Monday, September 2, 2002
I’ve got the word “cambria” stuck in my head for some reason. No idea what it means. Some sort of strange deja-vu like when you think you should recognize a name and then two weeks later it turns out that was the guy you shot accidentally while turkey hunting. No leads yet on this one, though, and I haven’t been turkey hunting in years.

Few things are more unsettling than waking up in the middle of the night and finding yourself floating naked in the middle of outer space, like the baby at the end of 2001. The movie, not the year. Shit if that wouldn’t have been scary, waking up one December morning to see a giant baby up there in the sky and suddenly regretting every time you’d ever covered a baby in turtle wax and set it loose on your hood to wax your car. Who’d have thought the payback time would come so soon? Crimeny.

But like I said, I’m talking about the movie, with me floating in space instead of the baby. Neither dreaming nor awake in the traditional sense. Just staring down at the earth like it was a giant jawbreaker, glancing down at the thin, whispy umbilical cord that attaches you to the planet and thinking “Hmmm.”

With your next thought you ponder your situation and realize that, in a symbolic sense, the earth represents the realm of your waking consciousness. No, really. The cloud layer girdling the globe keeps you warm and safe within the atmosphere, but at all times there remains the possibility of slipping undetected through the clouds and into the limitless space beyond. In this space dreams occur and are interchangeable with memories… every possibility in every situation is remembered as if it did occur and your mind is boggled by the parallel realities.

Suddenly you can remember every dream you ever had, but find it impossible to remember what you really did today among the myriad of possibilities. Which, incidentally, comes in handy when you’re eating out since you can have the chicken, the fish and the steak all for one low price.

You remember a conversation you had, or may have had, that day and are suddenly aware of multiple complex layers of meaning and subtexts within the conversation that you were unaware of while it was happening. It strikes you that all interactions between people work this way, with the literal conversation existing only as a crude practicality to initiate the exchange of this wealth of additional information. Unless you’re talking to Rok Finger, in which case the subtexts are all mumbled nonsense intended to sound like speech to the casual observer.

From your perch out in space, you realize with an otherworldly calm that you are observing from the perspective of the soul, rather than the worldly personality. You’re sure of this because you aren’t tempted to make the “Hey, I can see my house from here!” crack that you’d definitely make if your personality were involved. You notice that within this realm there is no possibility of stress or strife, you have no sense of worry, only a sustained sense of fascination. Sort of like being really high, except nobody’s giving you any static about being naked.

Some may scoff, skiffle, or die straight away, but this experience has impacted me deeply. I’ve resolved to live my life without worry, reveling in, rather than attempting to control, life. More than anything I want to get back to that beautiful, serene vantage point in the emptiness of space. Additionally, I think I may have left my address book there, and I need that thing in the worst way. Other related resolutions: no more pickles or David Lynch movies right before bed.

Herman’s Hermits: Your Dad’s Got Crabs, Eddie
You ever notice how, in a noisy environment, the number 406 sounds just like “oral sex”? In other news, I think the drive-up ATM is going to have to satisfy all of my banking needs for a while.

Crapping Out Like a Vegas Fat Man
Summertime is the number one time for partaking in America’s favorite pastime: collecting mosquito larvae in the wild and using it to make homemade jam and preserves. With us today are two people who should need no introduction, so piss on introducing them.

If Pigs Could Fly I’d Wear a Tin Sombrero
Carson made it work on the Tonight Show, which revealed the show’s roots: him and McMahon sitting in Johnny’s basement, smashed on Absolut and babbling incoherently about current events and Ed’s supernaturally large goiter. But damnit, it worked.