Archive for March, 2007

… But I Dream About Stephen Colbert

March 10, 2007

No, I really did. And I have so few remembered dreams, too — my psyche generally keeps its nighttime workings locked up. Lord *knows* who else I’m having strange erotic experiences with, without remembering them.

And it’s not like I even watch Colbert all the time. I watch him a lot, but not always. When I woke up from this dream of him I knew I had had an important visitation, but what does it *mean*? Feel free to throw a little interpretation my way, if YOU can make heads or tails of it.

I was onstage MCing something. My next person to bring up was Colbert, and I intro’ed him with the same inflection Jon Stewart uses at the end of almost every Daily Show when he spends his minute with the other comedian: “… our good friend Stephen Colbert at the Colbert Report… STEPHEN!”

But Colbert, unbeknownst to me, was going by another name at this show. He was SO not happy at being mis-introduced. And I, for the life of me, could not remember what his pseudonym was supposed to be. He hung around the margin of the stage, angry, for quite some time. This was at some sort of atmospheric brick comedy club, and the audience didn’t seem to notice anything amiss except, perhaps, me being off my MC game. I finally called an intermission to try to deal with it.

I don’t recall how I got into the pantyhose. I never wear them. I know certain fetishists (1, 2)just adore them, but I’ve always hated them. But there I was when intermission was over, wearing the pantyhose, the kind with the little cotten panel sewed in (because with cotten crotches you’re less likely to develop vaginal infections, right? UNLESS the cotten is covered up by the less breatheable nylon, you idiot pantyhose manufacturers!). I know about the cotton crotch because my next exchange with Colbert was like this:

He approached the stage, pushed me down, and grappled with me in a way that was vagely but not clearly sexual. But he wanted to get at the pantyhose! He ripped the crotch open! (OK, so this is what can be GOOD about pantyhose. I’ll admit my bias has been dented a bit by this dream experience.) And written on the white cotton panel was his proper pseudonym! I could introduce him! The show could go on!

Then I woke up.

Two other things. You may be wondering why I didn’t just ask him his dang pseudonym. I did try to do that, but he was in a snit and wouldn’t reveal it. Nor do I remember it now. It vanished with the dream. Probably the key to the whole thing, huh? And gone with the wind.

Finally, reading the paper this morning I’m struck by the resemblance between Colbert and Dennis the Menace’s father. Is this why America immediately took Colbert into its heart? Probably not.


Uh-Oh, Free-Associating Again! (And who should make an appearance but Ann Coulter…!)

March 9, 2007

Walking to work the other day, from Hayes Valley to 5th and Howard where the Good Vibrations offices are located, I passed more than one nodded-out soul drifting along. I commend you all to the recently-posted sort-of-salutary comments on meth posted on December’s Meth Day entry, but drugs affect plenty of people in a problematic way, and nowhere is it so noticeable as in SOMA the morning the sugar daddy has been through. One guy was not nodding, though… he was going the other direction for sure, muttering and pacing around enough to take up pretty much the whole sidewalk. It was right outside the chi-chi new market at 8th and Howard, which must be a mindfuck of a place for homeless folks to hang out, like outside the pet shop would be to a love-starved little kid whose parents won’t allow a puppy.

So this one guy was not just taking up space: I saw that he was bumping into people on purpose. Not just any people: women. I cut a berth around him and didn’t get hit, but the women plugged into iPods and lost in conversation got shouldered roughly. Whatthe? A misogynist? Or was this as close to female contact as this poor nasty guy usually gets?

Of course, random females rarely wish to be the only female contact for random guys, especially this way. “Fuck you!” they yelled at him. “Fucker!”

Sigh. Fucking, which can be the nicest thing in the world, again used as an epithet having zero to do with erotic experience: instead, as shorthand for angry and violent sentiments. No freakin’ *wonder* the country is in dire straits. More good fucking (wanking too, of course) and there would be less energy by far for so many of the ills our mixed-up polity seems heir to: kicking Yale a capella singers, Abu Ghraib torture, extreme rendition… I could make the list longer, but it’d just be depressing. And even when actions don’t become physical, there are the words. And that, of course, just makes me think of Ann Coulter.

Photo from TIme Magazine

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