Archive for September, 2009

The Boys of Fall

September 26, 2009

About 6 years ago I was raking leaves in the fall when a pack of boys Carly’s age came walking down the street tossing a football.  I heard my mom’s voice, “Please play touch. No one needs to get hurt.”  The truth is any time a group of boys get together someone may get hurt.  It has nothing to do with sports.  If there are five boys in a room full of feathers one of them could end up with a quill sticking out of his eye.  We played touch if the game was up near the house where parents could see.  We always played with three rules.  Defense had a five apple rush and no blitzes.  The offense couldn’t use running plays.  Running plays led to an endless string of touchdowns which took all of the challenge and fun out of the game.  A five apple rush is this; you have to count out loud, one apple, two apple, three apple, four apple, five apple, before you rush the quarterback.  It made up for no blocking.  Those are really universal rules for any sand lot game, any where in the country.  The count may change from apples to Mississippi’s, but everything else is the same.

Playing football in a house full of ballerinas just doesn’t happen.  My girls love to watch it, but that is where it ends.  I felt the need to get grass stained and sweaty.  When they made it to our yard I said, “Are you done playing or going to play?”  They said, “Waiting on some other guys before we play.”  I really wanted to play. I went straight for the justification. I can rake these leaves Monday evening. So I said,” Come get me if you need another player.”  One of them said, “Mr Phelps, you’re funny”.  I said, “Seriously, come get me if you need another guy.”  They never showed.  The following week there were even more of them walking down the street with football in hand.  Again I was raking.  Again I felt the tugging of childhood. So I threw out the offer…again.  They stopped, “Seriously?”  I said, “Yeah!  I wouldn’t offer if I was kidding.”  “OK Mr. Phelps we’ll call you before we play”. They agreed just because they are nice.  I had just finished raking when my wife came outside saying, “Some boys from the neighborhood want to know if you can come down and play football?”  She thought it was cute.  I thought it was cool.  I’ve known them since they were in preschool.  Now they were old enough I didn’t have to worry about hurting anyone.  On my way out the door she said, “Honey, please don’t play tackle.”  It had come full circle. 

Our neighborhood has a creek that runs along one border.  The homes that line that creek have perfect back yards for football.  I walked down there wearing a T-shirt about ballet, jeans, and tennis shoes.  I wasn’t even thinking about it.  That’s what I was wearing to rake leaves.  They were all dressed in NFL jerseys and athletic shorts.  I could tell by the looks it was like showing up wearing black socks and dress shoes.  Half the kids were from our neighborhood and the other half were school friends who rode their bikes or were dropped off by parents.  I think our neighborhood kids were embarrassed.   “Ballet shirt?  Jeans?”  Wisdom taught me that at this stage of my life, Russian Pointe shoes at $85.00 a pop, are a better investment than a Polamalu jersey.  I was picked last.  Truth be told I was picked at all because they felt sorry for me.  The dad who lived there came out and tried to convince me not to play.  He was permanently on the “Physically unable to perform” list.  Said another way, he was too old to play.   He wanted me to be too.  He tried to talk the kids into making me the all time quarterback so I wouldn’t get hurt.  I knew him.  I like him.  I said, “Bill I’m not ready for the wrinkle ranch.  I came down here to have fun.”  He mumbled, “Make sure you guys play touch,” and went back inside.  I had a blast.  Mr Ballerina shirt could still play ball.  They saw me as something more than a stale dad.  I came home dirty, wet with sweat, the knees ripped out of my jeans, and the feeling of youth in my heart.  It sounds funny, but I was happy to be accepted.  I hadn’t been one of the guys, since college.  Carly thought it was funny.  They talked about it on the way to school Monday.  “Your dad can play!”  From that point forward I was on the list.  Friday night we went to the high school football games and every Sunday the phone rang.  My wife would answer, smile, and say, “The boys want to know if you can play.”  For the last five years we played.  This year it ended.  Most of them have responsibilities that come with getting older.   Others went in a less productive direction.  For a while I was given a second chance at childhood, another opportunity to be one of the boys.  It was cool.

football

Movers & Shakers

September 25, 2009

Call me judgmental, but nothing says “white trash movers” like the bed of a pick up truck piled to the sky with family items.  I’m not talking about moving a TV or a washer and dryer.  You know the look, a mountain of possessions pieced together a bad game of Jenga and held in place with 900 feet of rope effectively cocooning the items in place until they hit a big bump.  They always have one or two chairs precariously balanced on the side defying gravity with other possessions nested in the seat. There is a bike, stroller, or a car seat sitting on the top effectively crowning pile.  Since Houdini didn’t tie the knot that holds everything in place you see that random bark-o-lounger on the side of the road.  I always wonder who was behind the truck when it was jettisoned from the pile.  What kind if evasive action did they have to take?  One minute your singing a little Dave Matthews, “Place them in a box until a quieter time…lights down you up and…crap!  A chair!”  Screeeeech!

I thought my days of needing to phone a friend with a truck were long gone.  Then my wife went to grad school.  She spent the first semester living forty-five minutes from campus with my mom.  As school progressed it became obvious that she needed to live closer.  She broke it to me slowly one night on the phone.  “I’m moving to Ft Wayne.  Check your schedule and let me know what weekend works best for you, the sooner the better.”  OK I may be paraphrasing it a little.  So last weekend with the help of a friend and his truck I moved my 49 year old wife in with two, twenty something class mates.  She’s the house mom.  They have a girl pad…which sounds wrong now that I say it out loud.  They are actually really nice.

I was looking at the move with a mild case of dread because it was the two men and a truck method of moving.  My friend wasn’t that thrilled either because…he’s the guy with the truck.  He owed me some favors so…at eight AM Sunday morning he pulled up ready for a fun day of Sanford & Son.  Our list of items was small and included one head board, one foot board, a queen sized mattress and box spring, and an old oak dresser that we used for Halloween costume storage.  The dresser came with the house my wife bought before we met.  Both the house and the dresser were…um…fixer uppers.  There were actually two dressers that matched.  Together the dressers were worth slightly less than the house.  OK that’s a little strong.  The house was worth much more unless the dressers were full of clothes.  Then it was a tie.  We sold the house 17 years ago and kept the dressers if that tells you anything.  The bed is nice.

The mattress and box spring were wider than the bed of the truck so they were placed at a slight angle.  The dresser was placed on top, facing drawers up. The bright side, we didn’t have pots and pans bungeed to the side of the dresser.  Everything was secured in place with ratchet straps, because we are advanced white trash.  When you have ratchet straps you have security.  I thought about creating the illusion that we’d tied everything down with a garden hose, but that idea was vetoed.  We checked and rechecked the straps, dresser, and bed…all checked out.  We headed up I-69 for Ft Wayne.  My wife was behind us in her little red Yaris  hauling the smaller items and a bike on a bike rack.  She looked trendy we looked…the part.  Somewhere between Anderson and the north Muncie exit, mid conversation, the dresser flew out of the back of the truck at 70 mph.  I had no idea.  I was a passenger.  I had no rear view mirror.  I was the one talking.  My friend broke it to me with all of the subtly of a shot gun blast.  The cars and semi behind us took evasive action.   Thankfully no one was hurt and nothing was damaged….except the dresser which exploded on impact.  So did my bowels.  I became the idiot you see running after loose furniture on the side of the interstate.  The next time you pass a chair or a dresser on the side of the road and you wonder who the hell does something that stupid.  You’re looking at him.  We should have used rope and duct tape.

 SSPX0133[1]

Protesting a High School

September 23, 2009

This week Carly’s high school is being picked by the members of a church because of a play they are staging.  I’ll let you digest that one for a minute…a school of kids…will be picketed …by adults from a “faith” based organization.

I’m all about faith.  I should get that out in the open right now.  I believe in the golden rule.  I teach my kids to live with love and treat people they way they wish to be treated.  Ask and ye shall receive – we live it, practice it, believe it.

This group has a bee in their bonnet because our high school is producing The Laramie Project.  This is a play about the brutal slaying of a gay University of Wyoming student and how it impacted an entire community.  They have a problem with the gay part of that play.  Not the beating part…and here’s the kicker.  It’s not a local church.  These “God loving souls” are driving from Topeka, Kansas to the north side of Indy because they are so offended by the content of this presentation.  We’ve been warned by the school that it’s going down…so to speak.  Maybe they can warm up by picketing one of the adult book stores along the way.  Those book stores are popping up along the interstates like rainbows in a gay pride parade.  I bet we passed 5 or 6 on I-65 south between Indy and the ABT summer intensive this summer.  No family trip is complete without a quick stop at the “Lions Den” for furry handcuffs and an X rated copy of, Woody the Wood Pecker.  OK…I’m going to hell for that.

This church must have someone who monitors the internet in search of sinners.  Talk about job security!  Seriously though how else did they find out about this play?  They must have some type of software that locates sinners using gaydar because Topeka is no where near the north side of Indy.  I Googled Topeka…yes it is now included in Google maps…just barely…but it’s there.  Topeka to Indy is 544 miles.  They also said it’s eight hours and twenty-two minutes by car.  I’m not sure how long it takes by Conestoga wagon or what ever time machine they are using.  Let me say that again, “Eight hours and twenty-two minutes away…by car”.  The twenty-two minutes are probably spent stuck in traffic on 86th St. between Meridian and Westfield Blvd.  I have a tip for all of you picketers.  Just incase you are monitoring me now that I have a kid who is going to hell for attending said high school.  You guys and gals should avoid 86th street and come around on 465 to the Keystone exit and then go west on Keystone.  After you’re done picketing there is some really great Satan free shopping at Keystone at the Crossing just east of the school.  However they do have Victoria’s Secret.  It’s common knowledge that lacy panties lead to fornication.  So you may want to avoid the North West wing of the mall.  Oh, and there is probably a gay dude or two working at the finer men’s stores because they have infiltrated the culture of our city and they know how to dress.  Now that I think about it they are probably working in the home furnishing stores too because they are great at decorating.  I guess you probably shouldn’t go to that mall unless you want another reason to picket. 

So I assume this “church” wink, wink, nod, nod teaches the quote, “Love thy neighbor as thyself.”  Is there an unpublished part of that quote that adds, “Unless they’re gay.”  I’m not sure Jesus would have said that unless it was a different Jesus.  You know the switch hitter who played for the Astros back in ‘69. 

So why did they decide to use their resources to travel here to picket a school with a play that is staged for only one weekend?  Haven’t they ever heard of Broadway?  How about San Francisco, Key West, or any gay neighborhood in any city in the country?  I bet they really want to come to Indy for a Colts game.  If they stop to picket they can write it off as a business trip.

sometimes dads cry

September 19, 2009
I was at an Indiana Pacer Game with a friend back in the nineties.  They asked everyone to rise for the National Anthem.  A young kid with leg braces and crutches shuffled out onto the court to sing.  He had the confidence of a pro.  He belted out that song with such emotion and power that it made me cry.  Women are great with crying.  If a Hallmark ad hit’s them the right way – BAM – tears.  I can count on one hand the number of times tears came to my eyes in the last decade and still have fingers to spare.  Yet here I was at an NBA game with a buddy and I couldn’t look his way because I was sobbing.  I couldn’t use the, there’s something in my eye ploy because it was both eyes!…like sprinklers.  So I covered it by acting like I was looking all around the arena.  He was talking to me and I was talking to him, but I couldn’t make eye contact until my face was dry.  Watching that little boy sing was just one of those perfect moments that will live with me forever.  Those times are so special to experience. I think about how grateful I am to be there.

Last Friday the Butler Ballet had an open call for young dancers.  The Ballet was casting parts for the party scene in the Nutcracker at Clowes Hall.  Most of the cast is filled with Butler Ballet students.  Some years Clara is a Butler Ballet student, other times it’s a younger ballerina.  For young dancers in Indiana a part in this ballet is an honor.  Getting the part of Clara is the Holy Grail.  Clowes Hall seats a crowd of 2500ish.  There are eight shows and most are sold out.  Grace went to the open call on Friday evening and made call backs on Saturday afternoon.  After the call back you’re told… don’t call us we’ll call you.  They said we wouldn’t hear anything before Tuesday.  I mentioned the audition to that friend who went to the Pacer game.  To give you a little background on him, his exposure to culture takes place at the doctor’s office or when he walks down the world foods isle at Meijer to buy pasta.  His only interests are hunting and fishing.  The day they stage a deer hunting ballet with camouflage tutus and antlers is the day he MIGHT attend a ballet, but only if it’s realistically portrayed….if it’s interpretive…forget it.  He said, “Could she get a speaking part?”  I said “No it’s a ballet, not a musical,” which made him defensive.  “Why are they doing the Nutcracker again?  They did it last year.  Can’t they get a little more creative with their show selection? What about A Christmas Carol” He grumbled.  “That’s not a ballet.”  I said beginning to see where this is headed.    Do you ever have conversations that start well and then they slowly suck the life out of the moment to the point you make something up just to get off the phone?  I did that.  “Let me call you back.  I think I ruptured my spleen”.   Then tried to shake off the funk like a dog that was caught in the rain.

We didn’t hear anything on Tuesday.  Wednesday morning I wondered if we’d get a call then quickly forgot about it because I was so buried at work.  So when the phone rang and the ID said Butler University I thought it was work related.  The guy said his name and that he was with the Butler Ballet and I thought, “Cool, they want us to do some DVDs” He said, “We’d like to offer Grace the part of Clara in the Nutcracker.  I was puzzled….I remember thinking, that has nothing to do with DVDs.  I said, “What?”  Still trying to figure out how this was a work related call.  He said it again and it started to sink in.  I said, “She’ll be thrilled and so am I.  That’s when it hit me.  My daughter was going to be a featured ballerina at Clowes Hall.  I started to cry.  I have no idea what else he said.  It didn’t matter.  It is one of those moments I’ll never forget.

http://www.cloweshall.org/calendar/event.lasso?-KeyValue=175&-Token.Action=

Grace - Les Sylphides
Grace from Les Sylphides

Grace - Les Sylphides

Mourning the Morning

September 15, 2009

Yesterday while grocery shopping I overheard a conversation between a tween aged girl and her mom.  She was looking at the salad dressing and said, “I hate mornings.”  Her mom said, “What?”  The girl said it again.  “I hate mornings”.  The haggard looking mom said, “Everyone hates mornings”.   And I thought vampires only lived in the Pacific North West!  At least that’s what my daughters and pop culture lead me to believe.  Apparently the undead are thriving in Indianapolis too.  Perhaps they like to top off a little AB positive with some Ranch dressing.  “Everyone hates mornings?”  I thought, “Way to emphasize the negative!”  Let’s also teach her that it’s impossible to get ahead in life and math is always hard.  I’m not trying to come across as a do good cheerleader.  We all have our days where it would be nice to sleep in, but come on!  Do we have to reinforce the jaded attitude in middle school?  Can’t we wait until she’s paying rent before we talk her into damning the sunrise? 

When I was younger, which makes me sound old even though I’m not according to people my own age, I didn’t like mornings either.  Morning meant I had to go to school. School was a place where they didn’t understand me and I didn’t understand their method.  It was a mutual misunderstanding yet I was the only one who recognized it that way.  They chose to see a smart kid who didn’t apply himself as opposed to a smart kid who needed to be taught math and spelling differently.  So I fell into a pattern similar to that of the salad dressing vampires.

Once my comedy career began I had no issue with mornings.  I loved what I did. I developed a productive daily routine that began early.  After I retired from comedy I rediscovered my issue with mornings when I joined the “real world”.  It only took a short while thanks to a horrid company culture cultivated by a dynamically dysfunctional boss.  Slowly the morning dread began to grow.  It peaked when I started to stress about Monday morning on Saturday afternoon.  That’s not a healthy way to be.  So I changed it. 

My girls aren’t morning people either.  They inherited it from my wife, the grad student from Transylvania.  Their dislike of mornings has nothing to do with a dysfunctional school situation.  They don’t hang like a bat when they sleep.  They just don’t like getting up at 6AM. They don’t see the sun rise as inspirational.  They don’t care that each morning is a new beginning or that morning air is the freshest of the day.  When they begin their morning routine they don’t like to talk.  Communication is carried out with a series of grunts and clicks only understood by whales and porpoise.  I’d say good morning Grace what would you like for breakfast?  She would squeak and make other throaty noises.  Then Shamu would call to see if she was OK.  Since I don’t speak whale I would say “I’m sorry I didn’t understand that.”  She would give me the look of death while enunciating it in a way that makes bagel and cream cheese sound like the “F” word.  Now I ask her the night before.  People who don’t like mornings don’t like to be around morning people because they are just too cheery.  My kids are never late to school.  They are falling all over themselves trying to get out the door and away from me.  “Have a great day.  I love you!” I say with energy.  “Screech, gribble, squawk” they moan over they shoulders as the door slams.  Ah mornings!

sunrise

Scheduling the Week

September 12, 2009

I had a friend contact me last week with a business proposal.  It was a great idea, but he’s got more drama in his life than a collection of ER’s greatest hits.  With the girls back in school and ballet training every night our schedule is more choreographed than a Dance Kaleidoscope  show rehearsal.   Dealing with the drama of the day is not on my to-do list.

I need to make sure everything is organized so nothing gets overlooked.  Our dinners and the girls dance schedule are posted on the fridge Sunday evening for the week ahead.  That morning I plan the meals over coffee.  Then I go grocery shopping.  I know what we need which saves time and money.  My grocery list is built with the flow of the store in mind.  It saves time and makes shopping easy.  Then I compulsively wash my hands 50 times like Jack Nicholson in As Good As It Gets.  Not really, but I sound like I have a compulsive disorder.  I should wash my hands after shopping though with H1N1 lurking around every corner.  Those shopping carts are probably a breading ground for the flu, scabies, and five kinds of flesh eating bacteria…sleep well tonight!  Any way, I hit Costco for the big stuff and Meijer for the other stuff.  I could take the easy way out.  We could do carry-out every night.  I have two problems with that…actually three.  (1) We live on a budget and carry-out is way more expensive than cooking.  (2) We need to eat healthy.  My girls are athletes and I like my fruits and veggies.  Carry-out is…bad.  Just shoot a wad of butter in my veins and toss the dirt over my head (3) Leftover’s make a great low cost lunch and I like them.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to choke anything down just to save money.  I like cooking and leftovers. 

If you haven’t figured it out yet I have a type “A” personality.  Numbering, lists, scheduling…where’s my coffee?!  Seriously though, we as a family and a society need to eat healthy and stick to a budget.  Financial crisis…hello!  Health crisis….we’re fat!  I was thinking about this when I walked into Meijer last Sunday.  The first seven adults I saw had a combined mass slightly greater than the state of Texas make that Tex-ass.  Obviously they were all passing the produce section in search of the breaded, frozen, fried cheese sticks and dip. 

Each morning I make breakfast and lunch for the girls, ride my bike (see my last blog) exercise (me time), and start working.  At lunch I make dinner for the girls then go back to work.  Carly gets home from school at 3:30.  She grabs their dinner, & snack then leaves to pick up Grace at 4:00 and head to Jordan.   They start dancing at 4:30 and that usually goes to 9:00.  So they need to take dinner.  While they are at dance I work until about 7:00.  Then I clock out and hit our veggie garden, other yard work, or other domestic stuff.  When they get home it’s time to hit the books.  I write my blog or unwind with them until 10:00.  So you see I have no time for someone else’s drama.  It just drags you down.  At some point I call my wife to catch up with her, tell her fun stuff like I was hit on at the grocery …by a guy.  That wasn’t on my to-do list either.  At forty-eight years old I’m flattered that anyone is attracted to me, but if I had my choice I’d rather be propositioned in the produce section by a well educated woman who snuck home to surprise her husband with fresh strawberries and candles. That would be great, sadly it’s not on my to-do list either…until this weekend.  She didn’t buy the strawberries or candles I did.  Some times it’s good to lose the list, unplug the clock, and let the people you love know they are appreciated.

The Morning Ride

September 10, 2009

This summer I vowed to change the way I start my mornings.  I would drink coffee and watch the News.  At first it was a way to get the weather forecast.  Then it became cups of coffee while hearing about murders, stabbings, robberies, and the weather forecast.  Based on the headlines, regardless of the weather it’s always gloomy on the east side of Indy.  After eight years of that routine it dawned on me…call me a slow learner… I was not getting an uplifting start to my day.

Now I sit on the porch and have coffee and feel the morning vibe.  Then I ride.  My bike is not one of the fancy, Lance Armstrong Super Dee Duper bikes.  It’s a touring bike with a spring seat!  I like the spring.  It has some obnoxious number of gears, like eighteen.  Who needs eighteen gears, aside from truckers?  I use five or six.  I wear a helmet.  I don’t like to.  My wife worked in the Neurology unit of a hospital.  Basically she scared/guilt tripped me into wearing it.  As a kid I jumped off a million ramps on my stingray and never needed a helmet.  None of my friends suffered brain injuries as the result of a bike wreck.  Apparently there are plenty of people who are now permanently drooling on themselves because they weren’t wearing one.  So for my wife and family I wear one. 

The neighborhoods around us are quiet.  I can ride for miles on streets lined with big trees, no traffic, and no pack of Lance Armstrong pretenders with the fancy bike, matching uniform, and attitude.  Sorry if you are one of those guys.  Actually I’m not sorry.  I have been stuck behind you in my car for miles because you don’t get out of the middle of the road.  You may not be a jerk, but you come across as one.  I’m not saying you don’t deserve part of the road.  I am saying you don’t deserve all of it.    Do you really need the uniform to train for what ever tour de jour?  Do you really have sponsors to ride your bike in traffic?  I wear a t-shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes.  I work up a sweat.  I feel great when I’m done.  I stay balanced.  Granted my t-shirt material flaps in the breeze like Ruth Gordon’s triceps, but that’s OK.  I’m not trying to sit on the pole for the Hilly Hundred.  If you were smart your sponsors would be companies who specialize in stress relief because the line of motorists who are stuck behind you have plenty of time to read the ads, over and over and over, until they find enough room to pass you.  They are stressed…thanks to YOU!  Did I get off topic? Sorry.  Did I make my point?  Hope so.

They just started doing road work in one of the neighborhoods I ride through.  I feel judged the minute I ride by the collection of construction workers all huddled together.  “Helmet?  What a dork!  Don’t get hurt!” I know that’s what they are thinking. 

Today I decided to cross the main road and hit another network of older neighborhoods.  I encountered my first Armstrong clone.  We were both stopped waiting for the traffic to clear before crossing.  He looked me up and down and then focused…on being the best bike rider of the morning…or what ever it is they think about.  Once the traffic cleared I went straight across.  He did some type of big sweeping motion, banking right and then swooping onto the road effectively putting him behind me.  “Is he drafting,” I wondered?  Then I thought about blocking him, giving him a dose of his own medicine.  Making him read my, Led Zeppelin World Tour 1972 t-shirt, for miles until I turn off the road.  That’s right Led Zeppelin sponsors my morning ride.  So do Folgers and Bayer…they are more like silent sponsors.  I blocked him for about 20 yards before moving out into the center of the road to let him pass.  He begrudgingly thanked me, and then kicked it into gear number nineteen.  The kid in me thought, “I may not look cool, but I’m drinking milk…”  The adult in me thought, “I need to blog about him”

Dream of the Week

September 2, 2009

I have a friend, Dr. Charles Shinaver, who is a Psychologist.  He’s a great guy who is passionate about helping his patients.  He and I need to sit down and have a little chat about my head and what happens to it when I fall asleep.  I dream in color.  They are vivid and strange.  Last night was no exception.  Pop some pop corn, grab a soda, sit back and read last night’s installment of…Greg’s Psycho Theatre…

My wife, Keely and I were walking in Broad Ripple were we ran into Tom Griswold from the Bob and Tom Show.  He told me he reads my blog, likes it, and thinks we should do something.  He invited me back to their studio to talk.  We drove to the studio where I ran into the back of his car.  I totally forgot how to park.  I would pull forward, hit his car, roll backward, stop, hit the gas, drive forward, hit his car, roll backward, stop.  That happened four or five times.  He finally climbed out and gave me a pissed look while surveying the damage.  I just turned off the car and went in.  Kristy Lee was walking past the front door.  Her hair was four feet tall.  It was so tall she was wearing lattice to support it.  Bows were tied around her hair securing it to the lattice.  I sat and studied her ensemble while we talked.  It was amazing.  I told her that I’d never seen anyone with hair so tall that it required lattice.  Roses yes, grapes probably, but hair…never.  She was truly surprised.  She strapped the lattice to her back like a back pack and it rose to the heavens from there.  Her hair was in layers like the old Victorian wigs except hers wasn’t white it was brunette.  To me it was a wonder of the world.  I couldn’t keep my eyes off it.  There was some space on the lattice that wasn’t taken up by hair so she decorated it with framed family photos.  There were at least 5 framed photos and I’m not talking wallet sized photos either.  They were 5” x 7” or larger.  Some were landscape and some were vertical.  She used very ornamental wood frames on each one.  I was so caught up in her hair I forgot about Tom and our conversation about my blog.  I thought, “How does she sleep with that?  How does she get that into a car?  I wrecked into Tom’s car and I have full vision.  She has to see around that massive head of…display gear to simply pull into traffic.  She finally left my view.  I never did see Tom again.  As I was trying to catch up to Kristy my phone rang.  It was a customer.  She wanted us to duplicate and package a presentation.  The content was information for a medical conference.  She could get us the master and art work.  We needed to duplicate it onto the head of a cauliflower, package it, and deliver to California in 4 days the quantity was 550.  I was worried.  I wasn’t sure our CD duplication equipment could burn information onto the head of a cauliflower.  If it could I wasn’t sure we could do it that fast.  My partner assured me we could, but by the time the last of the cauliflowers had been duplicated the first batch had begun to rot.  I was faced with replacing the bad ones, repackaging, and delivering them all in time so we didn’t lose that client.  Very stressful!

By that point Tom Griswold and Kristy Lee’s hair was a distant memory.  I wasn’t concerned with my blog or the fact that my wife had disappeared.  I just needed to get the cauliflowers duplicated and deliver them to California.

I hadn’t done any drugs or alcohol.  I didn’t eat anything out of the ordinary including the worm at the bottom of a mescal bottle.  I just went to bed and tripped.  Dreams like this happen every night.  So Dr. Shinaver…what’s up with me?