Pining for the Fjords

Can someone still be considered a friend even if you haven’t seen them in a zillion years?

Bob Ray, who I worked with too many decades ago, turns up in my dreams periodically. I was and still am fond of him. He’s def cool – played sax (tenor? bari?) in a couple bands, drew and wrote comix, and had a good, solid head on his shoulders. We weren’t close but I would definitely consider him a friend versus acquaintance. 

Is there an official line for that – a measurement system? How do you know when an acquaintanceship has grown into a friendship? Does a bell ring? Do you get gold stars? Does it happen after you’ve consumed X number of adult beverages together and exchanged X amount of discreet confidences? Voila! You’ve now crossed the border. Please don one of these lovely bracelets.

Another thing – I’ve never met his wife but, from the comments she’s made on his Facebook posts, she’s obviously fabola. Too bad they live 800 miles away – I’d love to meet her.

Why does Bob Ray keep turning up in Dream Land? How? What does he symbolize?

Usually, his dream appearances are as a warm, supportive presence. Ya know, if good vibes were palpable, this is what they’d look like. Bob Ray – fairy godfather.

In last night’s nocturnal movieola though, he magically appeared out of nowhere. Bob Ray was holding in his raised hand, a puzzle piece. It was a very important piece and it was glowing ever so slightly.

WHAT DOES THIS MEAN!!!

It’s probably something simple and obvious and has nothing to do with Bob Ray himself. It’s just so damn mystifying though – the glowing puzzle piece; Bob holding it aloft in his fingers as though it were a Eucharist; the darkened, Gothic, stone-walled room. I mean WTAF!?

Related sort of – there’s my friend Craig. We were friends in high school and kept in light touch during college. After I graduated, came off the carnival road and moved to Boston, I briefly stayed with him. He introduced me to all his friends and helped me get situated in my new digs. Later, he and his wife moved out to California. I’ve only seen him once since then.

I miss him awfully. Craig’s an absolutely wonderful human. His laugh is like music. He deserves every good thing that life has to offer.

Craig’s not on social media at all. Can’t blame him but I’d like to at least have that slight, tenuous connection. Since I’m deaf I can’t just ring him up for a chat. 

I’d text but:

• I don’t have his phone number.
• I’m terrible at chit chat – I’m more of a full-blown convo kind of a person.
• I don’t even know if he’d be open to texting and I don’t want to intrude.
• I’d write him a letter but he and his wife have moved and I don’t have their new address and I’m not sure how to find it.

Possibly this feeling of warmth is one-sided? I am, after all, a rather odd duck. Also, obvs, insecure. I could just find his new address, send a damn card saying “You’re awesome and I miss you” and be done with it. He doesn’t have to write back (though that’d be nice).

Old friends
Sat on their park bench
Like bookends
A newspaper blown through the grass
Falls on the round toes
On the high shoes
Of the old friends

Old friends
Winter companions
The old men
Lost in their overcoats
Waiting for the sunset
The sounds of the city
Sifting through trees
Settle like dust
On the shoulders
Of the old friends

Can you imagine us
Years from today
Sharing a park bench quietly?
How terribly strange
To be seventy

Old friends
Memory brushes the same years
Silently sharing the same fear
~ Paul Simon

I AM Crabby Appleton

This morning I woke with the villain Crabby Appleton in my head. Why?

Crabby was the main nemesis of gee-whiz boy hero Tom Terrific. His eponymous show was played on Captain Kangaroo. Tom Terrific wasn’t a great cartoon. I remember, even as a kid, being wholly unimpressed with the animation and story lines. I mean, I had some fucking standards! Tom was some lame blonde kid with a dopey canine sidekick, Manfred the Wonder Dog. I did not see the “wonder” aspect. More like "I wonder WHAT."

Other than Crabby Appleton, my only other memory from the Captain Kangaroo show – which ran from 1955 to 1984 – is ping ping balls surreally flooding down from the ceiling. Punch line to a joke, I guess.

I was used to watching ‘50s era Bugs Bunny and Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons. Tom Terrific was some seriously weak sauce. 

Crabby Appleton, by the by, was also short-lived Los Angeles rock/pop band in the early ‘70s. Sadly, I've no memory of them.

Another little factoid, I don’t know if you recall the rumor, the urban legend that Mr. Green Jeans, of Cap Kangaroo fame, was a heroin addict. I remember hearing this during my everything-adults-told-us-were-fairy-tales-and-lies period (which I've, maybe, never come out of) and just shrugged my shoulders, thinking “of course.” After much googling, I haven’t found any back up for this salacious bit of gossip.

Anyway, the actor, Hugh Brannum, who played Mr. Green Jeans had been a jazz musician, playing bass with Fred Waring and his Pennsylvanians before joining up with the Captain.

Related, I always envied my little sister. Children’s television got WAY better, far less stupid between the late ‘50s and late ‘60s. I mean, she got Sesame Street, Electric Company, and Zoom instead of fucking Romper Room, Howdy Doody, and Captain Kangaroo.

Just so’s ya know, Crabby Appleton probably, though it can’t be absolutely, unshakably proven, had nothing to do with the meteor that exploded off the coast of my fine state of Massachusetts yesterday at precisely 2:11 p.m. FYI, Jen, Ten, Oni, and I live right on the damn coast. 

Naturally, I didn’t hear it (deaf, don’cha know) and, though I’ve seen reports that folks felt their houses shake, Ten and I didn’t feel a thing here in Valhalla. Neither did we see a flash or a bolide screaming across the sky. It was a rainy day though. Also, we were both busy doomscrolling. Cake was deep into his afternoon nap. He had no time for drive-by fireballs. 

I wonder if the meteor had anything to do with the dream I woke from this morning. I was sitting in a hospital hallway with my sister. For some reason a nurse had to draw blood. Standard testing stuff, I guess. The nurse couldn’t get a vein in my arm though. He tells me he’s going to draw from my BRAIN instead. Last image before snapping awake was of a big ass needle aimed straight at my head.

How was I feeling? What was my DreamLand response. Was I freaking? Ahhh, not so much.

 “Oh, okay. Let’s just get this over with.” I’m entirely too used to this shit. I’m tellin’ you!

I don’t believe there are any meteors in the forecast for today. We’d probably have been given a heads up but Pedo and his billionaire henchmen have cut all the agencies that would have kept an eye on this. So, if I haven’t been crushed under a flaming space boulder, I’ll see you tomorrow.

Cheers!

And Now For Something Completely Different

For starters, IF my father was still alive, today would be his 90th birthday. He died five years ago on Juneteenth. It was during my surgery-a-thon years ('20-'21). Back in those days, I usually only left the damn house via ambulance headed for MGH. I’d gotten the heads up from my sister that Daddy, in hospice, was fading and only had days left. I was physically unable to make the trip so the last time I saw him was via FaceTime.

Jen planted a wee catalpa tree in our back yard in his memory. Now that spring is finally here in coastal New England, there are buds on the trees. Leaves and blossoms soon.

Happy birthday Daddy!

Next – I had a very strange dream the other night. Hillel, his wife, Catherine, and I were in an old, abandoned, Victorian house. This was some sort of Nancy Drew/Scooby Doo/Hardy Boys kind of mystery setting. We were investigating murderers or ghosts or, possibly, murderous ghosts. In any case, something chillingly dangerous.

All of a sudden, as we were creeping down rickety back stairs toward the kitchen, flashlights in hand, a horde of zombies, who were clearly afflicted with leprosy, broke in through the back door.

Hillel and Catherine knew what to do immediately. They were on the job. Me? I was frozen in place – skeeved out and scared shitless.

Hillel announced that he would simply go down and make these new guests a proper tea (with cucumber sandwiches, scones and a nice fruit custard tart, of course) and so he did. As Hillel and his wife went downstairs to welcome the horde and prepare tea, the house transformed into their very own lovely home. The dead of night became sunny daytime and the leprosy ridden zombies, while still shambling, disgusting, undead, diseased things, became civilized, socially ept, veritable bon vivants. 

For my part, I was still in the back hall, observing. Lurking, really. As you probably know, I am, quite possibly, the antithesis of socially skilled and polished. Yes, even in a tea party of leprosy riddled zombies where body parts are dropping quicker than Republican ethics when ol’ Leon starts stuffing millions into their Y-fronts.

What’s this dream mean? Anything? Is this just my unconscious mind putting together horror/comedy entertainments for me? Honestly? I half expected Gene Wilder, Cloris Leachman, or Peter Boyle to come out from behind a velvet curtain. Yes, I know that’s Frankenstein, not zombies, but if my dream was going to be a diversion, it would be Mel Brooksian.

I believe, if there’s really any significance beyond my brain just amusing me, it’s this – this past winter’s been a real long, cold, slog. My health has been crappy (and, generally, not due to my usual NF2 ridiculousness). The weather’s been too wet, windy, and snowy for me to get outside. I’ve, pretty much, been housebound. Given that I’m not much of a people person (I’m a curmudgeonly introvert? A cuddly misanthrope? A recluse who doesn’t bite…much?) Staying in wasn’t a hardship. After all, I have Ten, Jen, Oni, Kevin AND three cats (Cake, Skitter, and Walter)!

Still, five months of bad weather, up and down health, and only getting outside to go to physical therapy, doctor appointments, those few days spent in hospital, and my usual load of MRIs, really got old and dreary. I’m, possibly, feeling a mite antsy. I actually want to get out of the house – take little walks along the seawall – build up my walking strength and endurance, stare at the waves, be on the lookout for sea monsters and shit (if I see one, maybe I could name it Clyde or Lavinia – I wonder if they like Temptations cat treats. PFFFT – who doesn’t)?

ANYWAY, this coming week should be mostly dry and in the low 50s so I should be able to get out for a few walkies. From there maybe I can work my way up to going out to lunch and people watching. I may not necessarily want to interact with other scary humans (live and in person EEK!) but sitting in a cafe with a calming cup of tea, observing from afar might be nice. Maybe a little picnic on the Common once it gets warmer?

Question — for viewing purposes, would opera glasses, binoculars, or a telescope be best? I think I’d look darling with opera glasses but binoculars might be more effective and most dashing!

Zevon Dreams

I woke up with Warren Zevon’s Lawyers Guns and Money playing in my head.

Well, I went home with the waitress, hey
The way I always do, hey
How was I to know
She was with the Russians too?

I was gambling in Havana, whoo!
I took a little risk, hey
Send lawyers, guns and money
Dad, get me out of this.

Now I'm hiding in Honduras
I'm a desperate man, hey
Send lawyers, guns and money
That shit has hit the fan.

Why? Why not?

The dream I woke from? I was making my way home, coming down the causeway to the Neck. The cottages and townhomes on the right were all gone – replaced by marsh grasses as tall as triple decker apartment buildings. The road was no longer boring old asphalt. It was now an Aztec patterned mosaic made completely of broad, bright blue turquoise tiles. There were a few towering, green palms as well. 

I guess climate change had hit Massachusetts big time. Mexico had moved north.

What puts this in my dreaming mind? Possibly it’s all the clips I’ve seen online of Aztec dancers, notably the group Kalpulli Yaocenoxtli (Warriors of the First Cactus Flower) protesting ICE in Minneapolis. Kalpulli Yaocenoxtli is an arts, culture, education, community organization based in St. Paul – how they came into being is just beautiful. 

They became a part of the Minnesota protest scene after Philando Castile's murder-by-cop.

Sergio woke up to see the Facebook video filmed by Castile’s girlfriend, Diamond Reynolds, depicting the grisly aftermath of the shooting. “It just took me back to when we got stopped the day before. At any point, when we got stopped, things could have gone wrong and this could have been me. This could have been my son.”

Later that morning, Quiroz went to the Governor’s Mansion to join the protests that began the night of Castile’s death and continue to this day. But Quiroz isn’t one for chants or signs. He has a different way of protesting: An offering of ancient dances.

So he decided to come back with his group, Kalpulli Yaocenoxtli, which means Warriors of the First Cactus Flower in the Nahuatl language.  There were about 10 of them, dressed in traditional regalia,  including Copilli, the the feather headdresses in vibrant greens, yellows and reds, and leather or cloth belts with beadwork. (source) 

Apart from fancy dancers, hoop dancers and grass dancers, the Aztec dancers are, to me anyway, the most dramatically prominent. It’s the regalia. Okay, fancy dancers are right up there but, as yet, I haven’t seen any of them at one of the protests.

Meanwhile, our criminal government continues to ensure us all a place in Hell. The death toll at the girl’s elementary school in Iran is now up to 148 with 95 others injured. 

Is America great again yet?

Capt Tim Hawkins, the spokesperson for US Central Command, said the US was “aware of reports concerning civilian harm resulting from ongoing military operations. We take these reports seriously and are looking into them.” (source) 

Yeah sure, buddy.

The little girl’s school building was next door to an Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps barracks. Did Kegseth’s crack War Machine make an *oopsie*? Had they intended to hit the barracks and just kinda missed? That really would be totally on par for Pedo’s perma sozzled, incompetent, vanity-before-intellect Secretary of Drunk and Stupid.

Steppin' Stones

Woke up with Micky Dolenz singing (I’m Not Your) Steppin’ Stone in my head. Christ on a melting clock, I loved the Monkees and was so disappointed to find out that they weren’t a real band. Mike Nesmith was a real musician and songwriter. So was Peter Tork (bass, guitar, banjo, keyboards, and French horn). Micky Dolenz was an actor who learned to play the drums for his part on the show. Davy Jones? He was a jockey who could sing. Behind the scenes, other songwriters wrote their tunes and session musicians covered everything except the vocals.

I was a kid when I found this out but it bugged the hell out of me. I wanted them to be a real band, songwriters, genuine wacky creative talents.

Similarly, when I found out that Art Garfunkel was getting songwriting credits on all of Paul Simons tunes in the ‘60s but was just contributing vocals, I was pissed. Yes, dude had a lovely choirboy voice. He provided a sweet voice BUT he didn’t co-write those poetic songs. I hated that my girlfriend Jean went all swoony over him – acting like he was more than a singer.

Mind you, being a talented performer is grand – Dionne Warwick, Diana Ross, Frank Sinatra, Joe Cocker anyone? Just don’t try to put yourself out there as an original artist. Fer gawd’s sake.

Maybe it’s like it’s Patrick Stewart playing Oberon in a A Midsummer Night's Dream. I’m certain he was absolutely brilliant but he didn’t write the play – Shakespeare did. Stewart would NEVER in a zillion years claim or imply that he’d had anything to do with the writing of the play though.

The songwriting team of Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart wrote a lot of the Monkees’ songs. Neil Diamond, Carole Bayer Sager, Neil Sedaka, Harry Nilsson, Carole King and her husband Gerry Goffin also wrote for them.

The teevee show was cancelled after two short seasons. Frank Zappa supposedly asked Dolenz (who, remember, had only just learned to play for the show) to be his drummer but I can’t believe this was a serious invitation. Either that or Frank was tripping his auditory cortex clean off. I mean, Zappa wrote compositions with time signatures like 7/4, 11/8, and 19/16. Yeah Micky, that invitation wasn’t meant to be taken so earnestly. 

An aside: One of Zappa’s drummer was Terry Bozzio who I had the unbelievable luck to see at a drum festival in Amsterdam. This was probably three million years ago when early hominids were first sparking doobies along the Leidseplein. Bozzio was massively BRILLIANT. His playing was fucking transportational. My soul soared into the stratosphere. Swear ta Bast!

This interview with Micky Dolenz at The Guardian’s  website reminded me of their movie Head. I saw that way back in 1980 or ’81 at some odd little backstreet cafe/movie house in Cambridge’s Central Square. Back then, Central Square was still gritty with The Red Bookstore (located near the Massachusetts chapter of the Communist Party), the Orson Welles Cinema (picketed by nuns for showing a movie portraying the Virgin Mary as a pregnant basketball player), and Mary Chung’s – the small, dark Chinese restaurant in which I regularly dined.

In any case, Head, I dimly recall, was a real trip and I’d love to see it again. It was written by Jack Nicholson. Apparently I can watch the whole thing on YouTube. Huh. Waddyaknow.

Mike Nesmith died from heart failure in 2021. He was 78.
Peter Tork died in 2019 from a rare cancer – adenoid cystic carcinoma – at the age of 77.
Davy Jones died in 2012 of a heart attack. He was just 66 years old.

In the dream previous to the (I’m Not Your) Steppin’ Stone one, I was designing business cards for my company’s rebranding. We were no longer going to be an offset print and copy house. Nope. We were going to specialize in assassinations and demolitions of mega-corporations.

I was kind of stuck on the logo. The old one (a cartoonish English Bobby) just didn’t seem to fit the new biz identity. Huh.

First Day

On this first morning of a new, hopefully better year, I woke from two brief odd, interesting dreams – vignettes, really.

In the first, Ten and I discovered that the local butterfly population was declining. They needed a boost. How could we assist? Well, ya see…we discovered that baby butterflies are made when a small black beetle-ish looking bug nibbles on some chilled cucumber slices. Afterwards, he goes and chats up a fine lady bug and, ya know, one thing leads to another and nine months later (or however long dreamland butterfly gestation works out to be) *VOILA* blue morpho and monarchs abound.

So, Ten and I were busy icing and slicing cucumbers because we’re ALL about accommodating horny butterfly makers.

Second dream – we decided to add a room to Valhalla. This would be a neat trick since our patch of land is quite small and our yoked houses already take up most of it. Possibly the new room would be in a pocket dimension, accessible via an irregularly appearing portal (thus avoiding additional real estate taxes and extra home insurance costs)?

What’s the new room for? Painting studio.

Oh, oh, OHHHHHHH, just after midnight this morning Zohran Mamdani was sworn in as mayor of New York!  You KNOW what this means don’t you?

Every single New Yorker, from Manhattan to Queens, Staten Island, the Bronx and Brooklyn will need to:

• Join a socialist commune. YES, even on Staten Island!
• Within this commune, everyone will need to be part of a polycule with a person named Indigo and another named Sage (both non-binary, of course).
• Dye their hair blue, purple, green or pink. Sometimes they’ll have to go full rainbow. Hair color schedules will depend on neighborhood and borough.
• New Yorkers must carry falafel and pita with them at all times in accordance with Shawarma Law. 
• New Yorkers will NOT be accused of disobeying Shawarma Law if they’ve already consumed their falafel and pita because, technically, they are still on/within them.
• The use of Arabic numerals is now mandatory (or “mamdani” as it will now be known).
• There will be compulsory yoga sessions seven days a week, at 10AM. 

• Prayer rugs will arrive in the mail by Monday. Instructions on care, cleaning, and storage will be enclosed.  

• NO, you can NOT use your prayer rug and yoga mat interchangeably. For starters, yoga necessitates a squishier base.
• New Yorkers will be expected to unionize their respective workplaces. This may not happen overnight unless they’re an independent contractor or otherwise work alone.
• Septum piercings will be done on the first Friday of each month at the local independent bookstore/coffeehouse.
• Everyone is expected to become vegan by Wednesday of next week. NO exceptions!
• Drawstring hemp trousers and bamboo T-shirts will be available through local, vetted, earth friendly retailers. Remember, 10% of sales of Leftist Rebel Scum T-shirts go toward overthrowing the fascist oligarchy.

Hmmph, now I’m in the mood for a falafel sandwich, some baba ganoush with pita chips, baklava, and a Hot Toddy.

A Puzzling Old Coot

I often have dreams about a friend with whom I’d once been very close. He died about six and a half years ago from cancer. He was 67 years old.

Why am I dreaming about Tom now?

Grief √
There’s no set time frame to being sad about a loved one dying. Grief doesn’t happen in discrete units. It comes and goes like the tides only maybe not so regular. I miss him.
 
Coping with memories √

Processing unresolved, complicated emotions √
Oh yeah, babies!

Tom and I had been tight for years – from my early 20s until the year I turned 40. He moved in with his new girlfriend that year and, afterward, I rarely saw him. We began traveling in very different circles and no longer frequented the same bars, clubs, parties or meet once a week for a pint and check-in. Life shifted.

Tom had been like a brother to me. He’s dead and I miss him. I missed him when he disappeared into his girlfriend’s world. Okay, he didn’t really disappear – I just didn’t fit into his new galaxy. It’s complicated and I suppose this is part of why I still have dreams about him. My mind continues to puzzle out what went wrong, why I didn't fit, why we didn’t remain close anyway. I want to turn back time and make everything all better.

Naturally, I’ve completely blamed myself – assumed all fault, figured that it’s my job to repair anything that’s possibly gone wrong. This, by the by, is a deeply ingrained bad habit and is absolute, total bullshit. Where’s it come from? Mia madre. I was the “responsible” child, the stable one. I was expected to step in when mother couldn’t cope or didn’t want to. She seemed to regard me as the family fixer.

OF COURSE I grew up thinking that if I just tried hard enough I could make any situation better. And if I couldn’t? The mess would def be my fault.

One good thing about getting old, I can usually recognize when I’m falling into this self-blame trap and logic myself back to reality.

Bad things about getting old? 

• Compression socks
• There’s too many damn meds to take every damn day
• My friends keep dying
• Reading glasses
• Like Nora Ephron, I Feel Bad About My Neck 
• My hair was already thin – now, after eight brain surgeries and attaining old coot-dom, I’m THIS close to just shaving my head and painting it purple (with scars in metallic silver).
• My feet seem to have gotten bigger or fatter or something. Goodbye fashionable Vans and slick Vionics. I just bought my first pair of Birkenstocks.

I’m thinking about mourning customs in the Victorian era. For women, the recommended, structured mourning time for a husband was two years, a parent or child – one year, and six months for a sibling. Men were less restricted – widowers mourned for six months or less. They were expected to get back to work to provide for their children and marry, presumably, for the same reason.

Two years after The Amazing Bob shuffled off this mortal coil, I was obscenely lucky enough to meet and spark with Ten. I wonder if Tom’s wife has remarried. No matter what, I hope she’s happy or at the very least secure and content.

Dreams and Dandelions

I dreamed that Jen and I were in Berlin to visit my cousin Della and her husband. We were touring some sculptors studio. He made tall bronze birds – cranes and egrets maybe. His style was an improbable cross between Giacometti and Botero or maybe R. Crumb if he sculpted birds in addition to drawing fat bottomed girls and libidinous cats.

The rest of the dream was a dull slog between airports and bus stations, standing in endless queues waiting for tickets, being stuck in crowded spaces. Très tedious which is pretty much how I’m feeling about all my stupid, fucking health issues lately. Bored now…ya know? 

I mean, wouldn’t it be nice to leave the house NOT for a doctor visit but, instead, a trip to the Fuller Craft Museum, a walk along Nantasket Beach, and then a plate of sashimi and cucumber sushi rolls at Fusion Kitchen? Yes, yezzzzzz, that would be divine.

I woke up wanting to make those bird sculptures out of terra cotta. Will I? Extremely doubtful. I don’t, at least currently, have the strength or unbanjaxed hand/eye coordination to work in clay. MAYBE I could draw and watercolor them. If the new med from my movement disorder neurologist mitigates my essential tremors, I’ll be steady and ready to go. Time will tell.

Meanwhile, here are some awesome shots Jen captured along the seawall this morning. My favorite flower – the dandelion.

In My Bean

I had a dream that Mick Jagger and Keith Richards came over for tea. Yes really.

I had a dream that someone (undoubtedly a stooge for the Tangerine Twat) was trying to assassinate Obama and it was up to me and Valerie Bertinelli to checkmate the murderous miscreant.

I had a dream that I was visiting an old friend. In real life, I’ve not seem him in years because he’d plunged into self-destructive, self involved, extreme defensiveness and alcoholism. Also, I’ve been a bit busy with little things like brain and spine surgeries, radiation, chemo treatments, endless rehab and such. (I KNOW—how incredibly rude of me) Back in Dream World, I found that, while Harry was now sober and not so banjaxed, he had not yet developed empathy or compassion. 

There’s lessons to be learned from my sleepy-time bean. Except for maybe the tea with Keef and Mick one. Since the dream, I’ve found out that Mr. Richards is awfully fond of shepherd's pie. I’ll need to find a vegan version (so I can have some too) for his next visit.
~~~
From Merriam-Webster:
Theism
     noun
: belief in the existence of a god or gods
specifically : belief in the existence of one God viewed as the creative source of the human race and the world who transcends yet is immanent in the world

Atheism is the opposite.

Agnosticism
     noun
: the view that any ultimate reality (such as a deity) is unknown and probably unknowable : a philosophical or religious position characterized by uncertainty about the existence of a god or any gods

I’m a rock solid agnostic with serious atheist leanings.

But you knew that.
~~~
In other parts of my head, I’m fuming (again? still?) over the ICE abductions.

The besuited thugs at Universal Strategic Advisors scored a cushy no-bid contract to shoddily and corruptly perform administrative shit so’s more Brownshirts can hit the streets to disappear innocents.

US Advisors CEO Brian DeMore and Chief Talent Officer David Marin are both named defendants in a lawsuit stemming from their time working at DHS. In 2019, former ICE officer Kui Myles filed suit alleging she was the victim of a scheme to manufacture criminal evidence against her after she complained of workplace harassment, resulting in her false arrest, false imprisonment, and invasion of privacy. (source)

They eat their own—why not us too, eh? Our taxpayer buckos pays for this heinous wolverine shit too.

ICE agents and their contract kidnappers should be fully doxxed. All their personal info, with pics of their faces, should be published online—Facebook, Instagram, Bluesky, Threads, Spoutible, Substack, the site formerly known as Twitter, EVERYWHERE. Also, flyers with their names and faces should be printed and posted all around their neighborhoods and towns. These traitors to humanity, these enemies of justice, these fascist tools need to be exposed and thoroughly ostracized. Make these sadism-for-pay, soulless cretins famous.

No justice? No peace.

Dreams and Snow

For the most part, I’m back to remembering my dreams. It’s been years since I’ve, consistently, been able to. 10,000 neurosurgeries will do that to ya. I like sorting out all my dream imagery and symbolism—it helps me process and deal with where I’m at emotionally.

Some Morpheus brain messages are spectacularly simple to sort out. Fer instance, in one I was beginning an affair with Obama. What was that all about? Incredibly, it was NOT about sex despite Barry’s extreme hotness. Nope, it was about finding comfort and protection in these absolutely insane times where democracy and human rights gains of the last 60 years are being shredded and decimated more each day.

An aside: in my dream language, sex is never about doing the horizontal bop. It generally means that I'm feeling a greater, deeper emotional connection to a person. For you, sleepy-time hanky panky might mean something else. Dream symbolism is specific to the individual dreamer

Not this Morpheus

The other night, Morpheus had me delivering some random package to a new resident of an apartment near where I lived 30 years ago in the Brighton section of Boston. Jen was with me. Rain was bucketing down and I was late to meet Stan for dinner. I was in a wee panic.

MAYBE I’m feeling like I’m overdue in sending a note to Stan—see how he’s doing and shit. It’s been awhile. Dunno.

Another Morpheus missive had me visiting an old friend and his wife in their treelined North Shore town. I haven’t seen Kevin in yonks.

I suspect that, despite my descent into introversion and misanthropy, I’m missing my old chums. Possibly, in the spring when getting around will be less of a herculean task, I can reconnect?

Meanwhile, have some snow pics. Fuck no, I didn’t go out to play in the white fluffy stuff—it’s cold, wet, and I forgot to put now tires and chains on my rollator. Falling—I’m not keen on the idea.  

*AHEM*  Pics by the intrepid Jen.

We're clearly under siege from the local bunny brigades.

Raccoon Island

Stone cat keeps an eye out for invading bunnies.