Manhattan Offender

My feelings of inadequacy are rooted in the Food Network

In what is now an officially recurring dream (three is enough, yes?), I'm working for the Food Network in the selection of a new television chef.  Anxiety hits though as everything tastes, um, "good".  Nothing is "amazing".  The stress isn't from making the selection though.  It's from not having the vocabulary to express what I'm tasting and feelings of inadequacy regarding my rather vulgar palate.

There are meals in my repertoire.  Vito taught me to make an amazing marinara.  Chili is a lay-up.  And my baking is very popular.  There is a Joy of Cooking sitting/collecting dust in the kitchen and a complete service for twelve, if ever the need may arise.

Surrounded by friends that are amazing cooks and avid watchers of Food Network programming has struck a chord of insecurity.  It makes more sense for them to host and cook.  The egalitarian in me though was to serve back with more than just a bottle of good wine.  The sleeper in me just doesn't want to be woken up by this dream again.

Get out of my dreams and into my car

I've had a recurring dream lately.

I'm in a park with a good friend, D, and his straight brother, Charlie, the painter.  (In reality, there is no such brother of D, but in my dream he exists.) Charlie is talking about how he's going to be in Ocean Park on Fire Island.  I'm very excited and tell him about the water taxis and tell him how to get to our place in The Pines.  We talk about hanging out on the beach and dancing to gay disco music and doing all the things people can do in The Pines.

Charlie walks away.

D turns to me:  "He's straight.  I get so annoyed when guys come on to him."
I reply:  "I'm not coming on to him."
D:  "You are so."
This goes on for a bit and then I agree with Dustin that subconsciously I am flirting with Charlie.  Dustin walks away, the dream meanders elsewhere.

(Inevitably the dream ends up with me on the roof of a red building in the Pines harbor, avoiding gunfire from an Asian assassin.)

Nightmare: I was the assistant manager of a Wendy's in a mall

The ending is very vivid, but the beginning is a bit of a blur.  There had just been a rush of customers and the counter was being cleaned up.  The ketchup "tub" had just been refilled.  The mustard tub was next.  After taking the lid off the tub, there was a visible ring of dried mustard that had obviously not been cleaned in weeks.

Because the mustard tub was gross, I asked some of the other employees to take care of it.  My hands were already dirty with mustard.  The other employees were mostly those 20-something "bears" that you see at places like Gym and Nowhere.  The one I asked, "Joey" told me that the job could wait for the weekend crew since they were notorious for not cleaning the dining area anyway.

I'm informed by a female coworker that the manager needs to see me, but I insist that my hands must be cleaned first.  She points at an oak veneer door with the words "Manager" in the red Wendy's font.  After yelling about the need to clean my hands, I storm downstairs to the "additional seating" area and enter the men's room.

The men's room is disgusting.  Encrusted poop is on the wall behind the toilet.  The sink in which I will wash my hands contains hair, a postcard, and something else under the card.  I remove the hair (long, black).  I read the post card which writing on it.  "Well since you won't come see me in the hospital, I guess I can't tell you that I love her."  Under the postcard is a mostly empty vial of blood, with a label on it that has the name "Sonia Adams". All of these items are thrown in the trash can, which also has a pair of dirty New Balance sneakers within.

As I turn to wash my hands, the dream ends as I wake up.

With morning wood.

Do you ever have that dream?

Do you ever have that dream where you are sitting in an employment agency of some sort and lists of dead-end jobs are being told to you?  As you sit there you continually say, "No, I really think I can do more than that," the list of jobs continues droning along.  Eventually you leave the baby-boom woman with  that hideous type of Japanese-straightened hair and too much makeup, to be stopped by another women around the same age, but more natural looking.  She introduces herself as the president of the employment agency and insists that you come to her office immediately.

"You should be a model."
"But I'm too old.  And at least ten pounds too heavy."
"Are you kidding me?  That face is so unique.  Your proportions are model-perfect.  And those big-gun arms?  I could have you booked in minutes."

She takes down your information and takes some Polaroids.  She gives you her card and walks you to the door, promising to call you by tonight.

As you walk out into the sun-drenched beautiful warm day you hear Architecture in Helsinki in the background.  It's going to be a beautiful day.
---
Then you wake up.
And it's a cold and snowing on an April morning.
And you get ready for work.
And you see yourself in a reflective subway surface and think, "But I'm model-perfect."
---
You don't have that dream?  Oh.

Image credit.

Dreaming of a Mexican Prison

My incarceration must have been because of a misdemeanor.  While on all four sides the walls were indeed heavy-gage steel bars and while the door to my cell had a lock, the key was in my pocket.  Additionally, having my laptop and camera and cellphone in the cell didn't seem to be an issue.  Early on someone even brought me some weed and a pipe.

But the logic centers of my brain wouldn't accept this.  So throughout my stay in Mexican prison my personal belongings would remain hidden in a secret compartment of my cot's mattress.  Paranoia expressed itself when upon one return to my cell found the door unlocked and the laptop missing, only to discover it under a Helmut Lang sweater.

Yes, for the weeks (it was a long dream) that were spent in the Mexican prison my wardrobe was normal.  Occasionally though other inmates would be seen wearing a grey damask jumpsuit-type uniforms, usually very tight in the legs and buttocks and unbuttoned to reveal dark tanned furry chests.  All of the inmates were very sexual, sneaking into one another's cells or having orgies in the showers.  For whatever reason there was a porn video - straight porn - hidden in my mattress as well - a VHS cassette, not a DVD.  The video was very popular, with one of the guards sneaking off with it and returning it with a dab of goo on the sleeve.

Toward the end of my stay, while humping another inmate in his cell, Selma Hayek came in with a breakfast tray and began to chat with me about Ugly Betty, a show that despite having only seen two episodes of, was something of which expert knowledge was now mine.

Suddenly, into the cell with Selma, humpee and me burst Vicente Fox, declaring "Usted está haciendo gordo, Rod. Mire su vientre*."  My reply, "¿Entonces porqué soy aquí en cama con su esposa, Selma?**" sent him away.

Selma and I agreed that the pitfall of doing Ugly Betty in the states was that, where the telenovela format forced strong character arcs, American television executives look at their programming as brands that they want to last as long as possible thus causing the characters to languish over time.  We agreed to work on definitive arcs for the second season and that a few episodes would carry my name as lead writer.  She poured me another glass of orange juice leaving my prison trade and I alone at last.

And then I woke up.

* - "You're getting kind of fat, Rod.  Look at your belly."
** - "Then why am I in bed with your wife, Selma?"