American Fez

In Dreams Begin Irresponsibilities

Perhaps it's the lack of rich food eaten before retiring to bed, but I no longer appear in my own dreams. Apparently I have been left on sleep's cutting-room floor, so to speak. Consequently there are no sudden materializations of my dream self at high school in the middle of a trigonometry exam that I know nothing about; no nudist wanderings in and out of the office cubicles of contemporary colleagues; no recurring sensations of endlessly falling into a bottomless black void; not even the next morning's vague recollections of my teeth dropping out one by one while misspelling the word "Kafkaesque" at a subterranean, Grand Guignol spelling bee.
Alas, my dreams are mostly confined to weary appraisals of curious images by a sort of disassociated, long-suffering universal eye. It's certainly not my eye. It doesn't get distracted enough to be my eye. Subjects under scrutiny can include anything from an overstuffed armchair to an erupting volcano, and are usually influenced by minutiae encountered during the day. One wonders why my mind requires subconscious REM processing of such dull vignettes? Obviously it views me as an observer of inessential details rather than the romantic protagonist of an action-packed nightmare. Which is fine by me since I have no desire to wake up in a cold sweat each morning, gripping the sides of the mattress and fighting my bedsheets with my feet.
In fact, I fail to see how any sane person can be interested in these disjointed, nonsensical narratives dredged up from the deepest recesses of dormant minds. The ridiculous "work" of Sigmund Freud and his rabid acolytes proves my point beyond dispute. Freud believed that dreams are a form of wish fulfillment. This theory is clearly absurd, since I never dream that all his tedious books are mercifully transformed back into the trees from which their pages were wrought; a transformation I devoutly wish to be fulfilled. So, auf wiedersehen Sigmund. Don't let the symbolic door hit your Id, Ego and Super-ego on the way out.
According to the dream dictionary I consulted, to dream of saltpeter indicates sorrow and heartache. But how many meaning-seeking dreamers can distinguish saltpeter from regular salt? It's an important distinction because, according to the same book, to dream of regular salt suggests abundance and excitability, which is a rather different takeaway in the morning if you'd been actively amorous before falling asleep.
If you ask me, dreams mean nothing beyond the crude interpretations that curious and often prurient imaginations can associate with whatever objects feature prominently in them. So it seems fair to say that, in common with all forms of critique, dreams reveal more about the interpreter than the actual dreamer. I dream about static images of overstuffed armchairs and erupting volcanoes ... the ball is in your court.

The Unacceptable Face of Summer 2012

Despite erring, hopefully, on the side of quality fabrics and a decent fit, I'm not particularly partial to either trendy or traditional clothes. Both schools of tailoring are capable of producing stylish and functional results, if you ask me. Except, that is, when it comes to men's swimming trunks and other seaside fashions designed for turning lethargy into an extreme sport. In other words: resort wear. the unacceptable face of summer.
"I am a human; nothing human is alien to me" wrote the affable Roman playwright Terence, who obviously never set foot in a store selling resort wear. Such an experience would surely shake his faith in benign homogeneity. Voluminous board shorts, plastic flip flops, marijuana themed t-shirts, over-sized sunglasses, neon thongs, colored beads, novelty Rasta wigs and unidentifiable objects woven from hemp. Need I go on? These are clothes for bovine oafs who consider being hungover, high and comatose to be a reasonable way of life. I'm not saying vacationers should sunbathe on the beach in evening gowns, or wade in the breakers wearing tuxedos with the pant legs rolled-up, but surely there is a certain level of decorum to expected. Whatever happened to the good old days of light-colored linen jackets, Panama hats, rope-soled shoes and elegant Bermuda shorts? You can call me uptight, an old fuddy-duddy, even possibly embarrassed about revealing my surgical scars to the arch eyes of all and sundry on the sands of Bournemouth, San Tropez and the New Jersey shore, but I think I have the cultural prestige of classical antiquity on my side.
Terence most likely dressed in a uniform of simple leather sandals and a pale tunic tied at the waist. Highly appropriate for a Roman summer spent wandering around the Forum. There were no Keith Haring flamingos decorating the material he wore; no stoner slogans printed across the chest. Nor were the soles of his sandals bolstered by three inches of lizard green, inflatable rubber tread. Finding himself in a modern resort-wear store, he'd probably assume he'd stumbled into the lair of interplanetary surfer bums; or, considering the XXXL sizes on display, he might even think he'd happened upon an ogre's monstrous wardrobe. Either way, he would certainly never associate the merchandise with anything of civilized origin. "Cheap barbarian garbage" is undoubtedly the phrase that sprung to our playwright's mind when confronted with these vulgar and outlandish goods.
Yet any alternative beach attire is almost impossible find these days. If you're not comfortable with baggy, waterproof knickerbockers hanging halfway off your backside then you might as well just not bother heading to the boardwalk at all. Consequently I have to wear my wet-suit, snorkel and flippers whenever I go to the beach. People often look twice at my harpoon but I've grown used to their stares by now. Sometimes my wet-suit isn't dry after the previous days swim, so I'm forced to climb into my deep sea diving outfit with the lead boots and brass helmet. I don't mind telling you that it can get a little hot in there, even under the shade of a beach umbrella. But still, at least I don't look like a lazy slob in ill-fitting and idiotic resort wear.

The Dining Experience

Hello and welcome to Steak Schtick where meat is fun. My name is Atahualpa and I'll be your server this evening. Have either of you been to a Steak Schtick before? Obviously not because today is our Grand Opening isn't it, ha ha, and so I hope you brought your ninety-percent off coupon with you. I will be getting you started with a drink order in just a few moments but first let me tell you a little about our menu. The menu is divided into three sections: the Tonto section, the Lone Ranger section, and the Heigh-Ho Silver section. I think you'll agree that it's so much more fun than just calling the sections Appetizer, Entree and Dessert like other boring restaurants do. And we want your meal at at Steak Schtick to be fun from beginning to end, and there's no more fun way to begin a meal than with a refreshing cocktail.
But before you decide on drinks let me just tell you about those mouthwatering individual menu sections in case that impacts your drink order. But before I do that I just want to thank you on behalf of everyone at Steak Schtick for coming in tonight by giving you another ninety-percent off coupon, good for dinner at any Steak Schtick or participating Chicken Chuckle.
Now let's hear about those menu sections which will only take a few seconds and then I'll get your cocktail order.
The Tonto section contains all of our small steak plate offerings, ideal for sharing as long as you order a lot of them. Unfortunately we are already out of the steak tips, the steak ends and the steak middles, but please feel free to order from the remaining Tonto dishes such as the steak flanks. I love the left flank of the steak and the right flank is also a favorite of mine. We recommend a minimum of two steak flanks per person if you're going to be ordering them.
Now the Lone Ranger section. These are our biggest, juiciest steaks and you won't want to share with anyone. I do have to tell you that we are out of the ribeye, the sirloin, the filet mignon, the strip, the porterhouse and the tenderloin. But we do have the Chinese Kobe beef burger and our delicious rump cut of finest steak ass. You will need to order the Chinese Kobe beef burger ASAP if you want that.
And finally the Heigh-Ho Silver section. Here you will find a selection of gourmet desserts for when you're preparing to ride off into the sunset. I definitely recommend the lemon custard pie since it's the only thing we've got left.
As always we have no specials at Steak Schtick because everything we make is special every day. Do you need a minute to decide? Probably not since you can only have the flank and the rump steak and the custard pie. Now I don't want to rush you but as I mentioned earlier this is our Grand Opening and we do have people already waiting for your table. Oh, did you want a drink? You should have said. Unfortunately we don't have a liquor license just yet but someone will be over with complimentary tap water very shortly.

Per Ardua Ad Astra

Per ardua ad astra - "through adversity to the stars" - is the motto of the Royal Air Force; and since many of us struggle with ever skyrocketing medical costs, it is undoubtedly within such heavenly spheres that the resolution to our healthcare conflicts can also be found. I'm talking about the advanced biological research of scientists from other planets. In other words: little green doctors with antennae sticking out of their heads.
Almost all alien abduction stories contain an description, however hazily recalled, of some sort of mysterious medical examination being conducted on the human captive. Such extraterrestrial operations usually occur without the victim's consent: the humanoid is abruptly beamed aboard ship and poked and prodded like a prize-winning pig, just for the entertainment of snooty Martian medicos. Abductee accounts make the experience sound like a Grey's Anatomy and Battlestar Galactica TV crossover event. But perhaps it doesn't have to be that way. Perhaps it could be an entirely new show called Spock MD.
It seems to me that developing a meaningful dialogue with these scalpel-toting E.T.s might very well supply a workable solution to our healthcare problems. A mutually beneficial bargain could be struck that caters to both the alien's interests and our desperate needs. Uninsured Earthling patients would volunteer to enter an alien ship to have their genitals evaluated for twenty minutes, possibly even get an alien implant or two inserted into their rectums, and in return the alien surgeons would perform a free gastric bypass or any other procedure the patient required. More critical patients could perhaps be transported by saucer-shaped space ambulance to the alien's home planets for advanced treatment, provided that they submit to even more invasive alien probing, naturally. I'm sure it would be relatively easy to get the Hippocratic Oath translated into Grokkian or Chthulu or whatever bizarre telepathic language the alien's speak, so it's a win-win situation all around as far as I can see.
Clearly this approach to our country's healthcare's problems is far superior to Obama's everyone must kiss-it-better plan, or whatever hopeless plan the Republicans are thinking of reanimating with huge shots of privately donated cortizone. Obviously it's completely dependent on the existence of UFOs, but I believe that this is a minor detail in an otherwise extremely practical and affordable solution; a solution that neither of our major political parties has the courage or imagination to embrace.