A memory from this time last year. I found it serviceably amusing enough to share, for those of you enduring a cold, or about to be:
Wrestling with the mother of all colds, one of those where you actually injure yourself in a coughing fit, and then you don’t really want to cough, or sneeze, or make any sudden moves. Also, I’m, at the moment, a radio guy with no voice. The resulting visit to the doctor yesterday ended up with a couple of prescriptions, including cough syrup that some might call “the good stuff,” so I can get some sleep.
My dreaming, which has always been at least interesting, has now taken a hard right turn into the outright weird. I’m usually pretty good about waking up when something turns odd in my dreams, but tonight it’s been generally a combination – mostly – of “why bother?” and “well, let’s chase this for another minute or so…”
First up: the Harry Potter series gets republished, but in the process they’ve changed the titles to completely incomprehensible things. And they’re stand-alone titles, i.e, NOT stuff like Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, but rather Harry Potter and Elijah Woozy’s Curtain of Secrets or Harry Potter and the Endless Fudgesickle Conspiracy.
You’ll also be glad to know that, for some reason, the “new” one (the stage play called Harry Potter and the Cursed Child here in the real world) is now called, evidently inspired by Hunter S. Thompson and/or Ralph Steadman, Filthy Beasts and How to Draw Them.
Also, one of the back cover blurbs says, “Monty, you terrible (REALLY bad word here, the one that if you say it in a fight, your marriage is probably over)!” Which I think is my brain trying to merge the film Withnail and I with the Potter universe (the same actor played Harry’s uncle in the films, and Uncle Monty in Withnail).
Todd’s brain, at this point, says, oh, that’s IT. WAKE UP, NOW.
Drink, bathroom break, adjust pillows, back to sleep.
Thanksgiving visit to Mom’s house. She now has tentacles, for some reason, which I notice as she’s putting the turkey in the oven.
Drink, readjust pillows, turn over, back to sleep.
Excellent free-jazz combo in a club suddenly breaks into bro-country.
UP, DANG IT. UUUUUUUUP.
Lather, rinse, repeat for the past couple of hours.
The last one before I got up to type this was SO annoying and so brief that I just said I MUST GET THIS OUT OF MY BRAIN BEFORE I TRY SLEEPING AGAIN.
Watching a documentary on Netflix about some artist or other, and then it segued into the phrase, “you know, Lindsay Lohan…”
UP. UP. GET UP. THAT’S IT. SICK OF YOUR CRAP, BRAIN. I NEED TO SPEAK WITH YOUR SUPERVISOR, RIGHT NOW!
Also, codeine cough syrup? No thanks, pass.
Now, attempting to go back to bed yet again. Please, I beg you Lord, nothing that includes the words “erotica” and “Bea Arthur” in the same sentence, that’s all I ask…