...and the HALLOWEEN-ER is...

In honor of Halloween, I should stop with the Angela Lansbury portrait and move on...if you stare at her long enough her head will spin...SCARY! but I promised you a written version of the Dream you all voted for...and the WINNER is...

4. I'm starring in a multi-million dollar Broadway Musical that I have staged at my old High School Auditorium that combines SHOWBOAT, Blue Man Group, Angela Lansbury and...oh yeah, I can fly.

First, the disclaimer: This Dream is a work of my Subconscious and as such is a work of Fiction. That means NOT REAL, okay? Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental, Mother.

"Hey! Get in here you guys! I can only do this for a minute or two!" I call out as I hover four feet off the floor," Come on, I think I'm getting the hang of it!"

As my mother and sister rush into my sister's bedroom in a house we lived in for Grades 4-10 for me, my mother scolds,"Timothy! I thought it was something important!" We are all miraculously younger, thinner and I'm levitating.

"Well, I am flying," I defend."I thought you'd want to see."

"It IS against the Law of Physics, Cow! (my nickname) Maybe you should stop." My sister is no help.

As my mother walks off,"It's not like we haven't dealt with THAT your whole life. What are you going to be when you grow up?"

Dissolve to a future/past time. Wind whistles in my ears as I swoop and sweep through the sky to a fictional amalgam of several schools I attended, a couple of familiar churches and theatres from around the world. My mind's stand-in as an IMPORTANT BUILDING looms into view. I float down the hallway searching for my High School Drama teacher, who has apparently turned teaching High School Drama into a lucrative endeavor as a Regional Theatre performed and staged by teenagers.**

**Now here we know it's ONLY a Dream because I've directed a handful of High School musicals and really, well, I'd rather chew glass.**

As I begin to sell my teacher on my musical CONCEPT combining Blue Man Group, SHOWBOAT, the talents of Angela Lansbury and me in flight, my Dream is interrupted by waking...I was thirsty from all of the flying and talking and talking and talking (see it IS my Dream) and I needed a glass of water, or was it to tinkle? Whatever, seems like a good place to say...

...to be continued (which you should only say when you're poised on the edge of a cliff-hanger that is INTERESTING but YOU VOTED FOR DREAM #4, that's on YOU!) and...as we leave we are left (now THAT was deep "as we leave we are left" - great song lyric.) You know my subconscious is actually even messier than this story. All competing sub-plots and no real referee - cue the whistle! - anyway, we are left with these questions:

WILL Angela Lansbury be available for uh... BLUEBOAT! ?

WILL anyone pay to see me fly? And WHAT'S UP with my family's ATTITUDE toward my ALTITUDE?

Was I THIRSTY or did I need to TINKLE? (Not important unless I'm sleeping with YOU.)

BOO! I scared me!

The Runner Up

Creepy Little Left-hand Stigmata Wound sat slouched in the towel I'd wrapped it in making soft sucking sounds to itself - rhythmic, almost musical. It continued, the only sound in the room, until my curiosity overcame me,
"Tell me, " I ventured, "do tell me, Creepy Little Left-hand Stigmata Wound, how I can ring me up some Jesus to rain down on my head? My spark is stuck in the flesh-web in my brain. I need me some Jesus to rain down on my head."

Silence broken by the sucking sound the wound made - rhythmic almost musical. The next voice was not my own.
"You are SO human!" my kitty cat uncurled in the space beneath my chin and giggled, "Oh SO human and SO all alone! Calling out for the one thing that's never left you. Pity Man, so sure of himself and yet suspended over the gulf of Eternity - his Forever teeters first one way then another."

As usual my kitty cat made more sense than a kitty cat should but her wise words were instantly lost on my slippery soul so again I ventured, "Tell me please, Creepy Little Left-hand Stigmata Wound, tell me HOW I can ring me some Jesus to rain down on my poor head?"

It made a smack, its red-ringed mouth slippery as I bled, then silent a second it seemed to think.

"Listen to itself it must!" Its voice a moist, hoarse whisper, "The jug of wine calls out it thirsts! The dinner dies of hunger!"
The "h" in "hunger" bubbled blood, so absently I wiped it clean. My kitten laughed her meowing laugh to fill the awkward moment.

"From Paradise it banished its silly Self! (said banish-shed, Shakespearean)." Smack smack - it giggled? - then it fell mute, its riddle slowly forming like the scab that dried on my forearm. It had drizzled blood since early morning.

For an instant I might have understood, epiphany triumphant. Then Fear, my favorite feeling, Father of all the Others, overcame my clarity. It was too easy, a trick - might I be the source of my own Eternity?

In my horror I cried,"Too simple! It must be Complex, a snarl of rules, a list of Steps!" I shook my arm in anger and the Creepy Little Left-hand Stigmata Wound seemed to cough, the blood flow increasing,"I have been taught to believe in a Chosen few, no Infidels allowed! The Diverse made Homogeneous Forever and Ever, Amen."

"Man's Rules, not God's!" It raised its voice. I blinked back tears.

"If true," I whispered,"then all I've learned of Grace and God must be replaced. All my Doing wasted. My frantic quest to be redeemed. My spark alone enough for Heaven's gate - not earned but given - a Loving Fate."

"Mm Hm, " it hummed, my Kitten purred. The Universe buzzed around me.

The Fool, in tears I spoke again,"Please tell me, Creepy Little Left-hand Stigmata Wound, tell me HOW I can ring me some Jesus to rain down on my poor head?" My Lesson lost, I begged a task, assignment, cost, some work to do to earn it.

My Kitten ceased her purring, spun a circle curling up with her ass dismissively in my face. Among the three of us I was the least enlightened.

Suck-suck, suck-suck - rhythmic almost musical. Creepy Little Left-hand Stigmata Wound sat slouched in the towel I'd wrapped it in making soft sucking sounds to itself. The only sound in the room...

"I'm NOT DEAD yet!"

Why does Fidel Castro need to have his name embroidered on his track suit? Is it stored in a closet full of matching track suits that belong to other people? Does it get laundered with other people's suits? And why embroidered as F. CASTRO? Is there another suit with R. CASTRO on it? If so wouldn't you just have FIDEL on one and RAUL on the other? And who's in charge of trimming his nails while he recuperates? Have they been fired? Purged?

Tomorrow! The Dream you've selected from my HEAD OF HORRORS gets immortalized (virtually) in the epistle!

HALLOWEEN DOUBLE STUFFED SCARY OPINION POLL!

Lately, my incredibly vivid dreamlife has become even more bizarre, even aggressive. My dreams are like films or perhaps more like soap operas or television miniseries - once interrupted by waking, they restart when I fall back to sleep. Even more strange, they generally haven't waited for me to rejoin them. Their plots, if you will, have moved on and I must catch up on the storyline that I have missed. I suppose it goes without saying that I remember my forays into my own twisted subconscious, but there! I've said it anyway. Even more disturbing (uhuh) than how I dream is what I've been dreaming. A few examples:

1. I have a newborn baby girl, work for the BUSH administration and I'm accompanying my entire family to a news conference at the White House.

2. I have a stigmata wound on my left hand that speaks words of wisdom to my cat, Stinky, and me while we nap.

3. I have an idea for a sitcom pilot that I'm trying to sell to Sarah Jessica Parker while we stroll the Mall of America and as we try to exit the Mall, we get caught in my subconscious.

4. I'm starring in a multi-million dollar Broadway Musical that I have staged at my old High School Auditorium that combines SHOWBOAT, Blue Man Group, Angela Lansbury and...oh yeah, I can fly.

Now, just in time for Halloween. Let me know which of the four dreams you think is the scariest and I'll try to write it into a short story. Either COMMENT on my BLOG or email me at trhogan@mn.rr.com by Monday, October 30, 2006! Oooh! What fun a contest! And only Timothy Hogan would be arrogant enough to think the stuff of his DREAMS worthy of sharing...or SCARING!

The Curse of VERSE (for better...worse) II

"There are Days and there are Days!"
the Rat said, passing in the Maze.
I stop and catch my beath, unphased,
The Herd runs past me, kicking haze
of Dust and Garbage - runaways!
A bag of chips (yes, Frito Lays!)
then Irene Ryan, Helen Hayes
and Ralph the Mouth (from HAPPY DAYS)
and conflict between Straights and Gays
Half a blowjob, lousy lays
(You call it Corn, We call it Maize)
Balcony seats at Shakespeare plays
The HULK was made by GAMMA RAYS!
I start to run again half-crazed
At AMBIGUITY - amazed!
"Yes, there are Days and there are Days!"

It's the Irony, Peaches, the Irony...

Yesterday, during my weekly session with my Therapist, I was having a relatively energetic emotional monologue. In a pause (I occasionally come up for air...occasionally) my dear doctor suggested that I try to relax from the agitated state I was in by picturing "the most beautiful thing you've ever seen." I immediately traveled in memory to the Vatican, St. Peter's standing at the foot (feet?) of Michaelangelo's Pieta. The cold smoothe marble that seems to blush from within. Mary's serenity, divine, sanguine. The drape of the Christ in her arms as she offered Him for us all. The click of feet in the Basilica, whispered echoes...heel toe, heel toe.
In my newly attained moment of peace, a still small voice giggled in my ear, "you picked a dead guy made of marble! Beautiful, yes, but it's the Irony, Peaches, the Irony. Therapy, panic, calm beauty in Death, Mothers and Sons...whatever she's charging you for the hour - a bargain!"
So my peace comes with hiccups of hysterical self mockery. It's MY peace, Peaches, all Timothy.

You Can't Judge A Book By It's Cover

That's a load of crap. Sorry to run a theme into the ground here between Rep. Mark Foley and John Mark Karr pictured here, but I have no problem judging either of those twisted little golden books by their covers. This photo of John Mark Karr says,"if I haven't molested a little girl yet, gimme ten minutes." And if his sweaty little beady eyes didn't make you want to put area schools on lockdown, then I'm sure the dead-fish of a handshake that followed would have. Thank God this pervert was a heterosexual pervert, my people have been maligned enough with Mark Foley - I hear he's a real "page turner."
My point, rare as it is I have one, is that while it may be noble to give every person an opportunity to prove him or herself based on their actions rather than appearance (neither of these guys is a three-eyed, fanged ghoul) sometimes you must go with your gut. The bigger my gut gets, the harder it is for me to drown out its voice - CREEEEEP!

300,000,000 Americans...and I can't get a date.

Gay Republicans, well I swan..

This picture says", please leave me alone with your 11-16 year old boy so that I can try to get my hands on him." Who needs to read the IMs? And while we're asking important questions, what are Gay Republicans for really. Is it self-loathing carried way over the top? Does it give their poor heart-broken Mothers any solace to know that their little fag-pie dears spend their lives in torment once they realize they were bestowed the Floatin' Loafers when Dorothy was handing out party favors.
And of course for this scandal we had to have a GAY creep. Even though it's far more likely that a Male Pedophile with choose a female victim, we get the few memorable ones, the spree killers, thank you Mr Cunanan and your odd Milwaukee Cannibal. Taste like chicken, Jeffrey? Oops! your dead.
I Still can't come up with a use for Gay Republicans...Lawyers to the Mysterious Gay Mafia or La Mafia Miss Ting. I hope I don't awake with a bedful of horse head...again.

There's A Moon In The Sky

It's Called the MOON!
And everybody is there, 'cluding
Saturn,
Jupiter,
Mars,
The Van Allen Belt!

Oh My Dear Lord God I'm FAT!

Not news if you've seen me in the past three months. Which may explain my isolated exile to my apartment. I do shop (how else have I grown my gigantic gut. )
Now I know attractive big men, who have sexy guts. They also have big arms, necks and chest and they are proportional head to foot.
My gut looks like someone snuck up behind me and strapped a 40lb sack of potting soil around my middle. I still have narrow hips and long legs but my massive gut and newly developed love handles & back fat make me look like a potato with pipe-cleaner limbs. Let us not foget the two 42 Double D's that rest atop my gut and bounce when I run. Fear the MOOBS!


Can I lose 40 lbs. in 2 months? Far too fast? Guess I'll need drugs...