for the longest moon walk, is set to talk about his UFO experiences at this week’s X-Conference 2009.

I point this out to shamelessly segue way into my own personal “encounter” I had many years ago.

To preface this a bit, let me tell you that I am not a loon, nutter, or whackjob.  I believe the vast majority of people who know me will testify to that belief.  I’m a levelheaded individual that walks with a debunker’s gait, and I’m not easily swayed by the latest hype.  With that being said…

Fifteen (has it been that long?!) years ago I was in my parent’s backyard with my 10″ Dobsonian telescope checking out the Orion Nebula when I saw what I was sure was a satellite slowly tracking across a backdrop of stars.  I watched with interest as this solid point of light steadily arched its way through the sky when suddenly and without warning it changed direction ninety degrees and shot off in a streak of white light, disappearing behind the silhouette of a neighbor’s house.  

My immediate reaction was a cool, “Well, that’s odd.”

And that’s my story.  Fascinating, I know.  I’m still not sure what I saw that night, but I’ve ruled out satellites, planes, meteors, space debris, hallucination, fireworks, and swamp gas from a weather balloon that was trapped in a thermal pocket which refracted light from Venus.

I’m still not sure what it could have been, but I’ve not seen it’s kind since.  I often go camping at Joshua Tree and Anza-Borrego and am quite used to being under an intimidating curtain of stars.  I know what satellites and airplanes look like as they cleave paths through the heavens.  I’ve witnessed my fair share of meteor showers.  Heck, I’ve even seen a plane accident at an air show.  But I’ve never, ever seen anything like what I saw that night many years ago.

Easter Sunday:  I woke up early and slunk downstairs to pour myself a heaping bowl of Cap’N Crunch, sprawled out on the couch, and repeatedly flipped the TV back and forth between the Cartoon Network and the Speed channel.  I was in that mystical zone, somewhere between waking from a dream state and slipping into a sugar coma, when the wife gave a shout from somewhere upstairs.

I heard the patter of feet above my head.  Seconds later I watched as the cat tumbled down the stairs quickly followed by Karin, who breathlessly suggested that I go outside.  There’s….something on the street.

Putting my cereal bowl down, I slowly heaved myself off the couch and stepped into the garage.  Giving the oversized garage door button a clumsy, meaty slap with the palm of my hand I quickly pawed through my hair in an attempt to look presentable just in case I bumped into a neighbor.  The clunky sound of chains and sprockets squealed as they pulled the garage door up and over our heads.  Shading the morning sun from my face with raised hands, my squinting eyes strained to adjust to the light, then strained yet again to try to comprehend what they was seeing.

The first thing I thought of was Spring Heeled Jack, but this couldn’t be…could it?  This demanded closer investigation.

Strange markings covered the street in front of our house. What could they be?

Oh...I get it. It's Easter, no? They must be bunny tracks!

Bunny tracks outside our front door

Wow...it looks like somebody left something behind.

The Easter Bunny left a small gift on everyone's doorstep!

Inside the hollow plastic egg was this Easter greeting

Kudos to the neighbor who went through all this trouble!

If you want to know what makes America tick…I mean, if you want to peel back the veil and take a quick peek at the squeaking, shimmying, twisting gears as they blindly strain against each other in forced cooperation for vague, uncertain, and undeclared goals, then take a couple hours out of your life and pull up a seat at your local DMV.

The DMV is one of those communal “watering holes” where everyone regardless of race, creed, color, and socioeconomic status congregates.  Like gas stations, grocery stores, and the post office, it’s a shared resource that encompasses an accepted truce where predator and prey temporarily set aside their differences to fulfill a common mandatory need. 

Much like Jury Duty, a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles is a forced requirement.  In my case my license was up for renewal and my presence was required for a new photograph and an eye exam.  I thought I was being smooth and responsible when I made an appointment that I foolishly assumed would whisk me through this experience with minimal hassle.  Little did I know that I was about to be thrown into a dank, wretched pit of perceived power and emotional indifference.

Upon arrival at the DMV I queued up at the “Appointments” window and patiently waited ten minutes while the line I was in slowly shuffled forward as each of us in turn was asked to state our name and purpose before being thrown a numbered ticket and ordered to, “Take a seat. Listen for your number.”  As I stepped to the front of the line, a small square piece of paper shot up from a slot in the desk like a ticket from a movie theater booth.  The stern woman behind the counter expertly snapped it from the slot and handed it to me in a single practiced, fluid motion.  Lightly stamped on the paper was “F-021″ in faded blue ink.  Appointment lady looked at me like a unwanted stray and ordered me with a drawn out midwestern smokers drawl to sit down.  To listen for my number.

Then the MMRLG (Massive Multiplayer Real Life Game) of Musical Chairs began because there were more people waiting to be called than there were seats.  I counted myself lucky to have found a seat between a guy who was so engrossed in his Koontz novel that he apparently forgot how to control his gasseous emmissions, and a balding 40-something woman who glassily stared off into the distance while wistfully carressing what looked like a meandering scab that covered the entirety of her right cheek. 

I eased in as best I could and sat motionless, arms crossed, eyes fixed at the Good News / Bad News About Turning 21 poster on the far wall, careful not to draw attention to myself lest I disturb the caged pack mentality.  I listened to people talking, particularly intriqued by the “yeah, the pipe joint is fine.  I think the sealant is corroded. Yeah, Louis looked at it, but bled all over dudes interior.  Yeah, I told him not to f*ck with the stitches…” phone conversation going on behind me.

I felt like McMurphy, desperate to escape, looking for a piece of heavy furniture and a window to throw it through.

Only a poet could do justice to accurately describing my emotions when I finally heard “Window seven now serving F-021″ announced through the intercom speakers.  You know how it feels to win the lottery or take a human life?  Well, that’s exactly how I felt.

Thankfully, the waiting was the most difficult part of this whole experience.  Once I made my way to my assigned window my business there was completed within a few short minutes.  The nice old lady manning the window quickly completed the required paperwork, administered my eye test, photograpped my mug, and thanked me for waiting while tossing me a warm smile.  I guess not all DMV employees are emotionless husks of souless skin.    

Thank you window number seven lady for showing me a bit of compassion and humanity when I needed it the most.