Time For Another Reality Check

Okay, before I get too deep into this topic, because frankly I currently have no idea where my thoughts will take it, I have to give mention to the person who inspired it.  I am following a lovely woman in Manchester, UK on Twitter by the name of Regan-Piacarra Dyce and without her this particular post would not have been written.  So, for good or for ill, thank you.  Funnily enough, she asked me to stop following her during the discussion that set off this post as well.  Whatever, I'm writing it here anyway, and as an added bonus I'll post her Twitter here as well: @ReganPiaCarra

Now then, here is the gist of the conversation:  This woman is apparently in awe of Justin Bieber.  I'm saying that there was a day about a week ago when, for about ten tweets in a row, she was praising him.  She was tweeting to him about how great it was to meet him, etc.. and I found it a little off-putting.  Not because I hate Justin Bieber, but because she was putting a person on a pedestal that they didn't deserve.  Nobody should be idolized to the point that his every breath is noted by magazines or tabloid television shows.  I'm certain the surviving Beatles would agree.

Today's particular conversation came about as a result of April Fool's Day.  She was saying that it was after noon, and that it was time to stop with the pranks already.  I agree, but mentioned to her that it isn't after noon everywhere yet, and told her that I was from Canada.  This lead immediately to her commenting about Justin Bieber being from Canada, and I joked that every country has it's faults.  Keep in mind that I'm, even now, still smiling about all of this.  However, she took that as some kind of seriously personal slight against a pop star that she has met once and doesn't appear to have any other actual connection to in real life, and the next thing I know she is getting her back up about the fact that I stated that as Canadians we aren't particularly showy about our skills and talents, and that we as a country (excepting 14 and 15 year old girls) are pretty tired of hearing about him all over the place whenever we open a magazine or turn on the television.

She fired back that 'JB' as she calls him is well aware of where he is from and quite proud of it.  I agreed that while that is true, it doesn't mean that Canadians in general aren't tired of the media overkill.  At that point, she asked me to unfollow her, and told me to, what was it now, oh yes, 'snore off.'  Not sure what that is supposed to mean, but nevertheless I then asked her whether she wanted me to unfollow her due to my having a different opinion from hers, or whether it was more to do with the fact that I didn't put Justin Bieber on the same pedestal she was putting him on.  And, at this point, it must be mentioned that the core of this post was then uttered by me, in what must have been a rude and insulting fashion:

I mentioned that I think it is ridiculous that his hair is currently on tour.

Yes, for those of you who don't know, and unfortunately for me I am actually aware of this silliness, Justin Bieber's recently cut hair is now going on it's own North American tour.  I shit you not.  This is what is now passing as a good idea for the furthering of a pop star's career.  Now, I am aware that the proceeds of people PAYING to see his hair and get PICTURES with it are going to a charity, possibly even one to help Japan after their terrible earthquake, tsunami and nuclear disasters...but come on people, we're now forking over money to see what other people throw in the garbage after sweeping the floor?  Is this planet for real?  Do a telethon, do a PSA, play a concert where the proceeds go towards helping Japan...but sending out your hair for a tour?

Anyway, suddenly the conversation stopped from her end.  Possibly it is due to the fact that suddenly she realized that she is a grown woman worshipping at the feet of someone who thinks they are so high and mighty above the rest of us that even his hair warrants it's own followers.  Wouldn't be surprised to hear about a new Twitter account and a calendar featuring the hair, and just the hair.  Seriously, this is something to laugh at, shake your head, say 'How ridiculous,' and then go back to caring about things that actually matter in the world, like whether Libya will ever get it's freedom.  Or perhaps she realized that she was having an argument with someone who simply doesn't share her views and was therefore going to talk about other things rather than get her panties in a bunch about something so trivial.

Regardless, I sent out a Follow Friday link to her Twitter feed, and left it at that.  Oh, and for the record, I also mentioned that Canadians as a whole are generally tired of hearing about Celine Dion as well, but that didn't seem to bother her in the least, as she responded that she couldn't care less about her.

At the moment, it appears as though she has not blocked me from reading her tweets, though I am not certain she hasn't blocked herself from receiving any tweets I send mentioning her.  Either way, once this is posted, I will be making a point of tweeting the post as usual, but also I will be sending one her way specifically.  I'm not about to say things about anyone without their direct knowledge of exactly what I have said, and will fight to ensure that they have a way to comment back in a public forum to make certain their side of the story sees the light of day as well.  It's only fair, and people who don't allow others to voice opinions on what is said about them are cowards.

That being said, I just want to reiterate the opinion behind this post:  Justin Bieber is a human being who happens to be talented in a field that gives him much publicity.  As a Canadian, I am tired of hearing about how wonderful he is.  If I enjoyed his music, I would STILL be tired of hearing about him all the time.  Why?  Simply stated, because I am an adult and realize that a person's popularity is low on the list of things that are of concern the world over.  I respect his artistry, I think it's great that he has a sense of humour about himself, and I'm glad he's true to his roots - but I don't wish to hear about how incredible he is everywhere I go for information or entertainment.

Oh, and the touring hair is just ridiculous.

I have no hard feelings towards Regan-Piacarra Dyce whatsoever, so if you are on Twitter give her a follow.  And if she is still mad at me, tell her to by all means let me know it.  Oh, and if you are in fact reading this, you can talk to me through the comment box below (for a public tar and feathering) or my e-mail at gutrend@gmail.com . 

The State Of My World Affects My Posts

Just a quick update to any and all readers of my blogs, regardless of which ones.  Now that I put that little column on the right side there that tells everyone when I write a new post, I figure by updating this particular blog everyone has a chance to read it, so gather round.

Recently my life has been becoming increasingly stressful.  A huge delay in moving our mortgage, coupled with horrible nightmares, the approach of my 40th birthday, and my over-riding need to get the hell out of this building on a more regular basis - these have all combined to make my life a great deal more miserable for the last month or so, and the situation does not appear to be letting up any time soon.  Ultimately, this also means that my inspiration/motivation/care to write about things in general has fallen off steeply.  Other factors figure into this as well:  If I'm not playing new games or new game systems, my ability to review things falls away.  I'm dwelling too much in 'the good old days,' and therefore don't feel like talknig about games of the past either.  So, that's why 'Confessions' hasn't had much updating.  Haven't seen any movies in theatres for quite a while, and I'm sick of sitting around watching the same movies over and over again.  That's why 'Reel' hasn't had any great updates.  Tired of having the television provide the majority of the entertainment I get out of life right now.  That's why 'Telly' hasn't had much updating either.

Why do you care?  Well, maybe you don't, but assuming anyone reads this regularly, this is kind of my apology and explanation as to why I'm only really writing new things for my autobiography.  And, of course, virtually nobody is reading that, so that kind of stifles the motivation to write that as well...though my need to get all this stuff out into the world before my heart condition reaches up my throat and throttles my brain does mean that my autobiographical blog in particular at least gets some semblance of a regular feeding.  All in all, my interest in writing these blogs, especially since the only real feedback I've been getting is from those related to me (all two of you), is quite low at the moment - and until I feel better, it is likely to languish for a while.

So, to sum up, I don't feel much like writing most of the time, and nobody I don't share lineage or a bedroom with cares enough to encourage me.  Thusly, if I don't write for a while it doesn't seem like I'll be missed much, and therefore I'm not going to try to push myself to type words on these pages until i actually have interest in doing so.

How can you help me get over this stumbling block?  E-mail me, comment on my writing, communicate to me the knowledge that there are people out there in Hungary, Germany, Iran, China, Pakistan, Ukraine, South Korea, the UK, the US, Russia and Singapore that are not hitting my blog posts by accident and are actually reading my words and care that I continue to write.  I'll still post, but right now it feels again as though nobody cares if I do, and if this is only for my own edification then the posts will be lean indeed.

Anyway, take care to all of those people who actually do read what I'm writing (that'd be you Jen, and you Andi), sorry to anyone who actually reads this and I don't know who you are or that you do (not entirely my fault, if you don't tell me you are doing so), and when I get motivated enough to bother doing more, I will.  Until then, enjoy Spring (I would say enjoy Autumn for those in the southern hemisphere, but totals are suggesting to me that virtually nobody south of the equator is even hitting these pages in great numbers, so most readers are in the same season I find myself).

A Dream Waking Me After Less Than 2 Hours Of Sleep

I have written this from the point of view of Andi, my wife, being the one who reads it, so when I say things like 'you said' or 'you did,' I specifically mean her.  When I use the phrase 'our house,' it refers directly to 40 Harley.  'Our' also refers to Andi and I.  This is what I'm doing to myself while I'm asleep; and people wonder why I wake up at 39 going on 40 with a thumb wedged firmly in my mouth most mornings...dream shit like this yourself, and tell me how you'd react.

The dream was very intense.  Most dreams you have when you are asleep are double the length of the previous dream, as that's how the cycles go.  First you have 'dreamlets,' of maybe 5 seconds, then 10 seconds, then 20 seconds, then 40 seconds.  1 minute 20, 2 minutes 40, 5 minutes 20, 10 minutes 40, 21 minutes 20 and this is the one I think I had based on how long it took to fall asleep and the fact that there is time in between the dreams as well.  So the torture I am about to describe, though not seemingly torture necessarily in your eyes, probably lasted for 20+ minutes for me.  Reading this from your individual standpoints will probably make this dream seem boring and dull, but to myself it was fraught with anger, rage, and impotent blame and hatred.

It started in a version of our house.  I had been asleep for a nap, and I came downstairs to the main floor to have you telling me you had done some work downstairs.  The context of the work was mentioned, but is the only thin I can't remember, so it probably wasn't important.  I went down the basement stairs to note a few things:  First, the basement had been finished.  Second, the ceiling, floor and walls were all white (maybe in prep for final paint and flooring choices, but that wasn't discussed).  Third, the boxes you'd expect to see upon coming down were gone, and the room was well lit as though by florescent tubes across the ceiling, though I don't recall looking up to confirm said tube lighting.  I remember being shocked at how much work you had done while i was asleep, and asked where the other boxes were.  You said upstairs in the bedroom, and at this point I was now standing upstairs in the bedroom, only it was now the front room of the house at Eastwood.  I saw the boxes, then was again magically downstairs talking to you in the basement again (this happened with the snap back and forth of a camera clip during a movie, like an establishing shot of the other room to confirm what had been said by you).  You then were showing me how you organized the boxes, and I noticed that in the ceiling, as though the room hadn't had the ceiling finished, there were two boxes of hamster food, one opened.  I pulled the opened one down, found a garbage bag you had available (not to be confused with another bag that wasn't garbage, and even these bags were white) and threw it out.  I then got the other box, and noticed the ceiling (finished though with rafters or beams BELOW the finished ceiling, so weird) had been discoloured in the shape of the boxes, as though they had been put up there and somehow the contact with the ceiling discoloured the paint or something.  I also had noticed that where the boxes had originally been towards the front of the house the floor had been discoloured by the sitting boxes as though the floor had been done UNDER the boxes, which had been moved later.  All told, there was about 1/3 of the boxes we have down there now and none of the furniture or electronic stuff that is there now.

Here is where the dream starts to change.  While talking to you about the hamster food and compaining about the previous owners, we heard footsteps from above us.  It wasn't Scott, as we never for even a second considered it was his steps.  I think I was naked from my nap, so I grabbed a towel to hold around myself as we went to investigate.  We approached the stairway and you called out 'Hello.'  As we climbed the stairs (you went first, how chivalrous of me) we heard a voice say 'Hi.'  It was Wayne, a driver for my mother's bus company RoadBusters.  The main floor had now become that of Eastwood, as had the entire house at this point, and we came out of the stairway at the back of the kitchen to see Wayne in the front hall coming towards us with the door open behind him.  I came up to him and said this wasn't my mother's house, and under no circumstances was he to enter without knocking, ever, ever.  As I said this, in walks my mother and Peter.  My mother began the argument she had when Lillian and I were at Eastwood after Warren left, that this was still her house so she could come and go as she pleased.  I argued that I was a tenant, I was paying rent, and as such I had certain rights which included not to be barged in upon unannounced.  She agreed and was about to argue more when I said "How about if we were having sex in the front room and you walked in, I don't think that would be fair to us to have to suffer that indignity."  I then indicated the towel I was wearing, and though the sex part hadn't occurred, I said "Case in point."  I then went upstairs to change.

Upon getting to the front bedroom, I noticed the boxes had been piled neatly away from the door and over near the window overlooking the street.  This neatness was in direct contrast to how the room looked the last time I was at Eastwood after the thieves had broken in and ransacked the place.  I removed the towel to find I was wearing shorts after all, and then proceeded to head back to the landing and the top of the flight of stairs, when I bumped literally into Peter who was being his usual asshole self.  He said something along the lines of it's a good thing I was wearing shoes because he was going to hit me on the bottom of my feet with a 2x4.  No idea where that came from, but not untypical.  I got to the bottom of the stairs yelling up at him saying at least I didn't sit on my fat ass all day long, making one phone call a day because that was the extent of my duties that I could handle like him.  This was likely referring to the period of time that I ran their shitty little bus company without their aide but with tons of their interference cocking everything up.  By this point, the anger and frustration of their intrusion into what had been a calm and peaceful afternoon was making me shake with anger.  I went into the front living room of the house to find my cousin Jerri, who I haven't seen in real life for over 20 years, in a hospital bed with I believe a cast on one or both legs, and maybe an arm or two.  She looked like a younger version of herself, even younger than the last time I had seen her (I think I might have had a crush on her when I was a kid, and I think that's where this image of her might have been from).  There was some dog, looking like one of those mops with the thick strings.  The dog was facing away, on the couch that had always been below the front windows, and the hair was grey except for what looked like a white string tied into the ass end of him and standing out starkly against the grey.  I said to Jerri that it was nice to see her after so much time, and she turned to me and agreed.  My mother was in the room, at the foot of the hospital bed, which was situated where the wall separating the living and dining room was, on the side where the fireplace was, facing the street - kind of like my bed did the second time I was at Eastwood though I was fully in the dining room.  I was beside the bed, and my mother started to bitch about the way I was yelling at Peter about how little work he did, and then demanded that she have access to the house whenever she wanted and to hell with my privacy.  I approached her and gave her a triple slap in the face, left, right, left, in quick succession, very much like we slap Munchkin or Garfield's asses when they want loving.  Not soft, but not really hard, more to get her attention.  I remember being aware that Peter had come downstairs by this point and was concerned about what type of retribution I was about to receive due to this action, but I was too upset to hold back.  She started crying, not from pain but from shock, and I did too as I shouted "You know, I used to be your son once."  She said I still was, and I yelled back "Not since HE entered the picture."

It was at this point I woke up.  As I lay in bed, noting it was only about 3:20 am (and we had gone to sleep after 1:30 right after "School Of Rock" finished broadcasting on Movietime), went over the dream a couple of times, and even formulated answers to her 'son' rebuttal, things like how he got into the business with her, not me, he was fucking her, but no love for me (really uncomfortable thought that), stuff along those lines.  Those however were formulated after I had awoken.  I also noticed that since getting the new mattress I have not woken with back pain like I used to have on just the old mattress - until this morning.  I don't know if the mattress is now as shitty as the old one alone was, or whether the dream tensed me up so much that it seized the back due to stress, but I tend to think it was the latter.  I also have a huge headache.

This is easily the worst dream I've had in months, and there were some other doozeys...and probably the worst I've had since the start of 2011.  You might not understand why it affected me so badly, and maybe I don't either.  What I do know is that instead of going back to sleep, I'm down here typing this out to you wishing you had words that could help me find my way clear of having dreams like this anymore.  In the violent department, this was tame in comparison to others I've had, but the rage and hatred was very intense here, and it is what is keeping me awake.


As for filling in the blanks, such as who Wayne is, or the reasons for my anger and rage at this person who has been dead for 5 years, I'll eventually get to it all in my Autobiography blogsite.  Knowing that someone, anyone, is interested in knowing what's going on would also help me to write about it.  Please, if you've never written a comment before, I implore you to do so now.