A Dreamer’s Tale

Tell yourself, “This world needs me. I am smart and capable of so much. Nobody but me has my unique ideas. Without me, there’d be a whole universe missing out on what it is that I have to offer.”

And then go make something.

Today’s genius idea: Beefwings

I took some old chicken wing bones out of the trash, rinsed them, mushed seasoned ground beef into them, and once they’re done in the oven — I’m gonna roll them around in Cheeto dust and serve them up to friends.

As great as it is to take risks and experiment, I think it’s equally as great to share. You’ll find that people can be appreciative of your creations. Not always, but slightly more than never they are.

Sometimes the response is, “Have I been poisoned? Am I going to die?”

But sometimes it isn’t.

A little disclosure:

I don’t know for certain that everything is going to be fine; you should induce vomiting if you feel you should. It happens all the time. The panicky, WTF response that is.

I cannot be offended. I am willing to admit to my mistakes and learn from them. I am always looking to go forward, and that requires an honest self assessment.

After what happened last summer with the cake I baked, I discovered that I shouldn’t use collected rain water as an ingrediant. The “natural, earthy” taste that I was aiming for, turned out to be a major misjudgement.

Thank God everyone made a full recovery.

I will continue to learn and improve.

Cooking is my passion.

Coffee Shop Chaos: The Story of What Was Almost, Almost a Riot

“Hey there Mr. Funny Man, Mr. I-Can-Do-It-All, Mr. Trying To Steal Everyone’s Girlfriend. Nice acoustic set, except for the fact that your music is sad and whiny and you’re a fool and you’re not gonna steal my girlfriend. I came here to make sure of that.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just here to play music…or at least that’s what I think I’m here for,” answered back the acoustic performer, amused by himself with a cool, confident smile, looking around at all the faces gazing towards him.

A large amount of those in attendance were young, college-aged girls; undergrads. Many were seated around him on the floor, staring up at him dreamily, as if he were a folk hero. Just about all of them giggled whenever he spoke.

“I know what you’re doing. And that “funny” anecdote you told earlier wasn’t even funny at all. There was nothing ironic about what you said. You drove into town and saw a sign and you knew you were here. Whatever.”

“I’m sorry that upset you, I’ll cons–”

“Yeah!” shouted another man, standing up in the back opposite of the room. “I’m gonna have to agree with him.”

“You got your faded jeans and your loafers and you think you’re so deep. It’s nauseating.”

“Boooo!” most of the female audience members shouted in the direction of both hecklers.

“Just get out.”

“Yeah, get out!”

“Well I apologize for–”

“You asked the barrista to “fetch” you a glass of water and so far you’ve only taken one sip,” shouted another heckler, raising their voice a bit louder with every word to overpower the returning boos.

Boos were shouted in all directions. There was no music. There was no order. There was no way he could continue performing until things had settled down.

“Hey hey hey,” the performer said into the microphone. “If you don’t like me or my music, then why not just leave? No one’s keeping you here.”

There was more noise from the crowd. Some people clapped in agreement with the performer, others answered back with curses.

“Awwww piss off!”

“Yeah. Screw you, man. You get out of here! Don’t tell me to leave!”

The room was hostile and in a complete stir. There was no manager or anyone who could mitigate the commotion. One man in the back of the room took off his shirt. He immediately put it back on.

“I’m OK.”

A gentleman, older than most members of the crowd, who was sitting quietly, raised his hand to say something. He looked as though he could be a professor at a nearby university.

“Yes. Hey everyone, everyone let’s hear what this man has to say. Ok? And then can I get back to the music, please?”


The older gentleman spoke,”I have perfect pitch and the break you took earlier to retune your guitar was completely unnecessary.”

“Yeah!” a bunch of men in the crowd cheered.

“You dropped your low E just so you could raise it back up again, and tell another one of your ridiculous, unironic stories in the process,” he said, looking back to the first heckler who had pointed out the lack of irony in the performer’s stories; giving his endorsement to the younger man’s statement.

“I came in for a relaxing afternoon cup of tea, and what I’m witnessing here is sickening.”

There were more boos from the men and even more boos in response from the defending women.

Admist all the chaos and disruption, one young woman spoke up.

“You told me to come here and see your show. You said that you would really really like for me to hear you play when we met earlier out on the street. You said I should stick around and hang out afterwards. How many other girls did you tell that to?” she said, sounding upset.

“He said that same thing me!”

“And me.”

“I saw this jerk walking around all over town with his guitar earlier today. What did no one have a puppy for you to borrow as well?” someone else shouted.

“I came to play music. This is a paid gig. There is no greater conspiracy happening,” the performer responded indignantly.

There were more boos. Just about all boos. Even most the women now. If anyone was still left on his side, they weren’t letting it be known.

“Is everyone in this town crazy? Why is everyone such a fucking asshole?”


“See, he’s not that deep! He’s not the caring sensitive type. He’s a phoney!”


“Awww fuck you. Fuck all of you,” he said, placing his guitar back in it’s case. Someone pelted him in the ribs with a scone; there was no telling who threw it at this point.

He grabbed the mic stand and amp and with his hands full, bolted towards the exit, towards the parking lot with his cables dragging the whole way there. He was in a hurry to get out.

He received constant harassment the entire trip over.

Standing at his station wagon, he checked himself to make sure he had everything.

“The tuner!” he said out loud to himself.

He thought to go back in and grab it, but when he turned to look back, there were dozens of faces looking out at him angrily from the window; many giving him the finger.

“Forget it,” he said, opening the door and climbing into the driver’s seat.

As he rolled out the parking lot, the crowd poured out to cheer his departure.

He looked in the rear view window, and returned the finger for everyone.

“Back at you,” he said to himself.

It was another town to cross off his list.

He was leaving definitely.

In Place of Sheep

Some people like to count sheep in order to help them relax and fall asleep quicker at night. I personally like to imagine myself ruthlessly wrecking the shit out of a seedy motel room.

Something nasty and worthy of abuse, like a highway side, designated smoker’s room. I can’t imagine myself destroying anything beautiful; senseless waste and destruction won’t facilitate a peaceful sleep for me. It won’t work! If you destroy something ugly and awful and in need of demolition anyways, you’re not ruining the best of anything; it’s all good!

I’m not the type, but if you’re the type that regularly screams into a pillow out of frustration, I can only imagine this being the perfect nighttime sleeping plan for you.

Regardless your type, it’s at least worth a try. Test it out for one night, if not, it’s one night only!

In our imaginations, when we’re preparing ourselves for sleep, there’s no cops or managers or bosses to worry about. There’s no payments to make, no responsibilities to take. So why is it always recommended that we count sheep? Thoughts of fictional motel destruction can also be cathartic, and they’re always risk free— they’re only thoughts! And no one’s getting hurt in these thoughts either (imagining yourself inflicting pain upon people, real or not, is not a sleeping plan I can endorse).

Imagine yourself jamming an unsafe amount of adapters and plugins into a wall socket. Feels pretty mischievous, right? Now imagine all that causing an electrical fire and the room burning down. There’s still no consequences! It’s not real!

So forget about sheep.

When I’m done getting ready for bed, and I’m laying there with my head on the pillow, the first thing I like imagine myself doing is inserting the key into the door, and then stepping inside my motel room…

For starters, I might kick over a chair, or go over to the bed to jump on it with my shoes on. I might kick the blankets on the floor, and hit the ceiling a bunch of times, as many times as I please! I’ll perhaps rip open the pillows or change the clock to a wrong time. I’ll plug the sink and shower drains and turn the water on. I’ll walk back out into the other room and I’ll… notice myself start to relax and drift closer to sleep.

But not always.

Just like counting sheep, it might not seem to be working some nights. You might get upset because time is passing and you need to get up early, and you’re now worried about how much tomorrow’s gonna suck because you’re not getting the rest you need.

Whatever your sleeping plan may be, it’s always good to refocus when this starts to happen.

For me, I know that I gotta get out of my head and away from my worries, and get back into that motel room.

I’ll take a lamp and smash it off the TV. I’ll then take the TV and push it onto the floor. I’ll then rip down the curtains. I’ll karate chop my hand down the blinds. I’ll swing the phone by it’s chord and let it smash into the wall. I’ll then take a jagged piece of debris, and I’ll start scraping off the wall paper…


I’ll then…

Goodnight world.

Fall Down City

If an investigator or someone insidious ever wanted my genetic information, well they’d have no problem collecting it is all I’m saying. Woot woot! I kid but really I do leave my genetic information all over the place all the time.

One time at a baseball game, I was sweating so bad they removed me from the bleachers. My sweat puddled around where I was sitting and it began streaming out and making it’s way towards other people; this husband and wife.

People asked “Did you pour water on yourself” and others likely just assumed that I had.

When I said I hadn’t, and had no water bottle to show, everyone treated me as if I had a disease.



“What’s the matter with this guy? Get him outta here!”

A home run landed a section over but it basically went unnoticed because all the focus was on me. The heat and the sweat and the sight of dozens and dozens of heads turned towards me looking concerned; I felt a lone, and scared. I felt like an outcast. I wanted someone to throw me a life jacket!

But I guess no one had ever seen a man sweat as much as they’d seen me. People where looking up and around, saying “Could something somehow poured on him?”

I was the great mystery of left field bleachers, I was the center of all the talk. And I was extremely self conscious about it.

Stirred up, overheated and overwhelmed into confusion, I tried to cover my face with my hands and nonchalantly faint right there at my spot on the bleachers. With my head rolling back and ending up on people’s shoes, I had failed.

“My God, what’s he doing now?!!”

“He’s on my shoes!”

“Quick! Lift your feet up!”

There was a dead fish in the left field bleachers. Sloppy, slippery, wet, limp, and now with peanut shells all over it’s face.

This was a family game, and according to many people’s opinion, what was going on with me was indecent and perverse.

No one wanted to help me up. I floundered. Some people even discouraged other people from helping me.

“Ew, you don’t wanna touch him,”

“Well someone should do something.”

I could feel the stadium filth on my face. And I could hear the voices of hundreds of disgruntled and disconcerted ballpark attendees. I wished and prayed for a rain shower. I was almost incapable of staying awake. I sat myself up and I began mumbling about the rain.

“Could use a nice shower right now, what’s the forecast?”

See, rain would’ve bailed me out. Everyone concerned with their own dryness would’ve been running and seeking cover, instead of out loud, expressing their disgust towards me.

Rain would’ve been the greatest gift I could’ve received at this moment, but it was extremely unlikely, and just not happening.

I was with friends from work and they had never seen me like this. They were like “whoa man, we never knew you were like this.”

They’ve seen me sick and sneezing and hacking and all the fluids I can produce that way. But in an air conditioned office, they never knew about my life as a sweater.

They were embarrassed and were looking at me like “pull it together man.” But I can’t stop myself from sweating. It’s not some sort of conscious decision I make to sweat as much as this.

An EMT and a few security guards arrived at the request of whoever was bothered enough to go and seek help. Maybe there’s a phone number to report wrongful or suspicious activity? I don’t know, but at no point did anyone say “we’re getting you help, they’re on their way,” so I guess it was done anonymously.

Medical and security took me by the arm and were to “escort me into the shade.” In my mind, I couldn’t tell if they were going to give me a check up and upgrade my seat out of courtesy and necessity (they can’t send me back out to the bleachers I figured; they shouldn’t!). Or I couldn’t tell if they were making moves and were in the process of kicking me out of the ballpark.

Whatever the reason, I felt as though I was a disgusting inconvenience, and they were trying to move me out of sight. I was the hideous undesirable, in need of exile. I’m surprised they didn’t come and retrieve me in hazmat suits.

“God forbid a ball gets hit there and we have that on camera! We can’t let this happen in my ballpark! It’d be a scandal!” I imagined the team owner saying, standing in their box and staring at me through binoculars after being informed of a “situation” in left field.

Being escorted down the row and up the aisle, the crowd parted like the sea. I looked into eyes of many while passing, those eyes all looked away. Did I do something wrong in a past life?

But even with the help of people who’s job it was my safety, it still couldn’t be promised that I was in good hands. And by “good hands” I mean people with a strong grasp.

Still I’m like a fish, and fish do slip.

I hold no grudges against them; my pores are like faucets; I could’ve slipped out the hands of anyone. Fainting for me is not super common like, having stomachaches or indigestion is. But it does happen more often with me than most people.

My ballpark handlers took me over to first aid where I had my pupils checked, my blood pressure checked, and I was given a free water bottle! To top it all off, they allowed me to sit in an empty seat that was usually designated for people with wheelchairs and disabilities. It had been an upgrade!

I reunited with my co-workers later on to tell them about my good change in luck. They all sounded tired and indifferent. I can believe that, they probably got too much sun in those bleachers.

What a good thing it was that I got forced out in the 3rd inning.

My sweat, my falls, my apparent lifelessness—it made for a good crowd reaction. Not a positive reaction but it made for an interesting time.

My body is like one of those junk cars from the movies, where it’s barely lugging along and there’s hubcaps and bolts popping off all over; I am a man in constant ruin; I leave noticeable evidence of myself wherever I go.

Still nothing can ever compare to the panics I cause with my nose bleeds though.

Those look like violence.

That’s when other people start fainting.

Cycle of Life

Late night thoughts:

I sure hope the Rainforest Cafe raises money and does work to protect actual rainforests.

Does the Rainforest Cafe have any chairs or tables made of chopped down rainforest wood?

That’d be fucked up.

Maybe I should Google search Rainforest Cafe and see if they’ve been involved in any controversies.

Later night thoughts:

It doesn’t even matter. Real rainforests aren’t made up of rubber and plastic and synthetic materials. The Rainforest Cafe has as much “forest” to offer as the parking garage outside. What they’re selling is a lie. It’s dystopian.

In the future, the Rainforest Cafe may be the only rainforest left! The real rainforests need protection right now; not corporations profiting off of simulating them!

A moment for goodbye:

Dear Rainforest Cafe,

You were good to me when I was 7 years old, but now our paths must seperate. Some may say our paths seperated 19 years ago when I last ate at your restaurant—but I am forming a new personal boycott right now. If I ever have a child, you will see no business from us.

In fairness, I must speak of the enjoyable evenings you provided while I was a child. Yeah, you served me some bland-ass, overpriced Lunchable looking pizza, but the theme of your restaurant was really fun and exciting to me.

But now it’s goodbye.

Your restaurant is a lie that has to stop.

Final night thoughts:

I’m proud of my decision to boycott the Rainforest Cafe. It’s been a long night for me, but it’s been a productive one. Good for me.

Wake up thoughts:

All of that was fucking stupid and ridiculous. I would have much rather gotten more sleep. Why was I so interested in the Rainforest Cafe last night? Where’d that even come from? Why am I like this?

Regular thoughts:

I’m so tired. I wonder why?

Eventual Hollywood Project: Spiderman 34

Spiderman 34 is a man who lives in an apartment on the floor below a bunch of girls; in unit no. 34. One day, one of the girls comes down and asks him if he can kill a spider.

“I guess that makes me the Spiderman,”he says.

The two have passed each other on the staircase and in the hallway a handful of times before, they have exchanged smiles, but never have they met like this.

She thinks he’s kind of cute.

The two of them in the apartment alone is kind of awkward though.

He makes the Spiderman joke too many times.

“There it is! Kill it!” she shouts.

“Nothing you’re friendly neighborhood Spiderman can’t handle!”

She tells her roommates about it. The roommates never formally meet him, but they go on to refer to him as “The Spiderman.” They don’t talk about him that much though; it was mostly just that one day.

The moral of the movie is: “We’re out here trying our best—aren’t we?”

Spiderman 34 isn’t that bad of a guy. And therefore, he’s actually kind of good.

He was just trying to have fun and crack a few jokes. It’s no real crime that he isn’t funny, it’s no crime at all!

Spiderman 34 is a good and friendly neighbor.

Spiderman 34 helps out when he can.

The Roommate

You ever stumble into the wrong room at a party and find yourself in some voodoo? Voodoo, black magic, I don’t know what the official practice was, but I ended up in the middle of a circle. I was only trying to find the bathroom. 

I grabbed hold of the person who’s party it was. I said, “You gotta check into who you share an apartment with. I’m almost certain your roommate stole some of my soul and spirit just now.”

I was in the roommate’s room for no more than 30 seconds, but that’s all it took. I entered the room in a stumble and was immediately in the circle, and then after about 10 seconds, I was out of it. My guess is that the spirits that temporarily occupied me, let me go because I was too intoxicated. They had to be total lightweights, because I phased in and out in just seconds. It was like I was doing a nod and about to fall asleep, but then I fell out of the circle and crashed really hard into the closet door.

I was extremely confused. My senses were all distorted. I regained my focus.

“Get out dammit— Before you fall over and break something! Just get out!” the roommate shouted at me.

“You’re lucky I didn’t kick a candle across the room. What the hell is this shit?” I shouted back.


“Fuck you, weirdo.”

I was heated after leaving the room. I had to, of course, go and find the party host immediately. While I was saying “what the heck?” and quickly, angrily escalating into a bunch of “fuck your roommate” business, the lights began to flicker.

I was still shook up over what I had literally just stumbled into. And now the faucet was turning on and off and on and off, and the same thing was happening with all the other appliances, whether they were plugged in or not. The kitchen cabinets flew open and shut, slamming every single time.

The party was under a curse.

“Yo, what THE FUCK?” I said directly into the face of the party host once again.

“I HEARD YOU. OK? I HEARD YOU. I MET THEM ON CRAIGSLIST! I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING EITHER!” the party host cried out, having a complete meltdown.

With an amount of force that I didn’t know I had in me, I shoved the party host across their entire kitchen and towards their roommate’s door. I forced them into confrontation. Or so I thought…

Knocking on the roommate’s door, the party host politely said, “Hello? Ummm..I’d like to remind you that you signed a security deposit, so lets try not to cause any damage to anything. Things have been shaking up a bit out here.”

I was disgusted by the party host’s conduct. Such soft words for such a fucked up situation. Absolutely no accountability on their part. I knew what had to be done, I had to take full initiative. I had to retrieve the inner parts of my soul and spirit that had been taken, and I had to do it according to my own plan.

“Let’s try not to cause any damage? What about the damage that’s already been done?”

I violently shoved the party host aside. It was obvious that some of my compassion and patience was what had been taken from me. But it gave me all the rage I needed.

Pushing the party crowd back, I gave myself a little space for a running start. In a decision that came to me on the spot, I ran and charged and jumped towards the door.


This behavior was incomparable to anything I had ever done before in my life.

I stomped the door down and landed on top of it, standing straight up.

“You better gimme my fucking shit back,” I commanded, with light pouring into the dark room from all around me; I was striking a sick pose; I was making the night one to remember.

All the candles blew out and about a dozen gentle little plumes of smoke came rising up from the floor. I picked up a candle, and with the wax melted in a puddle around the wick, I hurled it at the roommate. I yelled, “Return me to normal. Return me right now.”

I bent down and grabbed up all the candles that were there; the ones that didn’t get crushed beneath the stomped door.

I raised my voice louder, “RETURN ME TO NORMAL!”

I was shaking with anger,”RETURN ME RIGHT FUCKING NOW!”

The roommate cowered beneath their desk.

“You’re more powerful than me. You lost some of your restraint. You’re now a more perfect beast.”

I had them by their neck—literally, I wasn’t playing. The roommate went into their desk drawer and pulled out a pouch. They grabbed a handful of ground up animal bone dust, and blew it directly into my face. They said some horrible black magic nonsense spell, and I was free.

My world immediately regained color; I had a wave of calmness and cheerfulness come rushing into me. Still I was hammered. But I had more clarity. I had no more violent urges in me.

I let go of the roommate’s neck. 
I was the regular compassionate me again. Not the me that shouts in people’s faces, and kicks down doors, and tosses hot melted wax onto people. Not the me that grabs people by their neck.

When I think about that night, I think about fate. The roommate’s door was definitely kept unlocked on purpose. And when I came to the party, I was meant to enter that room. I was meant to be as drunk as I was; the dark magic, spirit hijacking was never able to complete; only a portion of my self and being and presence went missing. And I recovered it. I’ve never felt more completely like myself before in my entire life.

Ever since then, I haven’t been back to the apartment where the party took place. I’m not cool with the party host on my terms. Not only do I think of them as spineless, but they have a pretty reckless roommate choosing process, and I’m not OK with that either.

As for things between me and the roommate, it’s all good, I’m assuming. I’ve seen them working at the cafe as a barista. They seemed pretty embarrassed at the sight of me; they were deliberately trying to avoid eye contact and we’re cowering again, reminding me of when I had them in my grip by their desk…

But everything has been fine in my day to day life so far. I’m almost certain I’m not under any spells, or at least not any harmful ones.

My guess is that the black magic stuff was just a phase, and that they didn’t really ever know what they were doing. I was probably their only victim ever. They were probably just a dabbler.

It was such a strange but incredible night.

It’s hard to stop thinking back to it.

I’m sure this marks the start of some sort of promising new beginning for me.

Coming soon:

Part 2: They Weren’t Just a Dabbler, I’m Under Some Serious Spells