Yellow Squares

  
I had another dream last night. This one was about my uncle, and I couldn't escape the asylum. He's not as crazy as I thought, but crazier. I understand why he's there, and if the things keep going the way the are in my life this dream is my future. I won't escape.

I fell asleep on the couch. The darkness of slumber gave way to the forests of dreams. I approached the mental ward on foot emerging from those forests. Surrounding the brick and concrete building was a large, manicured square. The freshly trimmed bushes and potted annuals indicated this was a place of wealth. The absence of feeling screamed insane asylum. I began wondering why I was here when I noticed a large red dot painted on the front door. In the middle of that dot was a one inch by one inch yellow square. Although not exactly like all the other dots, I knew I arrived.

The white (what I assumed to be marble) stairs welcomed me with glittering cleanliness. Their smooth, polished surface was felt underfoot even though I was wearing thick soled black boots. The steel handrail was sharply cold, and the flower bins that decorated the sides of the stairs were a little inhumanly manicured. Everything was perfect, crisp, idyllic like it stepped out of some 1950s movie. I put my hand on the door readying myself to push it open, hesitant because I was sure what was on the inside was not nearly as perfect as what was on the outside. I didn't want to leave the comfort of alien order. My hand trembling, I pushed. The door was locked.

I felt the thin raised edge of the red circle painted on the door between my thumb and forefinger. I followed it all the way around its circumference, and, when I reached my starting place, the yellow square in the center popped open. I peered inside, and all I saw was white: a bright blinding brilliance that burned the brown of my eyes.

I pushed myself away from the door and still only saw white. As my vision returned, I was no longer standing at the top of the marble stairs. I was inside the massive brick and concrete building with uniformed escorts gripping my biceps.

A dull voice projected from some tinny speaker far away ordered commands. "Head straight down the hall. Remain calm. The guards will guide you. Panic is only a remnant of fear, and fear is useless. You are here for your own safety. You will not speak unless spoked to. Patients must keep all  body parts to themselves. There is no escape. Head straight down the hall. Remain calm. The guards will guide you. Panic is..."

My vision still blurry, I couldn't make out anything other than my two bald guards. One was tall, slender feminine with painted eyebrows and pink lips. Her hands pinched and my skin beneath her grip ached. The other was all tall and slender. His large black bushy eyebrows and hairy stubby fingers read masculine, and his grip was loose but forceful. There could be no escape. Panicked, I released control and dropped all my weight. Their grips tightened, and they dragged me across the floor.

"You are here for your own safety. You will not speak unless spoken to. Patients must keep all body parts to themselves. There is no escape..."

It felt like I walked/was dragged down a straight corridor for hours. I was afraid that the movement would never end, and I started getting motion sickness. The two escorts never changed. They just looked straight ahead paying no attention to me. Queasiness finally controlled my stomach, and I started throwing up. The escorts ignored me. Strings of vomit and spittle decorated my clothes like a Jackson Pollock, which I now noticed was an insane-asylum-white straight jacket.

"You have arrived," said the tinny voice.

The escorts changed their position. The feminine one grabbed my feet; the masculine one grabbed me under my arm pits. They swung me back and forth.

"Now," commanded the speaker, and the escorts let go. I flew through the air and landed with a hard smack on my back on a cold concrete floor.

Another bright flash of white raced across my eyes, a click of a door closing briefly echoed, and I was surrounded in blackness that no sound or light could enter or escape. I fell asleep in what I perceived was a corner.

"Hello...Martin? Martin is that you? Wake up. Wake up!"

The urgency of his low whispered voice reached my ears, and I shot awake. It was still pitch black, but somewhere a long distance away on my right hand side was the faint yellow outline of a one inch by one inch square.

"Hurry Martin. I don't have much time or energy. Move. Move now! They are coming back. It is not your time yet. They are going to send you back, but I must speak with you first. Run. Run now!"

The voice was coming from the faint outline. I started making my way towards it squirming like a worm. There was something familial about the voice, and I needed to know from whom it came.

"Faster Martin! Quick. Quick!"

I wiggled myself to standing and started running. The small square grew to a large door. Behind me, I started hearing heels on tiles. I quickened my pace. As another door opened behind me, I jumped through the square and emerged in a small cube of which all the walls were dirt. A man in his forties with peppery hair sat with legs crossed in front of me smiling.

"It worked," he whispered followed by the thud of a door slamming shut. "We only have a few moments, Martin, and there is a lot I must tell you."

He suddenly looked both older and younger. It was as if his being oscillated between a teenage boy and an old man causing the image before me to look like it was in its forties.

"This is real, Martin. What is happening is real. Remember that. If you forget everything else I tell you, remember that. This IS real. This place DOES exist."

Then it came to me: he was my uncle. He didn't look like I remembered him, but my only memories were from when I was a boy and he was in his twenties.  Shortly thereafter, he was locked up. I hadn't seen him since.

"Martin. I need your help. I need you to do something back in the other world for me. I need you to visit me in the hospital, but first you need to know something. Something other than this is real. Do you understand?"

I refused to believe this was real. I closed my eyes and plugged my ears with my index fingers. I didn't want to believe what was happening to me. If it was real, it meant my dots were real, and there was and is comfort in pretending its all make believe. While it doesn't exactly excuse my actions in this world, it does make them more of a joke. If the dots are real, it means I have to do something. I'm comfortable doing nothing. It's how I manage living.

He slapped me and spat in my face. "Martin! We don't have time for your shit. Listen. This is incredibly important."

A loud booming pounding erupted behind me.

"They are getting closer. Now pay attention."

My uncle began drawing shapes on the dirt floor with his finger. They were a mish mash of symbols some of which I recognized as corporate logos. There was Apple, Nike, Shell, and the CBS eye followed by a triangle, square, and finally a large circle that appeared red to me. It was the only color in the entire cell. Something moved me, and I lurched forward. Catching my balance, I threw out my hand, and it landed on the red dot.

"NO!" Screamed my uncle, and I started falling through it. "Do not trust anyone, Martin. They are coming for you. Remember: THIS IS REAL!!!"

He continued yelling at me, but his voice became mute as I continued falling.

I woke up panicked and sweating with vomit covering my face and my pants wet from having pissed. The weird thing is the piss formed a perfect square on my couch, and all the remnants of my stomach that were now all over my face were perfect red circles. I collected every last bit of vomit in a tupperware container and flipped the couch cushion.

I made my way to bed, but didn't want to sleep. I was terrified to see my uncle again, so I sat up and wrote the dream down.

I am not going to visit him. Well...at least not yet. I don't want confirmation that what is happening is real. Denial is a wonderful place to live.

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Aborted Raspberry Cottage Cheese

  
So I've given up completely on timeline and order. Fuck it. Too much happens betwen writing these posts by hand and typing them. Whether it is more fucking red dots or life or going on tour with the band ( I did not see a single red dot outside of San Francisco). I also am unsure of the order of things now too. I have posts written on napkins stuck in my desk drawer, random connections (Did you know that the red dots can work as a portal? I recently found myself doing speed at Kristal's house and ended up drag racing down the Great Highway. See...speed and then I was speeding.) scribbled on the back of receipts, memories jotted down in notebooks, and it certainly doesn't help that I don't write dates on anything and that all the drugs and alcohol (I have started drinking even more now that I see these dots) erase time. Thus, I am now here compelled to write the story of the weekend down, type it up, and confuse anyone who is actually reading this. (Thank god no one actually reads it or I'd be more worried.)

For those of you just joining me, let me outline the story so far:

I am going crazy or maybe I am saner than most. All I know is I see red dots. They appear and don't go away. I have to collect them. Have to. It has led to almost being thrown out of a Vietnamese restaurant because I had to (at least try to) pry a Hello Kitty tile off their bathroom wall, wrestling Sandra O. Noshi-Di'nt to the ground at Trannyshack Star Search for that fucking ring, stealing heirloom Christmas ornaments from a good friend, and popping people's zits. I've met Allison Lohman in my dreams, which was as real as walking this earth, and included bringing a red dot back from dreamland. I found out my uncle really did end up in the mental ward for a somewhat similar condition. Only his were yellow squares. I believe these red dots do mean something. I just still don't know what. It's been almost four or five months since I started seeing them. Sometimes I see many in a week. Sometimes I can go weeks without seeing them.

That wraps up the story so far. Hope you're still reading and following along. It is confusing. Hell. I'm living it, and I can't make sense of shit.

Which now brings me to this weekend.

I need to preface this with: I'm not entirely sure this really happened. It seems just too fucked up to have, but I'm sure if fif. I do have the red dots next to me as I write this: a jar of rotting cottage cheese.

I wasn't going to go to Some Thing's Mr. David presents...Project Runtover on Friday night because I've kinda been banned (self imposed mind you) from drag show after that fiasco with Sandra, but a friend was going, and she called me begging me to accompany her. I reluctantly said yes only because I was hopeful for some 'benefits' later on. Luckily, she's aspiring faux queen Dee Vine, so she thought my fucking take down of Team Toxic Tits was funny.

The theme was Alexander McQueen meets maternity chic. Basic set up is Project Runway. Designers have models who perform in an outfit constructed using whatever they're given by hosts VivvyAnne ForeverMore and Tim Gumm plus whatever the contestents themselves have brought. It's a mad dash of horror.

Everything was going fine until the whiskey gingers mixed with the vodka cranberries right before the performers took stage. The room started spinning ('right round like a record baby'), and I made my way to the bathroom and proceeded to throw up. Imagine the bathroom after I left. Now hold that image for a moment. It is important to the story.

Sweating and wobbly, I emerged and felt my way back to the theater. The first performer was up there dressed as an African goddess - tall, dark, dressed in bold black and white print, holding a rod taller than her 7' frame. As I stood there watching her, I started smelling this weird raspberry smell from the drag queen standing next to me. I'd be kind if I said her 'outfit' looked like a kindergartner made it for some in-school craft project for the developmentally delayed. You might be able to call it art, but it certainly wasn't fashionable. Nor was it functional. Small pieces kept falling off as she stood there.

A few more performances and then Team Tork, which later turned out to be Team Toxic Tits, was called to the stage. The queen with the funky sour raspberry smell and wire hanger tiara sauntered to the stage as La Roux's "In for the Kill" started playing. At first, she looked innocent in that train wreck of an outfit. Then, as the chorus started, she revealed a hammer and started pounding the shit out of her pregnant belly. (Justin Bond tweeted: At Project Runtway in SF. Its a maternity theme - who knew coat hangers were so in this season. Lots of designers getting the hook.) When that didn't aboth anything, she moved on to pussy punching herself with a ceramic crucifix on the next chorus. She didn't know a single lyric or have a real garment. In fact, the garment deteriorated as quickly my momentary soberness after having thrown up.

The crucifix was thrown against the concrete wall and splintered everywhere. Nothing seemed to work, so she took off her wire coat hanger tiara and unwound it. It worked. And the next thing that happened sobered me up so quickly: she pulled out a black baby doll covered in this fucking disgusting red chunky mixture from out of a bag between her legs and started licking it. All I saw were red dots. I had to have them. All of them.

Luckily, I had a moment of clarity: it would be a bad idea to repeat to her what I did to Sandra. That moment was enough. The song ended, and I didn't bum rush the stage and tackle her to the ground.

The rest of the show passed in a haze. I stared at the remnants of aborted doll fetus on stage. I had to have every last piece, but I realized I could collect them after the show. I waited patiently counting and breathing deeply so I wouldn't vomit on the person in front of me.

The models were called back to the stage for judges' critiques. Team Toxic Tits placed fifth, and their queen held the baby doll in her arms. It was too much. I had to have it. Immediately. It was covered in red dots. How could it not be mine?

I rushed the stage and struggled to pry it from her arms. She said something about it being rescued from Haiti; I wanted to rescue it from her. She wouldn't care for it nearly as well as I would. Hell. She fucking aborted it! It was rightfull mine. The dots said so.

The next thing I know (let me just say VivvyAnne was very gracious - I wasn't thrown out) I am in the lobby being pinned down by Dee and a big hairy man in town for what I assume to be IBR, the doll is in the garbage can, and Team Toxic Tit's model is standing over me wearing only see through mesh underwear three sizes too small, black fishnets that cut into her thighs, and gray heels. I was screaming, but I don't remember what. It probably had something to do with red dots or saving the baby or just other drunken exclamations of fuck. Dee kept telling me to stop screaming and breathe.

I calmed down at least externally and regained public composure. I apologized to the model for ruiing her moment in the spotlight. She smiled and thanked me for making the evening even more memorable than a baby doll covered in cottage cheese and raspberry jello.

That's when it hit me. These weren't the same kind of red dots as the ones I'd previously seen. Everyone could see thee dots because they were in fact real. My face flushed, and all I wanted to do was go home.

I convinced everyone I was fine, and I asked Dee to grab my jacket. The big burly man went to go find his friends. The model walked to the bathroom (the one I threw up in). I was alone in the lobby sitting next to the garbage can. Just then the distinctive smell of raspberry cottage cheese reached my nose and ignited my need to have the red dots. I quickly pulled the cover of the garbage can and found a plastic bag filled with my treasure. I grabbed it and stuffed it into my underwear. Red gelatinous liquid started running down my legs. I was happy I wore black pants.

Dee drove me home. I kissed her good night hoping for more but aware of the growing mess between my legs, so I thanked her for taking care of me and made my way to my apartment.

I spent the remainder of the night scraping every last piece of cottage cheese ad jello from my thighs into a glass jar that now sits in my fridge rotting (except for right now. It is sitting next to me inspiring me to type). It looks like a living science experiment bubbling and oozing red dots. Remember that image I asked you to keep in your mind? Well this looks ever more disgusting.

The next morning I woke up my head throbbing, the room spinning, everything around me a horrible mess. In my attempt to save all the red dots, I managed to get the concoction all over myself, so red hand prints, foot prints, butt marks, and smears decorate my once clean apartment making it look like some bad 1980's performance artist exploded. I'm leaving all of the mess because I see red dots growing out of the stains. These are the same ones I've been collecting. They are the fibrous kind.

Like I said, I am going mad. By my madness makes sense to me.

Until next time...Happy red dot hunting!

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The Urban Legend of the Dog Eating Peanut Butter Off Her Vag

  
Wow! That's all I really can muster right now. Fucking WOW! I've just woken up from a crazy ass dream that included chocolate dildos, banana condoms, and peanut butter-flavored lube. Intense and weird. The only other thing I can remember is the ground beneath my feet falling away. It was like that special effect in The Matrix when Neo's getting trained in the white room. Do you remember that? He was standing in that empty space and then shelves of guns fell like water from somewhere above and appeared as solid, concrete objects around him. This was that in reverse. Only it wasn't guns and it wasn't a white room.

I was on stage at the DNA lounge ready to perform, floating dildos all around me when the black stage fell away. It was like it turned into a millions of tiny squares and each square fell into a void somewhere below me. I twas suspended there momentarily and looked down. The void was a rolling sea of red dots. As I finally made out the dots, I started falling.

I woke up to something crashing panicked. My bed was drenched, almost as if I pissed myself, and the covers were thrown all over the floor. I got up, went to my desk, and started writing all of this down fearing I'd forget it in the morning. Well...I guess it is morning technically. It is 4am, but you know what I mean.

I haven't checked out what broke. I probably should. Be right back.

I'm back. Isn't it weird how time passes so differently in writing. It took me about nine minutes to finally find what was broken, ad only one sentence to convey that. Totally a random and unrelated topic, but it does seem like life is only a dream once it's on paper.

It was a red shot glass I left sitting on the edge of the sink in the bathroom. I didn't think to look their because the sound was shattering glass, and I don't remember putting the shot glass in the bathroom. I must've taken another shot of tequila when I got home last night from our gig at The Eagle. Here is the really bizarre thing: all of the shattered glass pieces were in perfect circles. There were hundreds of them all over the floor, under the tub, in the tube, on top of the toilet seat. The entire blue bathroom was speckled with red glass dots. I feel as if my dream exploded in my bathroom.

I'm really unnerved. I hate the way shattered glass reverberates through your bones. It always reminds me of the time I broke a bottle of mineral water when I was a kid. When it hit the concrete, it burst. A small sliver found its way to the artery right beneath the knee cap and nicked it. Blood started flowing and soon my entire right leg was painted blood red and a large pool formed beneath my feet. I screams so loudly (I fucking HATE blood) my mom rushed out all panicked. She lost her balance as she ran into the garage slipping on all of the blood and sliced her hand wide open as she tried to grab the edge of the steel work bench. Blood poured from her hand and mixed with the quickly growing puddle on the floor. Luckily, our nurse neighbor was home, heard the ruckus, and came over. A couple of stitches later and both my mom and I were fine.

The image of the giant puddle of blood, the one I had to clean up after we got back from the emergency room, is the image that rushes to my mind whenever glass breaks. The glass dots look like a thousand droplets of blood covering the entire bathroom. I don't want to clean it up. In fact, I'm going to ignore it and go back to sleep.

The copious amount of tequila I shot last night is finally catching up with me. My head is beginning to pound. Four Advil, a tall glass of cold water, and sleep is what I need. I can clean it up tomorrow.

p.s. I had to sleep on the couch because my bed was just too wet. I had another weird ream. Do you remember that dumb urban legend when we were kids about the woman who was caught being eaten out by her dog? In it, she calls in sick to work which sets off alarm bells for some reason at work. Her boss gets worried about her and decides to check things out. He heads to her home only to find the front door unlocked. He enters and doesn't see her, so he heads to her bedroom to see if she is sleeping. He is mortified when he gets to her bedroom and see a jar of peanut butter next to her bed and her dog licking something off her vag, a look of ecstasy on her face. Well...that was my weird dream. Only I had it twice. The first time I was the boss. The second  time I was the dog. I can't get the taste of peanut butter off my tongue.

And...I did clean up the bathroom. It took almost an hour to get all the glass picked up. I kept all the pieces.

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