duck-shaped pain

31 May 2001
Can't A Mountain Dream?

I went to bed at 10 p.m. last night [1] and woke up at 8. Ten hours of sleep, and I felt like I could sleep some more. Last couple of days have been difficult, but that's okay. The Evil Document has been finished, passed around for the perusal of all who cared to peruse it, and is now ready to be printed and sent far, far, away. Perhaps I can relax then.


Had another fraction of a dream last night during my long-ass sleep.

I was walking around visiting stores, but in place of a bag or purse, I was carrying around a 14,000-foot mountain. In my pocket. [2] It was very important that I not lose this mountain, because there would be some dire unnamed consequences (beheading? bad credit report? Dunno.).

So I walked from store to store, looking for nicely textured bed sheets, dodging odd glares and pointed stares for messing up people's stores by bringing this fourteener in with me while I looked. I apologized nicely, so you think they'd cut me some slack or something. I found myself buying sheet after sheet, as a way of compensating.

My final stop was a college bookstore, where I needed to buy a bunch of logo sweatshirts. As I tried to enter, the smart-ass clerk informed me that I was going to have to stash the mountain by the door, in one of those cubbyholes that they provide for people's books and backpacks. I did so, grudgingly. The mountain managed to fit into the cubbyhole, and as I placed it in, it complained.

"See if I'm here when you get back. I know when I'm not appreciated."

I tried to talk some sense into it. "Look, it's only for a few minutes. I'll even buy you your own logo sweatshirt. I'm sure they have your size."

I hurried in the store, and they didn't have what I was looking for. To compensate, I bought some gum. When I left, I noticed that the mountain had left. "Oh, he just walked out the door," the clerk said, nonchalantly.

I went up the stairs and ran outside. The mountain had managed to break into a truck and was now speeding away in it.

I started to run after it, followed by a cast of thousands, all also apparently shocked that a 14,000-foot mountain would have the opposable thumbs necessary to break into a truck and drive it off.

We followed the truck down the interstate, halting traffic with our pleas. The mountain drove and drove and drove, apparently distilling enough petroleum trapped within itself to power the truck without having to stop for gas.

Finally, we got to China. It was a long way to walk. At this point, the mountain got out of the truck and started to state and me and all my new mountain-chasing buddies.

"What the hell is wrong with you people?" it asked. "Can't you let me live my life?"

Then it cried.

Then it put on a wig.

It told us it had always wanted to be a pretty girl.

Someone volunteered some eyeshadow, which seemed to cheer it up.

Someone else had some body glitter. I only had some false eyelashes in my shirt pocket, but that was enough. The mountain appreciated all gifts.

We watched it skip and twirl for the first time. Then it giggled.

Then we all went out for a beer, except the mountain, which had a pina colada.


Bumper sticker on a car in front of me this morning: "My border collie is smarter than your honor student."

Given the quality of the honor students around here, I don't doubt that.

The other day, I took Hoover out for a walk, and we passed by a bunch of houses that hadn't been there the last time I walked by. Amazing how fast they can ruin an empty field these days.

These houses were all ugly, really close together and had teeny postcard-sized backyards. These backyards were all facing the road, giving me and the dog a good view of what things the kinds of people who would buy these houses would have in their yards (answer? Not much). One of these yards was occupied by a surly looking border collie.

He came running up to the fence as we walked by, and instead of barking or going nuts as most dogs do, he just crouched down and stared at us as we went by. Like we were sheep to order in to a pen or something like that. Then he stopped. Out of the crouch, he looked like the most restless dog I've seen in a long time. He was a bored 1950s housewife of a dog, laying about the yard all day, not being used to his fullest potential. Seems sort of sad to let The Dog Breed That Is Smarter Than People sit idle like that.

The only person I know in real life who owns border collies has a ranch outside of town. He put a fence around his property, and he just lets his dogs loose in the morning (he has three) and doesn't see them again until the evening. They just run and run and run and run all day, until they finally tire out. Seems more appropriate somehow.


[1] Something which is difficult for me to admit, since going to bed early makes me feel like a big loser, most of the time. I have no problem mentally with the getting up early part that my increased work responsibilities require -- getting up at 6 or even 5 makes me feel all important for some reason -- it's the going to bed in time to ensure that I get up early enough to feel important that's the problem. I still don't feel sleepy, most nights, until at least midnight.

[2] Yes, I'm glad to see you. Now stop smirking.

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