I was happy when I found a pack of pork steaks in Rouses Market on Carrollton Street, which was marked "today's special," or something and was only 2 dollars and change. Even at the regular price of 5 dollars and change, pork is a cheap meat.
But, eating a ton of pork, though it first made me feel like grabbing my weight and working out a bit with it, eventually contributed to my falling into a broken sleep that was marred by weird dreams, in which nothing was going even as "well" as in real life.
In this one dream, I was with Travis Blain the freeloader who stayed with me, and my younger by 10 years brother, who owns a business, makes good money, but has equally good bills pile up on his coffee table each morning, and works a ridiculous amount of hours, just to stay in the game and compete with money driven people who are also putting in 80 hours per week.
I don't know what the dream meant. It might be interpret-able as a warning against eating a pound and quarter of pork steaks shortly before retiring for the night/morning.
I probably laid down to sleep at 9 AM.
My in house phone rang at around 11 AM. It was probably Rose and Ed wanting to use my phone, as they called back at around 4 in the afternoon. That time I answered the in house phone and decided to make coffee and swallow down a few aspirins with it and start my day.
I had blown off the trip to the plasma place again, citing my tiredness and the fact that I still had a lingering cold which I would have to lie about on the intake screening questionnaire; along with lying about having sex with a person who is recovering from the ebola virus...no, wait, that was in the Travis dream...that didn't happen...damned pork, no wonder it's so cheap.
I can see where the myth came from that pork has the devil in it; due to Jesus' having cast demonic spirits out of a man and into a pig, back in the day.
Monday, The 27th
It is Monday night. There is a "who cares" match up of two mediocre football teams on Monday Night Football.
I almost feel like I don't have the luxury of watching football.
I feel like I have bitten off more than I can chew, in wanting to compete with New Orleans musicians, and I must chew as fast as I can, with no extra time at my disposal for, say, watching football.
Some of us just don't have the liberty to take time off -ask my brother who works 80 hours per week- because our artistic dreams are both a blessing and a curse.
I can remember times in High School when one of the students would throw a party at his or her house, and invite (select) classmates to attend.
It was usually a student who lived in a nice Brady Bunch type of house with, of course, a swimming pool in the back yard. They might even have booked a band to play by the pool.
Through cynical hindsight, I see this as an attempt by the parents of the kid, to up her stock and move her up the totem pole, by showing off the fact that, while she may be a plain Jane, her daddy's got mega bucks.
She would, of course, have invited the best looking and most athletic boys, and her best girlfriends, and would have used the party as an offensive weapon against those whom she didn't invite.
It was, in a sense, preparing us students for the world that we would be released into, some day.
But, I can remember staying home and practicing the guitar instead of going to the parties -OK, I wasn't invited to any of them until I had made some kind of name for myself and become more popular, by senior year; and then I wouldn't take up the invitation out of resentment for having been snubbed the first 3 years, and by feeling manipulated by the person who had invited me, as if she wanted me there as some small part of her bigger picture, like, at one point I might be asked to entertain with a humorous song after which performance of I would shrink, once again, into the background, as the master of ceremonies host moved the program along into other areas- and I would feel that I was in the 1 percent of all people whose passion in life requires that they make sacrifices, and that I was sacrificing the time spent at the party in order to learn to play the guitar better.
But, now I am realizing that my passion to chew as fast as I can and try to produce something lasting, is going to require further sacrificing. Stated succinctly, there is no pork on the road to your dreams, son. (I'm the "son" in that addage).
Stuffing my face with pork steaks and then having to sleep it off did not further me much in my ambitions. I'm going to have to go back to the diet which has gotten me this far; being 55 years old but not looking it, etc; and cannot allow myself the luxury of perfectly cooked, falling off the bone, pork. Besides, the demons in it doesn't recommend it too well.
I just had the image of Robert Plant in an old black and white photo that I saw once, walking off "the stage" in a studio somewhere, his beer gut flopping out of his early 70's shirt and over the belt on his jeans; a fat slob, tanked up on beer, and stoned, with a shit eating grin on his face because he had just finished recording "Black Dog," to go on the band's forthcoming release, and was feeling like the session had gone excellently and that they had kicked some fat slob tanked up on beer and stoned ass, for sure, and that a classic rock song had just then, been born, flash through my mind.
It is one of life's small disappointments to me that you can't just get sloppy drunk and high and be in fine fiddle for going up on stage and putting on one hell of a rock and roll show, notwithstanding Led Zeppelin's '74 world tour...
The fact that the girl who throws the party at the nice house might very well know that there might be some gorgeous young fellow student who is from a much more "working class" background, who might actually be willing to fall in love with, and marry, the girl; feeling that he would be thus setting himself up for life" (Hey, her father could make his now son-in-law vice president of his company, through whom he could continue to give his little girl an allowance every week, in effect, as he, the son in law, sat behind his name and "vice president" upon a placard on a desk, alongside photos of he and the wife on the beaches of Monaco in this one, and "our trip to Greece," in this other one, etc.) just flashed through my mind, also.
The kids who were at the party while I was home practicing are the ones who come by and tip me now, as if to say, "Good call; I wish I had it all to do over again; I never would have married a guy who wasn't in love with me but only interested in my family's money....hey, do you have any songs about that? Oh, I know, play Desperado, by The Eagles!" Yeah, as if to say that...
The major breakthroughs in life happen in the blink of an eye, but can require years of experience to lay the groundwork for them.
I remember feeling, in the dream about Travis and my brother, an incredible frustration over having lost all that I had gained through years of experience, in personal growth and the underlying sense of having cut through a lot of the b.s. and learned to act and think in different ways and with differing priorities. In the dream, things weren't "flowing" the way they do for me in New Orleans, where I have found some kind of niche and where I have become a more likeable, down to earth, entertaining in general, person.
In the dream, I was trying to just be myself -the self that has been forged through having been in the military, having gone on long searches for God, involving hanging out with everyone from the Hare Krishna's to the Hare Krishna's (full circle), been in jail, lived in a mansion on a hill and on a thick piece of cardboard under a wharf, having met people from all walks of life, and then come to New Orleans where I had to became what you need to become in order to survive here (sober?)- but, in the dream, I was trying to just relax and let it flow and let the fact that I have turned into a pretty cool person just come to light naturally, but it wasn't happening.
We were sitting on a Greyhound bus, myself noticing that Travis and my brother resembled each other physically (enhanced against the dream-scape) and there was an awkward silence.
I felt like the kid I was back when I wasn't invited to Teresa Sala's pool party in the back yard from which I could hear whatever band they had hired from my own back yard..."Oh, they must have let Tom Reardon come up and try to sing "And I Love Her," by The Beatles, that sounds like him...never was one of my favorite classmates; kind of a snob..."
This was a bit to do with the dynamics of my relationship with Travis Blain and the fact that, in hindsight, he seemed to have been affecting over politeness the whole time he stayed with me, when he was probably fighting the urge to say: "Dude, could you just go and sleep under the wharf for a couple weeks and let me have your place; I really would love to just lock myself in, smoke weed, work on my laptop to come up with money for an apartment, play video games, watch movies, live on nasty TV dinner type food, and not pay a cent for being allowed to stay here."
With another person in the apartment, his defense against him was to perpetuate a never ending lecture on a variety of topics, all with his perspective being the focus.
There were plenty of awkward silences, broken by Travis saying "No worries," his catch phrase for all situations when there were indeed "worries," by he was being too diplomatic to raise objections.
"I used your coffee mug, because the cup I usually use when I juice things has got something in it in the refrigerator and the other clean ones are too narrow at the top to catch all the juice..."
"No worries."
He then used that mug never again, and actually left it behind when he left, in the above example.
So, there were plenty of awkward silences. Just like in the dream.
What I think the message of the dream was is that I need to pursue opening a bank account, which would allow me to do the same kind of work (for Amazon, in his case) as Travis Blain does.
He told me how to go about getting that kind of work (which paid him an average of 75 dollars per day, but some days it took him 11 hours to make that) and that, the primary thing I would need was to hold a bank account at a major bank.
I guess this is a good way for Amazon would ascertain that their employee, whom they've never seen face to face, is an American citizen, has an address, and isn't ineligible for employment based upon anything that would also prevent him from opening a bank account with a major bank.
It had never even occurred to Travis Blain to tell me about this job opportunity, even when I might have been sitting on the couch next to him, venting my frustrations over not having been able to find any job.
I finally mentioned it, asking him if it was competitiveness that had kept him from giving me the information; like, are the jobs distributed by zip code, and would my foray into the field wind up meaning less available work for him?
No, it just never occurred to him to tell me that I could make 75 dollars a day working on a laptop, just like he does, even after I might have said something like: "I'm thinking of quitting smoking weed for a few weeks so I can pass a drug test and maybe get some work."
A naturally occurring thought to him might have been: "Gee, I smoke up a storm, even while I'm working, and it's 'no worries.' No drug tests for me...I should tell him about my job..."
But, no; never crossed his mind. He was preoccupied with composing an outline for his next lecture, perhaps; maybe one about some of the jobs he has had and how good they were for him...
So, I think the communication of the dream was to remind me that that option is out there. I would need, I think 50 dollars to open an account at the Whitney Bank across the street from us.
You've just read: 2,292 words
But, eating a ton of pork, though it first made me feel like grabbing my weight and working out a bit with it, eventually contributed to my falling into a broken sleep that was marred by weird dreams, in which nothing was going even as "well" as in real life.
In this one dream, I was with Travis Blain the freeloader who stayed with me, and my younger by 10 years brother, who owns a business, makes good money, but has equally good bills pile up on his coffee table each morning, and works a ridiculous amount of hours, just to stay in the game and compete with money driven people who are also putting in 80 hours per week.
I don't know what the dream meant. It might be interpret-able as a warning against eating a pound and quarter of pork steaks shortly before retiring for the night/morning.
I probably laid down to sleep at 9 AM.
My in house phone rang at around 11 AM. It was probably Rose and Ed wanting to use my phone, as they called back at around 4 in the afternoon. That time I answered the in house phone and decided to make coffee and swallow down a few aspirins with it and start my day.
I had blown off the trip to the plasma place again, citing my tiredness and the fact that I still had a lingering cold which I would have to lie about on the intake screening questionnaire; along with lying about having sex with a person who is recovering from the ebola virus...no, wait, that was in the Travis dream...that didn't happen...damned pork, no wonder it's so cheap.
I can see where the myth came from that pork has the devil in it; due to Jesus' having cast demonic spirits out of a man and into a pig, back in the day.
Monday, The 27th
It is Monday night. There is a "who cares" match up of two mediocre football teams on Monday Night Football.
I almost feel like I don't have the luxury of watching football.
I feel like I have bitten off more than I can chew, in wanting to compete with New Orleans musicians, and I must chew as fast as I can, with no extra time at my disposal for, say, watching football.
Some of us just don't have the liberty to take time off -ask my brother who works 80 hours per week- because our artistic dreams are both a blessing and a curse.
I can remember times in High School when one of the students would throw a party at his or her house, and invite (select) classmates to attend.
It was usually a student who lived in a nice Brady Bunch type of house with, of course, a swimming pool in the back yard. They might even have booked a band to play by the pool.
Through cynical hindsight, I see this as an attempt by the parents of the kid, to up her stock and move her up the totem pole, by showing off the fact that, while she may be a plain Jane, her daddy's got mega bucks.
She would, of course, have invited the best looking and most athletic boys, and her best girlfriends, and would have used the party as an offensive weapon against those whom she didn't invite.
It was, in a sense, preparing us students for the world that we would be released into, some day.
But, I can remember staying home and practicing the guitar instead of going to the parties -OK, I wasn't invited to any of them until I had made some kind of name for myself and become more popular, by senior year; and then I wouldn't take up the invitation out of resentment for having been snubbed the first 3 years, and by feeling manipulated by the person who had invited me, as if she wanted me there as some small part of her bigger picture, like, at one point I might be asked to entertain with a humorous song after which performance of I would shrink, once again, into the background, as the master of ceremonies host moved the program along into other areas- and I would feel that I was in the 1 percent of all people whose passion in life requires that they make sacrifices, and that I was sacrificing the time spent at the party in order to learn to play the guitar better.
But, now I am realizing that my passion to chew as fast as I can and try to produce something lasting, is going to require further sacrificing. Stated succinctly, there is no pork on the road to your dreams, son. (I'm the "son" in that addage).
Stuffing my face with pork steaks and then having to sleep it off did not further me much in my ambitions. I'm going to have to go back to the diet which has gotten me this far; being 55 years old but not looking it, etc; and cannot allow myself the luxury of perfectly cooked, falling off the bone, pork. Besides, the demons in it doesn't recommend it too well.
I just had the image of Robert Plant in an old black and white photo that I saw once, walking off "the stage" in a studio somewhere, his beer gut flopping out of his early 70's shirt and over the belt on his jeans; a fat slob, tanked up on beer, and stoned, with a shit eating grin on his face because he had just finished recording "Black Dog," to go on the band's forthcoming release, and was feeling like the session had gone excellently and that they had kicked some fat slob tanked up on beer and stoned ass, for sure, and that a classic rock song had just then, been born, flash through my mind.
It is one of life's small disappointments to me that you can't just get sloppy drunk and high and be in fine fiddle for going up on stage and putting on one hell of a rock and roll show, notwithstanding Led Zeppelin's '74 world tour...
The fact that the girl who throws the party at the nice house might very well know that there might be some gorgeous young fellow student who is from a much more "working class" background, who might actually be willing to fall in love with, and marry, the girl; feeling that he would be thus setting himself up for life" (Hey, her father could make his now son-in-law vice president of his company, through whom he could continue to give his little girl an allowance every week, in effect, as he, the son in law, sat behind his name and "vice president" upon a placard on a desk, alongside photos of he and the wife on the beaches of Monaco in this one, and "our trip to Greece," in this other one, etc.) just flashed through my mind, also.
The kids who were at the party while I was home practicing are the ones who come by and tip me now, as if to say, "Good call; I wish I had it all to do over again; I never would have married a guy who wasn't in love with me but only interested in my family's money....hey, do you have any songs about that? Oh, I know, play Desperado, by The Eagles!" Yeah, as if to say that...
The major breakthroughs in life happen in the blink of an eye, but can require years of experience to lay the groundwork for them.
I remember feeling, in the dream about Travis and my brother, an incredible frustration over having lost all that I had gained through years of experience, in personal growth and the underlying sense of having cut through a lot of the b.s. and learned to act and think in different ways and with differing priorities. In the dream, things weren't "flowing" the way they do for me in New Orleans, where I have found some kind of niche and where I have become a more likeable, down to earth, entertaining in general, person.
In the dream, I was trying to just be myself -the self that has been forged through having been in the military, having gone on long searches for God, involving hanging out with everyone from the Hare Krishna's to the Hare Krishna's (full circle), been in jail, lived in a mansion on a hill and on a thick piece of cardboard under a wharf, having met people from all walks of life, and then come to New Orleans where I had to became what you need to become in order to survive here (sober?)- but, in the dream, I was trying to just relax and let it flow and let the fact that I have turned into a pretty cool person just come to light naturally, but it wasn't happening.
We were sitting on a Greyhound bus, myself noticing that Travis and my brother resembled each other physically (enhanced against the dream-scape) and there was an awkward silence.
I felt like the kid I was back when I wasn't invited to Teresa Sala's pool party in the back yard from which I could hear whatever band they had hired from my own back yard..."Oh, they must have let Tom Reardon come up and try to sing "And I Love Her," by The Beatles, that sounds like him...never was one of my favorite classmates; kind of a snob..."
This was a bit to do with the dynamics of my relationship with Travis Blain and the fact that, in hindsight, he seemed to have been affecting over politeness the whole time he stayed with me, when he was probably fighting the urge to say: "Dude, could you just go and sleep under the wharf for a couple weeks and let me have your place; I really would love to just lock myself in, smoke weed, work on my laptop to come up with money for an apartment, play video games, watch movies, live on nasty TV dinner type food, and not pay a cent for being allowed to stay here."
With another person in the apartment, his defense against him was to perpetuate a never ending lecture on a variety of topics, all with his perspective being the focus.
There were plenty of awkward silences, broken by Travis saying "No worries," his catch phrase for all situations when there were indeed "worries," by he was being too diplomatic to raise objections.
"I used your coffee mug, because the cup I usually use when I juice things has got something in it in the refrigerator and the other clean ones are too narrow at the top to catch all the juice..."
"No worries."
He then used that mug never again, and actually left it behind when he left, in the above example.
So, there were plenty of awkward silences. Just like in the dream.
What I think the message of the dream was is that I need to pursue opening a bank account, which would allow me to do the same kind of work (for Amazon, in his case) as Travis Blain does.
He told me how to go about getting that kind of work (which paid him an average of 75 dollars per day, but some days it took him 11 hours to make that) and that, the primary thing I would need was to hold a bank account at a major bank.
I guess this is a good way for Amazon would ascertain that their employee, whom they've never seen face to face, is an American citizen, has an address, and isn't ineligible for employment based upon anything that would also prevent him from opening a bank account with a major bank.
It had never even occurred to Travis Blain to tell me about this job opportunity, even when I might have been sitting on the couch next to him, venting my frustrations over not having been able to find any job.
I finally mentioned it, asking him if it was competitiveness that had kept him from giving me the information; like, are the jobs distributed by zip code, and would my foray into the field wind up meaning less available work for him?
No, it just never occurred to him to tell me that I could make 75 dollars a day working on a laptop, just like he does, even after I might have said something like: "I'm thinking of quitting smoking weed for a few weeks so I can pass a drug test and maybe get some work."
A naturally occurring thought to him might have been: "Gee, I smoke up a storm, even while I'm working, and it's 'no worries.' No drug tests for me...I should tell him about my job..."
But, no; never crossed his mind. He was preoccupied with composing an outline for his next lecture, perhaps; maybe one about some of the jobs he has had and how good they were for him...
So, I think the communication of the dream was to remind me that that option is out there. I would need, I think 50 dollars to open an account at the Whitney Bank across the street from us.
You've just read: 2,292 words
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