The impossible dream…

28 12 2008

Don’t you absolutely hate it when someone comes up to you and wants to tell you about the dream they had last night? The dreamer always thinks their dream is so God-damn interesting, but it’s really just a bunch of vague nonsensical images that have no relevance to the listener, and it’s a giant waste of everyone’s time. Don’t you absolutely, positively, hate when people do that?

Too fucking bad.

So last night, I had this dream. I was at the Water Park of America, which is “…America’s Biggest Indoor Water Park Hotel!” (according to them). I was there by myself, for some reason. I mean, not like I was the only person in the park, but I wasn’t there with any friends. I was alone. Which is strange since I can’t imagine just going to a water park by myself. But anyway, I am going down the inter tube slides, because I hate the body slides…the water splashes so far into your face you feel like you are drowning by the end of it…but every time I get to the end of the slide, I lose my tube. For those of you who have been there, you know this is a big problem…rubber tube’s are a precious commodity at Water Park of America (America’s Biggest Indoor Water Park Hotel!).

But somehow, even though I keep losing my tube, a new one magically appears from under the water just as I am about to get to the edge of the pool. So I am having a great time, tubing down the slides by myself, when suddenly it is time for Water Park of America (America’s Biggest Indoor Water Park Hotel!) to close for the night.  Bummer.  So I float in my tube that I haven’t lost this time towards the exit, when I see the owner of Water Park of America (America’s Biggest Indoor Water Park Hotel!) standing there.  The owner is a very ancient and wise looking Chinese man, like you always see in the kung fu movies who advise the hero.  Sort of like Mr. Miyagi, but more grizzled.  Also, this very ancient and wise looking Chinese guy is super tall, or maybe just floating.  And he says to me in that very ancient and wise way, “Tim, would you and all your friends like to stay the night in my hotel, and play in my water park, for FREE!”

Well as it just so happens to turn out, I would like this.  Very much.  So I say, “Yes, Ancient-And-Wise-Super-Tall-Or-Maybe-Just-Floating-Chinese-Guy.  I would like that very much.”  So the owner tells me I need to call Nikki W., who for some reason is staying at another hotel with all my friends, and get her and the whole gang over here.

(It’s important to note at this point that I’ve actually met the REAL owner of Water Park of America (America’s Biggest Indoor Water Park Hotel!), and he is neither Chinese nor very tall.)

Yep, that’s him.  From my dream, I mean.  Not the real owner.

So now I need to call my friends, but I have to put my clothes on first, for some reason.  And you know how when you put on clothes, and you are all wet, and it takes forever because the cling to you?  It feels like I am putting my clothes on in slow motion, and I am panicking because I need to call Nikki W. before the place closes.  So I get my clothes on, and I get my cellphone, but it’s not my cellphone.  First of all, it’s fucking gigantic.  Like, bigger than any cellphone has ever been in the history of the universe.  It looks like an over-sized prop from a Benny Hill sketch.  Also, for some reason, I have to plug it into an electrical outlet for it to work.  And if you’ve ever tried to find an electrical outlet in an indoor water park, you know they are sort of hard to come by.

So instead I take my giant ass cellphone to the restaurant, and use one of their plug ins, and I get a hold of Nikki W.  But Nikki tells me I am supposed to be at the theater, because apparently I am starring in “Man of La Mancha” and it has already started without me.  So I race over to the theater, which by a happy coincidence is right by the Water Park of America (America’s Biggest Indoor Water Park Hotel!), and I get inside the theater, except is sort of looks like my old apartment, but the show is going on and I get there right in time to sing “The Impossible Dream,” which I think is weird since I might be the most God-awful singer in existence, and I maybe know 30% of the lyrics to that song.

BUT!  I am awesome.  I sing a perfect rendition, and I am expecting all my friends to be in the audience, but they are not.  However, the cast of the TV show “Friends” are there, and they think I am fantastic!  Well, except for Lisa Kudrow, who thinks I was a little “pitchy.”  I don’t know what pitchy means, and when I ask her to explain it, she tells me not to be such a smart-ass, but suddenly she is still Lisa Kudrow but she’s also sort of my dad.  And my dad is telling me that I should have picked a song that is in my “range” and I still don’t know what that means and I am trying to tell my dad that it is a musical not a karaoke bar, I don’t get to pick what I sing, and THEN my old college director shows up and apparently she was directing this show and she tells me that, yes, I could have picked to sing whatever I wanted, and I’m all like, “What the fuck?” and then I wake up.

Awesome, huh?

And now, some interpretation, courtesy of


To dream that you are alone, indicates feelings of rejection. You may be feeling that no one understand you.

Oh,  You know me all too well.  It’s true.  I’m so misunderstood.


To dream that you are on or see a waterslide, suggests that you� are being swept away by your emotions. You are slowly exploring the realm of your unconscious. Alternatively, the dream suggests that you are going with the flow of things without any objections or resistance.

Wow.  Super analysis, there.  So, I’m either being swept away and am out of control, or I am relaxed and going with the flow.  Yep, it’s definately one of those.


To see something old in your dream, suggests that there is something in your life that you need to replace or get rid of.

So long, showering regularly!  You’re out of here.


To dream that you are wet, suggests that you are drenched or overcome with your emotions. It also signifies a spiritual cleansing, rebirth or renewal.

Could also signify that I have just been dreaming about water slides for the past 15 minutes.  Maybe?  Possibly?  Just a guess.


To sing in your dream, represents happiness, harmony and joy in some situation or relationship. You are uplifting others with your positive attitude and cheerful disposition. Singing is a way to celebrate, communicate and express your feelings.

Blah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!  Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha…ha…ha…ha ha…ha…ha…ha…ha…ha………ha…….ha……<gasps for air>….AH ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha….


To see your father in your dream, symbolizes authority and protection. It suggests that you need to be more self-reliant. Consider also your waking relationship with your father.

…ha ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaa HA ha ha ha ha ha….ha….ha….ohhh….oh boy….ha…ha.  My favorite part was when I was “uplifting others” with my “positive attitude” and “cheery disposition”.  Good one.  Now what’s the about my dad?

I attend a lame open house BBQ, share an awkward evening with old friends, trip over some rocks, and play Mad-Libs…

12 08 2008

There is this family…let’s call them the Andersons, because I’m way too lazy to think of something more clever. The Andersons are old friends of my parents with two sons who are about my age (actually they sandwich me, one being almost two years older and the other almost two years younger). When I was very young, the Andersons and my parents hung out together all the time, and their two boys were two of my best friends. Then my parents got divorced, and along with the house, kids, and material goods, the friends had to be divided up. My dad got the Andersons, mostly by default of location (he lived closer to them). Though they were still friends with my mom, they were no longer an active part of our lives.

Fast forward to…now. For the past three or four years, the Andersons have an annual summer BBQ at their home, and they always invite us. My mom and sisters always gladly attend this event. I managed to get dragged along once, and spent a bored few hours making awkward small talk with strangers and awkward family talk with my dad. I left with zero desire to return for another.

I got dragged again this year, thanks to the junior high style peer pressuring of my sister, Amber. Amber, bless her soul, has sadly mistaken our family for one of those families that…you know…does stuff together. So when I made it known I had little interest in attending the Anderson Bore-fest ’08, my sister came in strong with her masterful version of the West Coast Guilt Offense (first popularized, of course, by Bill Walsh’s mom).

“Well, everyone else is going. Mom, April, me, Jeremy, JD…,” my sister struggled to come up with more names, but our family is small, so that LITERALLY is everybody.

I’m not going.

“Jeremy will be disappointed if you don’t go. Dad always clings to him. He needs another male there to talk to.”

He can talk to me at home. I’m not going.

“There will be free food, games…”

The Andersons are vegetarians. There will be tofu. I can play games on my XBox. I’m not going.

“There will be free booze.”

So as I’m jumping out of my sisters van and walking up the Anderson’s lawn to the BBQ, I immediately notice that there is not a single soul I recognize at this thing. I don’t even see the Andersons. Are we at the right place? Do I care?

My family and I huddle together at a table by ourselves, as we usually do at these things, making them seem even more pointless to me. I decide to get started on drinking myself into a comfortable stupor. I go to sample some of the free drinks, and it’s…wine coolers. Fuck me. I left the house for this?

As I’m sitting with my brother-in-law, drinking the admittedly tasty but not very alcoholic wine cooler, I look around the yard at the festivities, and notice there are children. Lots and lots and lots of children. I was worried my sisters son, JD, would be the lone 1 1/2 year old at this thing, but let me tell, there was a pack of them. The Andersons had a sandbox in their backyard, and I swear it looked like someone was staging an all-midget production of “West Side Story.” Little kids, roaming free in huge packs. Jesus, is anyone in the world NOT making babies just as fast as they can get a penis up in them? Miracle of birth my ass…the women at this BBQ’s wombs were spitting out babies like a Nerf Air-Gun. Pow…pow…pow…

At this point arrives one of the Anderson’s sons whom I used to be very close with. Let’s call him…ah hell I’m so bad at making up names…let’s just call him Bruce Willis*. So Bruce Willis comes up to me and says, “Hey, Tim, how’s it going? Haven’t seen you in a while.” We exchange the normal idle, completely stiff pleasantries: “How are you?” “What have you been up to?” “That’s a nice beer gut you have growing there.” And then he wanders off. It’s weird, but I find interacting with Bruce Willis far more uncomfortable than I would a complete stranger, mostly because we were so close, and now for the past decade have not seen each other at all. Making it doubly weird is our wildly divergent life paths: both Bruce Willis and his brother (whom we will call, uh…Tom Selleck**) are married and have children now. I am childless, the closest thing I’ve had to a “career” is when I got moved up from pushing carts at the grocery store I worked at, and I’m giving serious though to buying Madden ’09 for my XBox when it comes out. In short, I’m 12.

*(Note: Not the real Bruce Willis)

**(Note: Not the real Tom Selleck)

Now, no boring, socially uncomfortable family outing is complete without my dad showing up with his super long hair and sarcastically upbeat attitude towards his life that is all the more depressing strictly because he tries to act upbeat about it. Since my parents split up, my dad has perfected an attitude of martyrdom that I daresay is unmatched in the world. He is the Tiger Woods of making people feel sorry for him. No, fuck that, because sometimes Tiger Woods loses. He is the ROCKY BALBOA of making people feel sorry for him. That’s right, even if you secretly trained a 7″ communist Russian super-martyr, complete with drug enhancements and state-of-the-art computer led pity training, my dad would STILL out martyr the guy, then wrap himself in the American flag and yell, “My life sucks!”

His newest “poor-me” tactic is to buy two tickets to a concert, and then ask us all if we want to go with him at the last minute, saying, “Well, I was HOPING I could get a date, but that didn’t happen. Oh well…guess it’s just the optimist in me…” Truthfully, I doubt he ever actually looks for a date, and just gets the two tickets so that he can complain about not having anyone to go with. Why would any sane human being do this, you ask? It’s just the optimist in him, I guess.

One of these times I see my dad, I fully expect that he will just be wheeled in on a giant wooden cross. And when the rest of us are like, “Holy crap, Dad, what is that?” he will just say, “Oh, what? This? Oh, yeah, I’m nailed to a giant cross now. Oh well, what can you do? LIfe sucks, then you die, right?”

So after awhile of ducking out of my dad’s most recent pity concert (“No, none of us want to go to Sheryl Crow with you”) and asking what the crap was all the red stuff on the palms of his hand (“Oh it’s just from poor circulation from getting old. People say I should go to the doctor, but…” <shrug>), my brother-in-law and I decided to kill time by playing with the Track Ball game they had laying in the yard. If you don’t know what this is…well, you’re out of luck because I don’t really know what it is either. It’s sort of like playing catch with a ball, only you throw the ball with this plastic thing that looks like half an egg-beater. It’s more fun that it sounds. My dad inevitably joined us, and so followed what should have been a touching scene…a father playing catch with his son…spoiled by the fact that A) I am so horribly out of shape that I was exhausted after only ten minutes of this and B) My brother-in-law thought it the height of comedy to continually throw the ball over my head towards a rock hedge the Andersons had set up in their yard as decoration. What resulted was inevitable: an “American’s Funniest Home Videos” worthy moment as I attempted to catch this ball with my half egg-beater and went ass-over-elbows over a pile of rocks. I don’t have the moment on film, but this should serve as a pretty accurate re-enactment:

It was exactly like that, except replace the “ta-da” part with “Ouch, ow, oh, I think I bruised my spleen!”

The rest of the BBQ was mostly uneventful, ending with me drinking several wine coolers and getting not at all drunk, and having a couple more semi-awkward exchanges with Bruce Willis***. We said our goodbyes, loaded up into the van, and went home.

***(Note: Still not the real Bruce Willis)

The night ended with me, my sisters, and Jeremy playing some games. This is mostly off-topic for this blog (which seems fine, since this has been mostly a rambling epic anyway), but we ended the night doing some Mad-Libs, and…fuck, why did I ever stop doing those things? That shit is funny as hell! Psst…here’s a little secret about Mad-Libs, though: You have to try to use dirty and/or nonsense silly words, otherwise it won’t really be funny. Just try it next time you are playing Mad-Libs. You can thank me later.

I guess, in the end, sometimes it’s <ADJECTIVE> to get out and spend some time with your <NOUN>, even if it is doing something <ADJECTIVE>. But if my <ADVERB> Dad shows up at another of these <NOUN> again and gets all <ADJECTIVE> with his <PART OF BODY> little <PLURAL NOUN>, I’m pretty sure I’m going to projectile <VERB> a load of <NOUN> all over the <PLACE>.