with co-writing credit going to my good friend, Rick.
Gonna rent me a room where I wont stay.
gonna build me a boat gonna sail away
Gonna dig me a moat to keep people away
Gonna give away my coat before the sleeves fray
(bridge)
I'm gonna run out of the right things to say
I'll try to forget you, every day
I'm gonna run out of the right things to say
I'll try to forget you, every day
(chorus)
Gonna love you Gonna leave you
Bow before you And deceive you
I'll beg for your return, Smiling as you walk away
Gonna wake up and drink myself sober
Gonna leave this town gonna start over
Gonna trade in my honda for an old land rover,
Gonna slap it in gear and run for cover
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
to sleep, perchance to fish...
love of fishing, dream of fishing....
I fish.
It's one of my few real passions outside of my wife and child.
It affords me the luxury of removing myself from everything else, for a few hours. Like a really good concert, but quieter, and in more pleasant surroundings.
I'm not particularly obsessive about it, certainly not to the point where I own 8 tackle boxes, 12 rod/reel combos, participate in tournaments, etc.
But I know what I'm doing.
And this is what frustrates me. I know what I'm doing.
I'm....adept.
Until I fall asleep.
I dream about fishing, frequently. And in every case, my dream fishing experiences are straight up fiascos.
I hardly ever even get to the point where I have a line in the water, and never catch fish.
One mis-step after another. poles break, I forget things and have to go back for them, water levels are too high, parks are closed, lines are tangled....
the list of obstacles that prevent me from fishing competently in my sleep, are endless.
I bring this up only because it happened last night.
last night it was a kayak that was not watertight, and hopelessly tangled fishing line, after making 8 trips back to the house to find things...
I'm not even sure I can categorize these as "dreams about fishing", as I rarely fish in them.
I could think of them as "dreams about NOT catching fish" but that would include every dream I have....
what would freud have to say about this?
I fish.
It's one of my few real passions outside of my wife and child.
It affords me the luxury of removing myself from everything else, for a few hours. Like a really good concert, but quieter, and in more pleasant surroundings.
I'm not particularly obsessive about it, certainly not to the point where I own 8 tackle boxes, 12 rod/reel combos, participate in tournaments, etc.
But I know what I'm doing.
And this is what frustrates me. I know what I'm doing.
I'm....adept.
Until I fall asleep.
I dream about fishing, frequently. And in every case, my dream fishing experiences are straight up fiascos.
I hardly ever even get to the point where I have a line in the water, and never catch fish.
One mis-step after another. poles break, I forget things and have to go back for them, water levels are too high, parks are closed, lines are tangled....
the list of obstacles that prevent me from fishing competently in my sleep, are endless.
I bring this up only because it happened last night.
last night it was a kayak that was not watertight, and hopelessly tangled fishing line, after making 8 trips back to the house to find things...
I'm not even sure I can categorize these as "dreams about fishing", as I rarely fish in them.
I could think of them as "dreams about NOT catching fish" but that would include every dream I have....
what would freud have to say about this?
no mas l'hospital, por favor
That's supposed to mean "no more hospital, please" as I dust off my high school french...
Why? Read on.
So, at age 40.75, I had my first hospital experience as a patient last week.
Overall, I really can't recommend it to anyone.
I was in a freezing cold waiting room for over three hours, then in a bed in ER for another seven, most of which was spent just a curtain away from a hardcore drug addict whom, I'm told, is brought in about once a week when her neighbors call the police.
They couldn't get her to wake up, while at the same time they couldn't get her to stay laying down. Guess I'm glad she wasn't awake, as that would not have made my morning anymore pleasant.
They ran a large # of high tech tests on me, in hopes of figuring out why I was so sore I couldn't hardly stand up straight, and why my white cell count was aprox 3-4x the ideal level.
the transport guys would push me down a maze of hallways, and then leave my outside a seemingly random door, with a vague promise that someone would be seeing me shortly. I'd have a little doze there in the hallway, folks chatting with one another as they walked by. I felt invisible.
After the second or third such trip, I toyed with the idea of pulling my bedsheet up over my head while laying there in the hallway, just to see if anyone noticed. I hadn't slept in a couple nights by this point, so my judgement was probably not the best.
tests completed, blood drawn 3x already, urine analyzed, they finally admitted me. There were adult rooms on what had been their pediatric unit. So I had a pink room with giraffes painted on the walls outside my door. and big windows out into the hallway, designed for nurses to be able to keep an eye on the kids as they passed by, I assume.
Wasn't allowed food nor drink, had an IV plugged into crook of my elbow.
I'm right handed, so of course they stuck it on that side.
And then told me to try not to bend my arm.
For two days.
Oh, and I had to pee into a bottle, while wearing a hospital gown. But I couldn't bend my arm.
How many hands does it take to aim and hold a bottle, whilst lifting a hospital gown ? I think five would have been a good number, as long as at least three of the hands were attached to bendable arms. But I'm a bright lad, and figured things out.
As I'm of irish descent, big, and live in south suburban Chicago, I had to convince each doctor I spoke with that no, I'm really not an alcoholic, and wasn't out binge drinking miller lites while power eating bratwursts the night before, with all my alcoholic brat wurst eating buddies.
That got pretty old.
I was profiled!
I relayed this to a black co-worker, for the laughter I figured it would bring him. He thought it was hilarious.
Solidarity, brother.
We can't let the man keep us down.
when you're finally off food restriction, and allowed to eat again, you don't want it to be hospital food. Granted I had no appetite, even after going without food for three days, so I wasn't going to eat much. But even with such diminished needs and expectations, Saturday's breakfast fell way short.
Man, I really hope this is not a re-curring ailment, as it oftentimes can be....
Why? Read on.
So, at age 40.75, I had my first hospital experience as a patient last week.
Overall, I really can't recommend it to anyone.
I was in a freezing cold waiting room for over three hours, then in a bed in ER for another seven, most of which was spent just a curtain away from a hardcore drug addict whom, I'm told, is brought in about once a week when her neighbors call the police.
They couldn't get her to wake up, while at the same time they couldn't get her to stay laying down. Guess I'm glad she wasn't awake, as that would not have made my morning anymore pleasant.
They ran a large # of high tech tests on me, in hopes of figuring out why I was so sore I couldn't hardly stand up straight, and why my white cell count was aprox 3-4x the ideal level.
the transport guys would push me down a maze of hallways, and then leave my outside a seemingly random door, with a vague promise that someone would be seeing me shortly. I'd have a little doze there in the hallway, folks chatting with one another as they walked by. I felt invisible.
After the second or third such trip, I toyed with the idea of pulling my bedsheet up over my head while laying there in the hallway, just to see if anyone noticed. I hadn't slept in a couple nights by this point, so my judgement was probably not the best.
tests completed, blood drawn 3x already, urine analyzed, they finally admitted me. There were adult rooms on what had been their pediatric unit. So I had a pink room with giraffes painted on the walls outside my door. and big windows out into the hallway, designed for nurses to be able to keep an eye on the kids as they passed by, I assume.
Wasn't allowed food nor drink, had an IV plugged into crook of my elbow.
I'm right handed, so of course they stuck it on that side.
And then told me to try not to bend my arm.
For two days.
Oh, and I had to pee into a bottle, while wearing a hospital gown. But I couldn't bend my arm.
How many hands does it take to aim and hold a bottle, whilst lifting a hospital gown ? I think five would have been a good number, as long as at least three of the hands were attached to bendable arms. But I'm a bright lad, and figured things out.
As I'm of irish descent, big, and live in south suburban Chicago, I had to convince each doctor I spoke with that no, I'm really not an alcoholic, and wasn't out binge drinking miller lites while power eating bratwursts the night before, with all my alcoholic brat wurst eating buddies.
That got pretty old.
I was profiled!
I relayed this to a black co-worker, for the laughter I figured it would bring him. He thought it was hilarious.
Solidarity, brother.
We can't let the man keep us down.
when you're finally off food restriction, and allowed to eat again, you don't want it to be hospital food. Granted I had no appetite, even after going without food for three days, so I wasn't going to eat much. But even with such diminished needs and expectations, Saturday's breakfast fell way short.
Man, I really hope this is not a re-curring ailment, as it oftentimes can be....
hey, if you can't embarass yourself anon. on the 'net...
Then Just what's the point?
here goes:
She grew luscious produce,
Fresh squeezed her own orange juice, which she
brought to me in her bed
It was all organically grown, and
when I'm alone
I can't get her out of my head
She made her own herbal tea, she'd
share it with me
when we would sit on her garden wall
We plotted and talked,
brainstormed while we walked
And then she opened a store in the mall
She grew luscious produce, but
it was just no use
I couldn't give up my carniverous ways
Now she's worth several mil, and I
think of her still,
And long to be part of her salad days
A friend came up with "luscious produce" on my 'frig magnet poetry awhile ago, and I was (ill) inspired. I think it has a bad Jimmy Buffet vibe to it. Somewhere, lost forever I expect, is the companion piece, Veggie Burger in Paradise. That one was a bit more blatant in it's...homage.
here goes:
She grew luscious produce,
Fresh squeezed her own orange juice, which she
brought to me in her bed
It was all organically grown, and
when I'm alone
I can't get her out of my head
She made her own herbal tea, she'd
share it with me
when we would sit on her garden wall
We plotted and talked,
brainstormed while we walked
And then she opened a store in the mall
She grew luscious produce, but
it was just no use
I couldn't give up my carniverous ways
Now she's worth several mil, and I
think of her still,
And long to be part of her salad days
A friend came up with "luscious produce" on my 'frig magnet poetry awhile ago, and I was (ill) inspired. I think it has a bad Jimmy Buffet vibe to it. Somewhere, lost forever I expect, is the companion piece, Veggie Burger in Paradise. That one was a bit more blatant in it's...homage.
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