This is Rasta. Despite the fact we live in the OC, he is not wearing a sweater because it’s “cute”.

Rasta was rescued from euthanasia by the vet who was supposed to put him down, because she felt that according to his bloodwork he had many years left, and because the owner’s reasoning of “I don’t want him anymore” wasn’t good enough for her. Apparently, that guy was a real jerk. He called Rasta “Fatty Pop-Eye”. Who names a cat that? And Rasta is anemic, besides. What an asshole. 

Then the vet gave him to me, a stranger. She offered to pay for his medical expenses as long as he lived, which I was grateful for, but when the bills began to rack up I didn’t blame her for not returning my calls. 

Rasta was first diagnosed with advanced periodontal disease, and his every yawn or meow was like a corpse farting. Unfortunately, due to severity of the decay, I couldn’t afford the $400+ treatment. Rasta and I have agreed that when I win the lottery his rotting teeth will be first thing to go, and in the meantime all of his food tastes like shit. 

Then he was diagnosed with chronic arthritis, the type that is stronger than pills and requires weekly injections ($100 each) Guess what I couldn’t afford. Now Rasta hobbles along with his legs severely bowed out and his back legs as stiff as boards. I have to lift him onto the 1 foot high bed. But he’s cheerful. 

Then he had bowl problems. Apparently, wet food wasn’t soft enough. He had an enema ($80) and some medications prescribed that he has to take every night ($120). He cries at night because he gets constipated and wants sink water. I guess when he drinks the first time out of his bowl, his rancid mouth contaminates the water and he won’t touch it again. Hence the constipation. I probably change his water four times a day. 

Then my poor Rasta got mats. Because of the arthritis, his grooming habits became self mutilating. Every day, Rasta grew self-inflicted dreads. According to the internet, long hairs and Persians are prone to mats. Rasta is half and half. Lucky him. I took him to Petsmart to get him shaved in the atrocious “Lion Cut”. His mats were so thick, they couldn’t shave him, and made a mess of his coat. I had to schedule my partially-shaved/ partially bloodied cat for a vet-licensed grooming. I also bought him a sweater to keep him warm. Afterwards, he slept in my lap while I drove home–too much stress for an old man to handle. I’m never going back to Petsmart. 

Today, Rasta is showing signs of feline senility. Normally fastidious, he can’t seem to make the turds land in the box, only next to it. He stares at the walls for hours. If I enter the room and call his name, he looks in the opposite direction. As a result of his disorientation, Rasta has become like an affectionate tick, always at my side and scooting closer and closer until he’s positively mashed up against me. He grooms his sweater and looks sad and naked and confused. 

We still do the things we used to do. We go grocery shopping and rent movies at Blockbuster, and Rasta sits in my arms like a baby and looks around and purrs. We love Petco because of the cat towers–Rasta can’t climb them, but he likes to sit in the one shaped like a house. We go for rides, the two of us: People in cars pass us on the freeway, staring back at the cat staring at them from my lap.

But he’s getting old now. I feel sometimes that he’s like my grandfather, growing misty, needing my care and attention like a child. I realized today, after driving home from a vet checkup, that this cat is very important to me. When I pass him off to doctors, I worry. When I pick him up, I am relieved to see he’s okay. Worrying is silly, really: Rasta is good for everyone. He never bites, he never tries to escape, and loves to be petted. 

But he only purrs for me.

Everyone in the world, it seems, is afraid to try random internet offers. No one actually plays the little games in the website banners, like duck hunting or burger eating contests or who can mushroom-stamp the girl hardest. (Have you ever seen those? Redtube has them.)  

No one is stupid enough to fall for the “You’ve the million-th visitor to this website! You get a X-Box 360 if you click on this link!” OR the obnoxious young lady whose voice attacks from nowhere with “CONGRATULATIONS! You’ve been selected to receive a free Apple IPhone!” Or the simple “WOW! CLICK HERE FOR FREE STUFF***!” and then you are forced into a Goatsy-type computer freakout of new windows opening up all over the place and showering you with demands that you take their survey, goddammit. 

And yet, we are always talking about “trying new things”. New diets. New brands. New bars. New travel destinations. I never try those games, never click on the weird links, never give my social security number to a flashing, rainbow-colored penis enlargement website (Although I have considered it, because if I don’t have one, will one grow?)

I like to try new creepy herbal supplements from sketchy internet websites. Because no one else ever does. Because for a bored SF native living in SoCal, this is considered “RISQUE”.

 I thought I’d share my findings with you:

Grapefruit Seed Extract in liquid form. Not Grape Seed Extract. Described as “Living Death”, because it kills all the bacteria in your stomach and may prevent illness. “Living Death” is actually a good description of how it tastes. 

Paranil. This has GSE in it, big surprise. It’s designed to rid your body of parasites, from worms to flukes to bad bacteria. After living in the streets in Honduras, I thought it’d be good to give it a try. …I was terrified. 

Bee Pollen. Nature’s “Perfect Food”. It tastes good and was entertaining to eat, but I was unable to survive on it alone during Finals. Went back to Redbull, Nature’s Perfect Drink. 

Cinnamon Bark. Helps insulin production. I thought it might help my sugar inbalance, where my body needs extra insulin (often in the form of sugar) to function normally, because without it, my moods go out of control. It had the opposite effect I was hoping for. I just about murdered my boyfriend over some dirty dishes before I realized I should stop taking it. 

And finally, COLONIX. Go to Dr.Natura.com and check this stuff out. It’s rough fiber (not the cheap smooth crap you get in stores that claims to “regulate” but actually does diddly. It comes with this nighty-night tea too, and the two combined is like WHOLE NEW ME. No mood swings, no weird hunger cravings at 2 AM, and I’ve lost the desire for sugar and carbs. Your stomach gets flat, you poop like a champ, not a single bit of diahhrrea or indigestion. Probably the best-stupid investment of online risque crap I have ever in my life bought. 

This is what Heaven looks like: Note the Paranil it comes with:

Two weeks, and I’ve lost 5 lbs of blocked-up colon waste, and dropped 1 pant size. I love this stuff. Every winter, I take this fiber ensemble for year-of-junk food-erasing relief. Thank god for Colonix. I wish I could tell everyone in the universe how wonderful it is to shit every day! 

I’ve already told all my friends. I have lucky friends.

DISCLAIMER: Contains spoilers! And besides, this blog will not make sense to anyone who hasn’t seen this stupid movie, anyway. 

I have always been a huge fan of Clint Eastwood the actor. Because he no longer acts and I have watched all the TV reruns and spaghetti Westerns to the point of memorization, I have been following his directing kick. 

I went to see Changeling the other week, which is directed by Clint Eastwood, and maybe it’s because I love Clint and am a little biased, but I’m not really sure what to think of this movie. I’ve decided to write my response on Changeling for History of Film class, in hopes to weigh out the pros and cons and get a conclusion on whether or not my Eastwood loyalty is deserved this time around.

Right off the bat, something bothered me. They show Angelina Jolie and her young son, Walter Collins (whose name is spoken so often the viewer will have freakin’ ENGRAVED in their memory by the end) moving around in their little house, interacting, and we get to know their characters. I was instantly irritated by the fact that Jolie’s character wears hooker-red lipstick. This is Spring of 1928. Modest, average woman working honest jobs and maintaining an honest household did not wear such bold makeup. And no matter how often she rubs her mouth with her white gloves–not a smear! Amazing. I didn’t know they had that kind of lipstick technology then. I’d always thought that in 1928 they pinched their lips and cheeks to make them pink, because rogue was expensive and toxic. But that’s just me. 

These petty annoyances because more apparent as the movie went on. I could have forgiven the lipstick, but things only got worse. Maybe it’s just me, but it seemed like all the useless trivia I know could be accounted for in Changeling, and whoops, look at that! They got everything wrong. 

“Serial Killers” 

Now, for those of you who are not interested in Serial Killers and their crazed, delusional and deviant minds, you may not know that the term “Serial Killer” was actually coined by the FBI in the 1970s after Ted Bundy became such a hit. They use this term in the movie so often, almost as often as the words “Walter Collins”, and it was driving me up the wall.  In the 1920s, “Serial Killers” were called plain old “Murderers”. And this movie takes place in 1928. 

“Amos ‘n Andy” 

Good old Amos and Andy. Such a lovely sense of humor, so wholesome. So NOT likely to be on the TV when Walter Collins was watching it: the first broadcast of Amos ‘n Andy happened a week after Walter Collins was abducted in real life, in March 1928. Burn! 

“Electroshock Therapy”

Electroshock treatment was constantly looming over the women in the hospital, and it was used mostly for punishment. We even saw a woman get fried right in front of us, and then she was up and speaking and walking around right afterwards. 

First of all, back in the day, these treatments were highly dangerous and often the patient died or had permanent brain damage. (Think… One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest) You didn’t just jump up and have a conversation with someone. Often, their flesh was burned from the electricity and the crew had to wear all sorts of rubber things for protection. The hospital crew in Changeling did not cater to any of this. 

Second, it’s actually called electro-convulsive therapy, and it wasn’t even invented for human use until almost 1940. This movie takes place in 1928. Fail!

Also, did anyone else notice that some of the male cop’s ears had piercing holes? Oops! It’s 1928! 

With every mistake, I found myself thinking, “This is 1928! This is all wrong!” Probably because if they omitted the oh-so-important date of 1928 they could have gotten away with so much more. But no… they were more concerned about using the “Based on a True Story” hook, which Hollywood is so obsessed with, and for that, you need the right date. 

All in all, it’s not a bad story. You’re bored to tears because it’s all so linear, and then wham! Enter a dirty bucktoothed Canadian and his crazed cousin who kill children and suddenly you’re paying attention. For this movie, I’d give Clint Eastwood a head-pat and tell him he’s all right. Two stars? 

I just wish Jolie had not been given so many lines to read that sounded the same. 

“That’s not my son!”

“This is not my son!”

“This is not my Walter!”

“That’s not Walter!”

“You are not my son!”

“Give me back my son!”

“Did you kill my son?”

“Who killed my son?”

“I want my son back!”

(All the while patting her perfectly red lips and not smudging them!) 

A followup to the  post about the idiots at MCA: I wrote them a rude email, and asked them to close the process. I’ve had enough crap. Also, I found a kitten. 

A nice old lady gave me a kitten that she had saved from euthanasia. It’s now 5 weeks old, and is a Lilac Point Siamese. She mews constantly unless she is allowed in my lap– which is hard to do unless I sit on the floor. And it’s obnoxious to walk through the house and have to sit down every five seconds, like I’m in kindergarten again and playing Red Light, Green Light. But she’s so damn cute, so I do it. When she cries her jaw is really long and she looks like a teacup-sized, popeyed, molding white crocodile. It’s great. 

My mother said I can’t name her. It’s obnoxious to have to babysit this adorable fluff monkey for a month before turning her into a Christmas gift and not have anything to call her, but my mom says that no matter what I name her, they will “change it out of spite”. (Really.)

So I named her Gwen. 

She watches episodes of House with me. Here she is doing just that. GWEN is so awesome. We’re excited about episode 11 coming out tomorrow. 

I am a loyal follower of Jack in the Crack. Maybe it’s my American blood, which is clogged with fat and chloresterol and pulses weakly in my veins, but I love a shitty, cheap hamburger.  

A dollar. How can you fight that, Carl’s? With quality? Sorry, if I wanted quality, I’d make it myself. I want fast, cheap, limp with sauce and juicy with tainted meat. When it comes to hamburgers, you can’t make it too disgusting for this American. 

Jack’s Teryaki bowls, however…

My meat was green. Like, not moldy, not green with chemical, but translucent and shimmery green, like the shiny scales on a fish. But this was not fish! It must be alien meat. Little green men meat. Looking closer, I saw lots of gristle and what looked like tubes of mini intenstine–probably martian veins. It tasted weird, too– like a steak-flavored Sharpie or something. But I am broke and it was cheap, and my stomach said “Fuck it! You drink Colonix every morning! This can’t be any worse than the wet catlitter (with faint banana flavor) taste!”

So I ate the bugger. 

I’m blaming myself for this, Jack. As an American, I have been trained to never look so close at what I’m eating. And in the future, I’ll eat your cheap shit burgers with my eyes closed, and avoid everything else on the menu. Your Asian background scares me.

For those who do not know, my mother is a legally undiagnosed (no paper trail) Manic Bipolar with Schizoerractic Tendencies. Unless you have been the child of an abusive and mentally ill parent, you have no idea how much suffering is involved. 

I swear, I curse her, and just because she has the title of Mother does not mean she has ever acted like one. No one but me has any right to judge.

That said…

I am being completely honest when I say it would be a relief for my mother to die. Nobody would miss her. My father’s ball and chain would be gone, the money would stay in the bank account, and I could finally be free of her torture and ridicule. No more comments on how fucking HUGE I am, no more attacks on my opinions and my hopes/dreams, no dangling kind gestures in front of my face and then yanking them away, no more accusations of cruelty and attacks on personal issues, more telling me that it’s my fault the family is broken and that I should have never told the psychologist that I heard voices: “So do I but it’s okay, they come out of the radio and they’re in love, there’s nothing wrong with that! You’re going to make everyone think we’re fucked up! Our reputation is ruined!” And now every time I go home I have to listen to that damn radio: It is never turned off. She panics if it’s off. I turn it off and she runs (literally runs) to it and quickly snaps it back on, in terror. My mother is clinically insane. She needs her voices to love her, because she has replaced her daughter with them. 

I want more than anything to have a loving parent. I would have been a great daughter. This year I’ve bought my parents oodles of stuff like I do ever year, hoping it’ll make things better, even though since I was six I get the same thing every year: Socks, and an orange. Or if I really want something, like a phone, I get a plastic fake phone that’s really a little girl’s makeup set, and my mother cracks up at my disappointment.
My parents treat the dog better than me. I was feeding myself at 10 because my mom wouldn’t let me eat (too fat). I was stealing clothes at 12 because I had nothing warm in winter, and all my clothes were threadbare (I’m growing, it’s impractical to buy me clothes). NOT ONCE did I tell this vicious cunt to FUCK HERSELF. Instead I wallowed in confusion, depression, and self-loathing. “I must have been a really bad little girl to deserve this treatment.” I hoped that she would change–or at least, ease off a little one day. 

When I found out I had cancer, and because I was broke and they wouldn’t help me I couldn’t afford the surgery I needed, I finally called her up and told her FUCK YOU. I told her she is a fucking CUNT. I told her she needs medical help, because her brain is mush and she poisons everything around her. I told that when college is over next year, they will never hear from me again. 

Mentally unstable mothers will never change. They became this way because they like hurting people, and they “can’t help themselves”. It’s unfortunate that they’re capable of reproducing. 
Are you thinking about leaving your family behind too? Can’t take Mom’s insanity? It’s not your fault. It’s hers. And don’t let anyone tell you it’s not.

Measure what she’s done for you, and what she hasn’t. How much abuse have you taken, and how much more are you able to handle? Our society says that we must love our mothers. But that implies that all mothers are lovable. THEY ARE NOT. It is a crock of shit designed to keep families together for the sake of the bigger society. Like individuality, and how it’s actually a label and a tool designed to capture and contain everyone (because everyone thinks they’re individual.)

Take a long look. Weigh out the suffering with the happiness. Then, when you’re ready and have all your emotions and possessions gathered around you, cut out the diseased and dying flesh and run like hell. 

That’s the best advice I have. 
And personally, I can’t wait.

Today, I was sitting watching online porn instead of doing comic panels like I should be, and I reflected on the time I met the so-called King of Cum. 

Living in Orange County and SoCal itself, it’s hard to not meet celebrities. They’re everywhere. The irony is that celebs are such a big deal here, but outside of this curtain, no one gives a shit. But you should give a shit about Peter North. I know I do. And that was even before I met him in person. 

I used to work at Laguna Culinary Arts, but I quit recently because I discovered how incapable I am of tolerating cruelty from Chefs and Management. Before that, backtrack a year or so, and there I am, serving mousse to Mr. North and trying to avoid his insanely drunk girlfriend, whom I also recognized from the “Mystery Woman” cum shot photos from his website. (HA!!) I was a little conflicted because I was in the presence of a man who is famous for shooting semen like you’d throw a bucket of water, but I didn’t want to lose my job by striking up a fan-based conversation. 

He never spoke. I remember that. Stoic as a totem pole, and from what I’ve seen on Redtube, also hung like one. Personality-wise, it was like he was a meat puppet, his girlfriend with clenched, smiling teeth and the hand up his ass (You pervert! I was talking about puppeteers!) his puppet master. She said things like “My boyfriend wants more pork, give me all the pork you have,” and “My boyfriend wants the salt” and “My boyfriend wants to order two more bottles of wine.” ALL NIGHT. It wasn’t until she was so drunk she locked herself in the bathroom and he’d lost his servant that he managed to get out of his seat, walk over to the cheese counter, and grab shit out of it. My friend DJ and I intercepted, because that shit is like $100 a slice moose milk brie from Sweden or something and since it wasn’t included with his cooking class and meal, he’d have to pay for it. His response was, “Why the fuck should I?” 

Awww. What a cuddle. (Though, in person, he never smiles. Only weaklings with little peepees smile.)

It all started when my completely thrifty and non-indulgent dad admitted to me that he’s wanted to own a Maine Coon cat for years, and having drawn his name at the family Christmas drawing, I decided it would be the perfect gift.

I figured I would locate a Maine Coon Rescue group, and find an orphaned kitten to bring home. My family is incredibly devoted to their animals: We have taken in ferals and strays since I was a little girl, and in the way that all pets should go, loved them dearly until they grew old and passed away. 

I contacted an organization called Maine Coon Rescue Agency. I filled out a lengthy eight page adoption paper, wrote the required short essays and short answers, and then allowed them to run a background check. I figured this was a little intense, but still professional. I put down references, phone numbers, the name of our vet, my parents’ names, etc. on the form. They asked for a phone interview. 

I had an hour long interview with a lady named Jennifer. I told her about our existing elderly cat Topeka, how isolated our home was (in the Calistoga hills, quiet and peaceful) and how loving the family would be. She said it sounded good, and she’d get back to me. 

Then all hell broke loose. 

In a matter of three days, Maine Coon Agency (MCA) called all my references (including my boyfriend, who told me about it since I didn’t know they would do that) and given them all hour long interviews, then called my vet, and gave him an hour long interview. Then they called my mother, and gave her an hour long interview, and then told her they would not let me adopt a kitten unless A) IT WAS INDOOR ONLY B) TOPEKA THE EXISTING CAT BECAME INDOOR ONLY C) TOPEKA WAS GIVEN $400 WORTH OF EXTRA PRECAUTION FELINE-IMMUNITY VACCINATIONS (Which is completely unnecessary because Topeka never sees other cats) D) THEY COME AND SEE THE HOUSE/PROPERTY and E) IF THE ORGANIZATION EVER STOPS BY UNANNOUNCED AND WE ARE NOT HOME BUT THE CAT IS ALONE, IT IS CONSIDERED “ABANDONMENT” AND THEY WILL CONFISCATE IT AND GIVE IT TO SOMEONE ELSE “BETTER SUITED”. Also, the “Adoption Fee” for a Maine Coon Rescue kitten under 6 months is $150. 

Insane, scary crazy cat ladies. Still, I went along with it, and pressured my mother to get Topeka the worthless immunizations. She rebelled in the usual way and said no and stopped answering the phone, but when Jennifer sent me 8 EMAILS and 3 VOICEMAILS—

“We can’t get your approval from the board because the vet wont return our calls, we wanted to ask him more questions.”

“Would you be willing to consider declawing Topeka?”

“We can’t get hold of your mother, you do it for us.”

“Your mother told us we were making you ‘Jump Through Hoops’. We are not. That was rude of her to say. Please ask her not to say that again.”

—I couldn’t take the pressure anymore and took care of it myself. 

Then Jennifer, suddenly nice again, tells me to go to Petfinder and start looking up kittens I’m interested in, and contact the foster families for more information, maybe go visit them, and start narrowing down my decisions. I do. “Hello, I’m interested in your kitten So and So, can you tell me more about him? Is he neutered? Does he use his litterbox? How old is he exactly?”

MCA freaks out. 

“You aren’t approved yet!!! You can’t email us! Don’t ask us questions, you aren’t allowed.” WHAT?

It’s been two months now, and late November. I don’t have much time until Christmas. MCA is wasting my time, and I was totally willing to jump through hoops to help a little kitten find a good home, but this is making me angry with how incompetent and rude these people are. 

So I start going to shelters. Up and down the coast, I went to two in berkeley, two in San Francisco, three in Oakland, two in Santa Ana, two in Irvine, one in Laguna Beach, one in Mission Viejo, two in Glendale, one in Van Nuys, one in Los Angeles, one in Costa Mesa… and all the kittens are too sick, too old, too aggressive, come in pairs only, already on reserve, or more than 200 dollars. Almost none of them are Maine Coons anyway. 

So I make a note to continue checking back every week (Apparently new kittens come in every week, and only last about a day before they’re adopted?) and meanwhile I check Craigslist. No Maine Coon kittens under $300. No Maine Coon mixes under 4 months old. Then I find a few, and I quickly email them as well as email them. 

I get a call back. They only ask me one question: “Do you have any other cats?” I tell them I have one 10 year old, and a kitten would be great company. They tell me they won’t “adopt” me a kitten because they won’t work well with an older cat. I’m confused as to why not, and I try to tell her that my adult cat has lots of energy, and the bitch sneers that it’s not “kitten energy”. She says, “Your old cat will get stressed and die and then the kitten will be alone.” Then she hangs up. 

I get a call back from someone else. This time, it’s “How many kittens were you looking to adopt?” I say one. They actually laugh and say they will NEVER (EMPHASIS) adopt out a solitary kitten, and it’s a stupid idea, because then the kitten will be alone. I say, “I’ll be there. I’m adopting a kitten with the intention of giving it lots of attention.” The bitch says, “Are you employed?” I say no, not currently. She says, “Then you can’t support a kitten.” Then I quickly say that my parents have good jobs. She says, “Then they’ll be gone and at work and not have time to spend with the kitten. (pause) NO.” And hangs up! 

I am willing to fill out your stupid paperwork, do your stupid interviews, get my current cat stupid shots, travel over 800  miles to visit shelter after shelter, get background checks and vets and references, have you check out my house, and even pay $200 DOLLARS FOR A FUCKING RESCUE ANIMAL but I am not good enough? I am not worthy? Did you worthless sacks of human waste know that I used to WORK at a fucking animal rescue shelter, and spent 3 years raising feral kittens and finding them homes? I was never so cruel to friendly, kind potential pet owners. I valued the time and effort they put in to take a stray into their home. Most of the time, we even lowered the adoption fee for great pet owners. 

I think I know what I have to do. I have to lie. I have no current cats, I own my own home, I am self-employed and stay in my house 24/7 and spend every dime on my kitten. I eat ice cubes and lint for dinner because I spent every cent on gourmet catfood, toys, and carpet-covered climbing treehouses. I am my potential kitten’s slave. I can’t even afford toothpaste and my teeth will soon rot and fall out, but my kitten has great teeth because she gets them cleaned professionally once a month. 

FUCK YOU CAT LADIES FOR DESTROYING MY HONESTY AND GOOD INTENTIONS. I hope you burn in hell for treating people this way… just because you want to keep all the cats for yourself. (You know it’s true!)

BAH!

This may not be the newest of the news. I actually don’t know when quite when it happened, but I just found out about it a little while ago tonight and it made me sad. It seems that in the state of California Prop 8 has passed. It passed by a slim margin, but even so. Whether by a mile or by an inch it is now in the state constitution. Looking at the fact that 52% of Californians voted for prop 8, I was kinda surprised to see that prop 2 had also passed. I guess most people in California seem to think that a chicken or a pig’s rights are more important than that of a human being who happens to be gay. What a bummer that is. I wonder what’s going to happen to all the gay families that were married during that all-too brief period where it was allowed. I really hope this amendment doesn’t come back at them too. Luckily it was mostly the young people, 30 an under, who voted ‘No’ on it and just the crotchety old geezers that got it passed. Maybe in a couple more years there will be fewer of them still around to vote and the younger people will turn out in good numbers again when it gets back on the polls. I guess the only particularly good thing I saw come from those proposition ballots was that prop 4 didn’t quite make it through. At least we won’t have to worry about doctors being forced to file police reports about pregnant teens who can’t get parental consent even if they know they can’t keep the baby. I have always thought it was kinda interesting, though, that while you can’t buy a morning after pill over the counter until you’re 18 you can get an abortion as early as 14, and no reports have to be filed, no one has to know, as long as you don’t tell the doctor your boyfriend’s 26 or something creepy like that.

Well it’s really too bad about prop 8. I voted against it and don’t really understand why anyone would think it’s fair or justified to take away a group of peoples’ rights to get the same benefits and responsibilities that the rest of us do when we legally express and declare their love for each other. Hopefully some day not too long in the future we’ll be looking back on this and wondering what people were thinking like we do when thinking about segregation being around until the ’60s.

You have to wonder how much symbolism exists in dreams. I’d like to think that at least in my mind, every detail is accounted for. Dreams are like your subconscious vomiting rainbows; pure in form, the essence of you. (Note: I’m sure not everyone’s essence is rainbow.)

I hope every detail is accounted for because while it’s not how I live my life, (my house is a disaster) it’s what my craft requires of me. I have understand every frame, every panel, every thought that crosses my character’s mind. Otherwise, the message is lost. Twelve frames, shot on twos, go into every moment. That’s six drawings in a second. That’s six drawings that need every detail accounted for, so the eye doesn’t get confused. Imagine how many drawings go into a movie! (Frank, please don’t count.)

Anyways, my point is that I’d like to think my dreams have meaning. Like this one, where my dad needs to go to the hospital. 

“So my dad is in the truck ready to go someone and I tell the dog to jump in with him. Cooper (the dog) gets really excited and leaps, and overshoots the seat, and lands in Dad’s lap. There’s no noise, but instantly an explosion of blood across the dog, the car, and my dad’s lap. There’s that moment of confusion, and then my dad says very calmly, ‘Call 911. I need to go to the hospital.’

I’m trying to dial 911 on my cell phone but for some reason, I keep dialing 91111 and other variations. I say, ‘I’ll get you an ambulance.’ 

My dad, the penny-pincher, says, ‘No. Those are expensive. I just need a paramedic and a gurney. My testicle just exploded.’”

I wonder, in the world of dream analysis, what this means?