It seems I never have normal dreams. Other people have dreams in which they’re flying, or in which they have conversations with dead loved ones, or in which they star in their favorite movie.
I have dreams in which I defend my family against werewolves, or in which aliens are among us and no one will listen to me, or in which film actors come into my place of employment and demand bread.
I dreamt I was at work, doing normal work type things (stocking candy, opening boxes, etc.), when suddenly Michael Madsen enters the store.
“I’ve been all over and no one has what I need. This is the last store here, so you’d better have it.” he said
“Have what?” I asked.
I looked around at my fellow co-workers.
“We don’t have any bread, man.” I said.
This is the point in my dream at which Michael Madsen proceded to yell “MICHAEL MADSEN WANTS BREAD! BREAD FOR MADSEN!” whilst knocking over all of our displays. He then ran, screaming while doing so, into our men’s room and locked the door behind him.
“Should I call the police?” a co-worker asked.
“You can’t call the cops on him, man.” I replied, “That’s Michael Madsen!”
The rest of the dream is a bit hazy, but it involved each of us knocking on the men’s room door, trying our best to talk Madsen out. We were all met with “BRING ME BREAD OR LEAVE ME ALONE!”.
I don’t recall if any of us actually retrieved some bread for Mr. Madsen. I’d like to think he got his bread and helped us clean up the mess he made, but I couldn’t say for certain.
We don’t have a Christmas tree. Nor have we had one any of the Christmases since I’ve lived here. Why? Danielle hates the needles left behind by a real tree, and I despise the artificial trees you buy in stores.
So we find ourselves at an impasse.
Should be a terrible-yet-fun action film.
Looks good. Certainly looks better than Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines.
Ever wonder what Isaac Asmiov’s daily writing routine was like?
His usual routine was to awake at 6 A.M., sit down at the typewriter by 7:30 and work until 10 P.M.
In “In Memory Yet Green,” the first volume of his autobiography, published in 1979, he explained how he became a compulsive writer. His Russian-born father owned a succession of candy stores in Brooklyn that were open from 6 A.M. to 1 A.M. seven days a week. Young Isaac got up at 6 o’clock every morning to deliver papers and rushed home from school to help out in the store every afternoon. If he was even a few minutes late, his father yelled at him for being a folyack, Yiddish for sluggard. Even more than 50 years later, he wrote: “It is a point of pride with me that though I have an alarm clock, I never set it, but get up at 6 A.M. anyway. I am still showing my father I’m not a folyack.”
The New York Times, April 7, 1992
Facinating stuff. The daily routines of more writers here.
Only a little more than a week left to get this R2D2 Aquarium for $80 instead of $130.
(if I had eighty dollars and, well, fish, I would definitely buy it)
Religion on the brain, hyuck hyuck.