I'm starting a new Bad Sleep Cycle.
This happens from time to time. But it's happened enough times that it's become predictable, and I've gotten used to it.
The first stage is the Worthless Sleep Stage. The kind of sleep where you blink and eight hours have gone by. You don't feel as though you slept or are waking up. You simply have that Lost Time sensation that alien abductees always mention. Six, eight, even ten hours go by and I don't feel as though I've slept a wink. That's where I am now.
Next, perhaps in a week or two, will be the Sleepless Sleep Stage. This is the part where I lay in bed and not sleep for hours on end. I'll drift off aproximately 45 minutes before my alarm goes off. As this goes on, I become JonTheZombie. Staggering through life on autopilot, surviving only on any tourine based drinks I can get my hands on.
This will end in some sort of collapse. A complete breakdown of mental and physical capacities and I will sleep in one long streach of 12 to 14 hours. I always wake from that night (or day in my case) with an amazing sense of refreshment and renewed life. I can take on any task with feirce ambition and tireless resolve.
This is a short lived victory, because the days following are the Dream Stage. I don't dream when I sleep, but when I do they are vicious and surreal visions. Nightmares of Hell, visions of freakish occurences, twisted realities where friends are enemys and enemies are everywhere. On the nights that I dream, I always awake with a dark feeling inside, like some sort of wailing void that threatens to cave me in. Not all the dreams are nightmares, but none of them are ever pleasant.
Thankfully, those days only last for a week or so. When it's over, I'm back to normal. Sleeping a restful, dreamless sleep. I savor those days. And though I know I have a month or two ahead of me where my sleep is either cursed or non-existent, I know that I will be back to normal soon enough.
Until then, it's a great excuse for being "excentric."
As I'm sure you can probably tell, either from the sharp increase in my blog activity or the subject matter therein, I haven't been what you would call "sexually active" for a while.
Lately, it's become the subject of much conversation in my home. My roommates, Andrew and Sienna (who are due to be married at the end of the month), have expressed that they're "getting worried" about me. Sam, Andrew's brother (and as close to the neighborhood rooster as one can be without waking up at dawn), seems to think that it's some sort of insult to his character that I'm not racking up the one-night stands as fast as him.
Sam's brilliant idea of trying to "help me out" is telling some girl at the bar that the reason they call me "Doc" is because I'm a Resident Attending at an ER. He doesn't seem to understand why I wouldn't be interested in a girl that's dumb enough to fall for that.
Yesterday morning, I returned home from work to find Andrew just waking up. His work as a Web Designer means juggling himself around the schedules of his clients, most of whom are completely insane.
As I walk in, he is just lifting himself off of the couch that is right next to his computer.
"Hey man," he says, when his eyes finally focus on me. "I'm glad you're here. I think I've figured out your problem."
I stop short. I have a problem? I think to myself, and he's figured it out while I wasn't here?
"Okay," I ask, already regretting it. "What is my problem?"
"Lillypads," he says.
I take a moment to see if it sinks in. It doesn't. I have no idea what he's talking about.
"What the fuck?" I ask, pointedly.
He groans, groggily. "Work with me here," he says, lighting up a cigarette.
"There's a big lake between men and women," he continues. "Men on one side, women on the other. When a man and a woman flirt, they're tossing things into that lake so the person on the other side can get across. Every little bit of flirt is bait to see if that other person is gonna step right where you told them too."
"Okay," I say, "that's an odd metaphore."
"I've been having some strange dreams. Just listen for a second. Now, most girls start with a lillypad. They toss a lillypad out into the water. It's their way of saying that you can't cross the lake yet, but she's listening. Most guys will see that lillypad and keep up the game. They might talk about how nice the lillypad is, or pretend it's not there, or maybe even dip a toe in the water, you know? But the next step in the game is to get that girl to throw out a cobblestone or a boulder next to that lillypad. Something more stable and surefooted for the guy to cross over on."
He cracks open a Pepsi before continuing.
"You, on the other hand, when you see that lillypad you jump right on fucking top of it with both feet."
He pauses, waiting for my reaction. Like the actors on sitcoms, waiting for the studio laughter to die down before moving on to the next line.
"That's my problem," I say, "that I jump on the lillypads?"
"No, man. That's fucking genius. I've never seen anyone do that before and it throws me every time you do. Fuck! Remember that chick you met at Dooley's, when my mom came to visit? What was her name?"
I can't help but smile. I'm proud of myself for all the wrong reasons. "Brooke, I think. I'm almost sure it started with a 'b.'"
"Jesus Christ, dude. I couldn't beleive the way you were talking to her. I thought I was gonna shit myself. But she was all about you because of that. I would bet you a million bucks that she'd never had some asshole at a bar just start talking to her like that, and she was loving it.
"Yeah, okay," I say. "So what's the problem?"
"The problem is, yeah you jump on that lillypad with both feet, but you always wait for the lillypad. You never, ever make the first move. Yeah, once the girl has sent you the first signal, you're taming lions and riding horses through rings of fire, but until she does you don't do shit. Hell freezes over while you're waiting on the side of that lake for her to give you that lillypad. But once you're in the water, the fuckin' lillypad doesn't matter. Swim right across that lake like nobody ever has. Dude, fuck the lillypad you don't need it, just jump into the goddamn water!"
He sat back and smoked. I waited for him to continue, until i realized he was done.
"That's it?" I ask.
"Yeah, man." he says.
"That's a severely underdeveloped theory," I say.
"Fuck you, I just woke up," he replies. "Give me an hour; I'll give you the proof, the factorum, and I'll even show my work."
I leave the conversation at that. Chances are, in one way or another, Andrew is right. He very often is, much to my dismay.
Some time later, he began to reiterate. Something about traveling salesmen and never knocking on doors, just standing outside the house to see if anyone ever comes out - then, once the door is opened a crack, driving a freight train into the front of the house.
That imagery was a little easier to translate, but it did not prove his theory.
I'm sure he will make his point eventually. He won't rest until he does.
Until then... my blog remains well tended to.
TTFN
Much to my surprise, I got more of a response to my previous post on unatainable women that turn me on than any other post I've made, including my egotistical rant on racism. Not, mind you, because of it's degredating tone towards women (because I assure you, there was none) but because of people I know wanting to know why I had left certain women off the list.
It began with an off the cuff comment from Laura who wanted to know why Rose McGowan isn't on the list. Then came a flood of emails (4 counts as a flood...shut up) from other readers asking why their favorite starlet was not on my list.
Well, here's the quick and easy answer:
That was the TOP FIVE. I made that perfectly clear. Obviously, my Fantasy Harem would have more than just 5 women in it. What am I, a monk?
Now, before I continue, and before I receive another slew (3 or more) of emails telling me how barbaric I am for even having a Fantasy Harem, I just want to say this; it has nothing to do with lording over women. This is simply a childish and perverted desire to have buffet sex. Any woman who wishes to collect herself a castle full of husbands whom are there solely to abate her carnal desires has my full support. So long as the men are consenting adults, fully aware of the situation, having no reservations in the matter. I would expect no less from the ladies of my harem (yet another point towards it's unlikelyhood).
Whatever goes on between two or three consenting adults, while another twenty or so wait their turn, is really none of our business. Unless of course, the video is for sale. Then it's just good business.
I think Bill Hicks said it best when he said:
"I'm a very special guy. It's going to take a very special woman to make my life complete. Or, a lot of average ones."
That said, I'll sound off a quick roll call of JonTheDoc's Fantasy Harem. Bear in mind, this list is ever changing. Lindsay Lohan was #16 until about 8 months ago, now she's off the list. If you've bothered to see any recent pictures of her, you'd probably guess why. There is no rule, ryme, or reason to the structure of this list. It is merely the most current and up-to-date catalogue of females in the Public Eye that I wish to insert my penis into, repeatedly. Read nothing further into it. There is no deep seeded emotion craving, or desire to be desired by those of Celebrity Status. I just want to have sex with famous women. I really am that shallow.
Just a little sign off....
I saw Serenity on opening night, being that it was my birthday and I had been holding my breath for that movie for over a year and a half.
Since then, I've been debating with myself on the right words to describe it here, so as to let everyone know just how cool this movie is, why everyone in the world should see it, and how anyone who isn't interested or doesn't like it should be pitied and then put to death (for their own good.)
The most dificult part about this is that telling you about all the best things in this movie would spoil it for you. I've never liked spoilers and I don't understand how people who read them are able to enjoy life.
Alas, as I tooled over this delema I was beaten to the punch by Burton and Mike. They pretty much said what I was trying to say. So, read their words, and go see the movie. For those of you who have a practice of seeing movies for free, whatever you method, I ask you politely to set that asside for this film. I'm just as much a Media Pirate as the next guy, but this movie deserves the kudos of a profit.
Most importantly, we want them to make more. When you see it, you'll understand.
Riding the train home from work yesterday, we pulled into my stop. The announcer called out "This is Logan Square. Doors open on the left at Logan Square," in the usual "god I love my job" tone he always has. His is a pre-recorded voice that never gets tired, overworked, underpaid, yelled at, told to shut up, asked why the hell the train is late, or any of the other things that may whittle away at the tone in a true train operator's voice.
This voice rides with you no matter where you go in the entire Chicago Transit Authority network. Every bus and every train carries this voice with it. It announces the approach and arrival of every stop. On the outside, it announces the number and route of each bus, as well as the color and destination of every train. Intermittently, he offers up reminders not to litter, vandalize, or solicit ourselves or each other while riding. My friends have dared to call him a liar, since he tells us that CTA spends over $20 million dollars a year cleaning up after vandals, yet none of us have seen any of the grafitti disappear.
Yesterday, as this cheery young man informed me that we had reached my stop, I asked myself "Who said that?" Who is this man with easily the most recognized voice in all of Chicago. Is he still alive? How much did he get paid? Does he ever get stopped on the street by addoring fans, begging him to do a post-modern rendition of his greatest hit "Violators Will Be Prosecuted?"
Then it occurs to me...this may not be a human voice at all.
I remeber a few years back, I was listening to Public Radio (yes, I listen to Public Radio) and they played a recording of Robert Frost reading one of his poems. When it was done, they informed me that Robert Frost never made that recording. It was a computer generated TruVoice sample gleaned and constructed from what few samples of Frost's voice they had. Had they not told me, I would never have known.
Today, a vast majority of the voicemail recording you hear, "Press 1 for English" and so on, are completely artificial. Starting with the base technology that Stephen Hawking uses to translate his speach (called "Talking Moose" by some of us long time Mac users) and building on that with algorithms to simulate inflection and stress. Almost two decades of this work has produces a slew of programs that can simulate human speech that is almost indistinguishable from the genuine article.
This worries me.
Why? So glad you asked.
Now that we can artificially simulate a human voice, and every day we come closer to creating a convincingly computer generated person, there may come a day when professional actors become obsolete. Why spend the 20 million on Jim Carey, when you can have eJim for half the price or less. Sure, the big name guys like Carey may still retire on the likeness rights for such a thing, but then where would the need be for new actors. All those poor souls giving out handjobs to producers in Hollywood will be doing it for nothing. Suddenly, breaking into The Biz will be that much harder. In order to get an acting job, you'd have to be more economically viable than a generic 3D model. Getting your big break will require a blowjob and a pay cut.
Now, perhaps this is just some sort of technophobic panic. I mean, even with the inset of film and video, theater is still a strong force in our society. CD's did not exterminate vinyl. The decriminalization of Marijuana in Canada did not make it any cheaper. Perhaps what I fear will never come to be. But if it does, there is still a strong desire in our land to appreciate every form of art, be it ancient or post-modern. Live action film may yet survive, and the going price for a lead role will plateu at "sucking me off while my golf buddies watch."
God bless America.
[sorry about the bad spelling, folks. i just don't care today.]
Those who know me know that I am a man of many minor obessions. I my room is filled with odd little trinkets that I pick up off the street. When I snub out a cigarette, I crush and snub and crush until I'm sure it's totally extinguished. I never use lotion or sunscreen, because it kind of grosses me out. I collect chirashis and once spent $15 on a chirashi with a street value of diddly shit. My ability to discern what is important and what is not is a bit screwed.
Of my "quirks" that stem from my apparent lack proper judgement, the one that is most often pointed out to me as being the strangest (and/or most pathetic) is my fanboy crush on Christina Ricci.
There's a rat problem in Chicago. So much so that the City has put up signs all over town asking - nay - pleading the public, if you see a rat fuckin' kill it!
Me, I got no problem with rats. Sure, there's the whole black plague and all. But you can't really blame the rats for that. We've lost count of the number of european flu's, typhoid's, and pox's that have blanketed the world thanks to us. And yes, a rat may bite you if you try to pick it up, but so will dogs, cats, and mexican girls. And yes, rats may cause quite a bit of damage to public and personal property as they burrow their nests where ever they please. But really, wouldn't it be hypocritical of us to cast stones on them for that?
On the other hand, no rat has ever hit me up for change or followed me for two blocks calling me names when I refused. No rat has ever spit on me for not giving my heart to Christ. Never once have I ever had a rat pull a gun on me. Thus far, I have not heard of any conglomerate of rats conspiring to artificially inflate the price of gasoline or healthcare. My wife never cheated on me with a rat.
No, as life on this planet goes, I have no qualms with rats.
I just recently watched Full Metal Jacket for the upteenth time again. As per usual, I am struck by the perfection of the opening monologue that was delivered, entirely impromptu, by The Sarge himself, R. Lee Ermy:
I am Gunnery Sergeant Hartman, your Senior Drill Instructor. From now on, you will speak only when spoken to, and the first and last words out of your filthy sewers will be "Sir!" Do you maggots understand that? If you ladies leave my island, if you survive recruit training... you will be a weapon, you will be a minister of death, praying for war. But until that day you are pukes! You're the lowest form of life on Earth. You are not even human fucking beings! You are nothing but unorganized grabasstic pieces of amphibian shit! Because I am hard, you will not like me. But the more you hate me, the more you will learn. I am hard, but I am fair! There is no racial bigotry here! I do not look down on niggers, kikes, wops or greasers. Here you are all equally worthless! And my orders are to weed out all non-hackers who do not pack the gear to serve in my beloved Corps! Do you maggots understand that?
And of course, a couple of my favorite lines:
What do we have here? A comedian; Private Joker. You've got guts. Hell, I like you. You can come to my house and fuck my sister.
You'd best wipe that stupid lookin' grin off your face, or I will gouge out your eyeballs and skull-fuck you!
Even after a few hundred viewings, I still get the giggles every time I watch that scene. Even more amazing is the fact that Ermy has built an entire acting career off of this character as well as lampooning himself in dozens of movies, TV shows, and cartoons.
I have nothing really deep or enlighting to say about him or his career, other than I just think he's cool.
That's all for now.
