On Kung Pao Spartans

I've decided that my dreams are pretty dang entertaining and should be shared with the world. Most of the time they sort of resemble a world history textbook that has chucked all its contents up in the toilet. After staring down the blood and guts and gravel that has gone into creating history floating in the bowl, it sobs a little and lethargically reaches in to retrieve it all and insert it back into the pages. Everything is placed haphazardly so that Hitler is now allied with the Canaanites against the Aztecs, and the California gold rush was a hoax orchestrated by the emperor Justinian.

I'll have you know, this is how I survived Pompeii.

This is also how I know (for a fact!) that it was not Xerxes of Persia who fought the Greeks, and it was not Thermopylae where the three hundred Spartans stood their ground. Oh no. It was much less fantastic than that, and it all happened far far away from Greece in a nameless region somewhere in the western United States. Nameless because I really don't remember where I was. I think it may have been San Francisco.

THIS IS SAN FRANCISCOOOOOOMAYBE!!!!

I was driving around one day, one nice sunny day, when I thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be grand to stop by my old middle school (My own history is heavily altered as well in my dreams) and take a look around?" So I made my way, driving through a wooded area that resembled Golden Gate Park. That's probably why I think this battle was fought in San Francisco, but until the hippies let me dig up their precious trees in the name of historical accuracy, I can't prove anything!

My school was small and rather hillbilly with a parking lot that was... well... a dirt pile. The dumpsters sat next to the baseball diamond, and the buildings were patched together with various siding samples stolen from a Home Depot. HOWEVER! The inside was large and spacious, the courtyards were lined with gargantuan Egyptian columns and the rooms were small and dark like tombs. It was like walking into the TARDIS; the inside was larger than the outside let on.

Taking a tour of the grounds brought back some great memories of things that never really happened, like when I was on the girls softball team and I was the drama club president. Suddenly I found myself being pushed and shoved into the janitor's closet. Cranny is more like it, as it was just sort of a large gap in the wall. I spun around to see Leonidas. THE Leonidas. Not the Johnson & Johnson greased ape shouting one liners. This Leonidas was wearing a shortened chiton in a mint green with a gilded belt. His hair was dark and shorn, his skin tanned, his physique scrawny and very... not Spartan.

He was unaware of my presence. He was too flustered and talking very quickly to an adviser. This adviser was about to be fired, I could tell, because he was telling Leonidas to give up. What? Leonidas give UP?! NEVER! This could not happen! Not here, not now, not ever, because he was a great Ameri- I mean Greek hero!

Break to the outside of the school where the enemy was gathering in droves. These guys were huge. They were a collective of the meanest looking asians I'd ever seen. I suppose they were really Huns, but they were following the command of a little girl. She flitted from place to place like a bleeding pixie, and she was definitely Chinese. So I guess they were all Chinese. She could be called Tink, I suppose, because Tinker Bell is notorious for being an irresistibly cute little brat, and this kid was cute. Adorably so, but mean as heck because she was about to merrily destroy a middle school with people inside. So those people were Spartans, but any child set in command of a blood lusting army is demonic and should be escorted immediately to Hades.

The Chinese were eating their last meal before the battle. Tink was dancing and giggling around them, blessing each man to be victorious. I watched in horror as the men stood up and stomped out their fires and threw their dishes aside. Here, in San Franmaybecisco would be the final resting place of that lengendary army. The Spartans would be squashed. By the Chinese, no less.

Back in the janitor's cranny, Leonidas was panicking. The adviser had left, and the battle had started. The great king looked around himself frantically, his urine leaking down to his sandals. This guy was a freaking pansy. I was so disappointed. King Leonidas of Freaking Sparta was actually going to listen to that yellow bellied adviser and quit? This was a nightmare! Upon discovering two enemy spears, he promptly thrust them into his side and fell to the ground, bleeding his last rather than facing his death. Why, Leonidas? Why commit suicide in such a brutal way as a coward when you could die the same way outside and not be a coward?

His corpse lay there, his blood spreading like a blanket beneath him. It didn't take long for a few of his soldiers to find him. "Oh Great King Leonidas!" they lamented, "You have fought bravely in the face of certain death, and we shall follow you to Styx and beyond!" I wanted to shout at them that they were wrong, that Leonidas was a crap king, but at this point I was merely an observer. The Spartans turned to leave the body and continue on their way when they were all suddenly shoved into the cranny. The number of Spartans inside was growing rapidly, and the cranny was getting crowded. The Chinese had gotten into the school, and they were determined to put every single Spartan into that closet.

I was able to escape somehow. I continued on with my tour of the school, only now it was a flea market. The Chinese had set up shop with wire baskets full of cheap toys and jewelry and neon coloured signs with prices written in Engrish posted everywhere. They were all shouting to me, trying to catch my attention, "Fi' dorra! Fi' dorra fo yuu!"

Never mind about not knowing where this happened. It was DEFINITELY San Francisco, and I think I actually had made it through some sort of Gay Pride parade into China Town.

Look what I found on the internets! While I'm sure these guys aren't Chinese, this picture basically sums up the entire theme very nicely!

On Mammalian Automobiles

The nice thing about Sunday mornings is the fact that I not only get to sleep in, but I get to sit in bed and just think for a while before I actually get up. I'm doing that now, as a matter of fact, only now I've incorporated a computer. Lately also I've started letting my dog sleep with me which is probably the greatest idea I've ever had. She may take up too much of the bed, but my feet stay warm even after the blankets twist up and expose them to cold. How my ancestors decided that skinning animals and using the hides as blankets was better than having a mobile heat generator is beyond me.

I'm going to admit now that since taking Tonks (my dog) on as a foot warmer, I've also taken to talking to her before zonking and upon waking. I remember as a kid listening to my parents down the hall talking every night. I never could understand what they were saying as it was all very muffled, but I do remember that it was bloody annoying. To a six year old, enforcing a bedtime is oppressive. Making a racket through which that six year old can't sleep, then, is downright sadistic. At least now I understand WHY they talked. They didn't get much time to talk during the day, after all. Not when the six year old had to ask 'why' regarding everything. I asked so many nosey questions as a kid, they took to calling me 'Grandma'. They also probably couldn't help the chitchat because it's sort of in our nature to communicate. You can't really stop talking when there's something or someone there to listen to you.

Boy, does Tonks listen. She listens without interrupting, and sometimes she responds with some real wit. We were talking about evolution this morning when I woke up. The conversation started with my keen observation that her thumbs are less than useless, while mine are the reason why I am so much more advanced. Why on earth do most mammals not have the sense to start using their thumbs? Perhaps if Tonks went back in time and told her ancient ancestors to start making use of those dinky little claws, she would be here today chaining me up in the backyard, feeding me Wheat Thins, and paying the bills. I didn't tell her this of course; it's not exactly in my best interest to conspire as such against my own species.

I pointed out to her then, in consolation for her lack of opposable thumbs, that she at least had the sense to not have five toes like us. Few people know this, but I am a member of the extremely secretive Groups Against Gratuitous Appendages (GAGA). I sit on the board as the representative for Peoples Advocating Banishment of Stupid Toes (PABST). Our goal is to, via evolution, do away with toes that are not only useless, but more troublesome than anything. Pinky toes, as most women can attest to, are not only a waste, but cause much pain and suffering in the wearing of unnaturally shaped shoes.

I love me some Victorian boots. My toes disagree. Solution? Declare war on toes.

Before I get carried away promoting my agenda, I will revert back to the matter at hand. In my one sided discussion of the evolution of feet with my buddy Tonks, I was met with a rare interruption. Her interruptions are always worth it, and this one was rather novel.

"Mammals are like cars," she said. That was ALL she had to say, and I was spellbound. Note my stupor was not the result of witnessing a dog defy the barrier of communication as well as the standard to which her head (bones, muscles, etc) is engineered. No, what amazed me most was the parallel being drawn by my simple but brilliant canine companion. Mammals ARE like cars. Or, rather, cars are like mammals since they came second, but bear with me.

Or if you happen to be a Catbus, you're both mammal AND car!

DISCLAIMER: I really don't know anything about zoology or biology. I know even less about cars. I'm not interested so much in the 'what's of life as I am in the 'why's. So whatever it is I say regarding this subject is based purely on my rudimentary knowledge and observations. DON'T JUDGE MY IGNORANCE!

Let's start with imagining snow. It's easy for me right now, since it's January and there is snow outside. Granted my blinds are closed, but I know there is snow outside because I am not outside. I cannot be outside when there is snow outside. If there weren't snow outside, I would be outside. Got it? Very good.

Now snow is pretty terrible to drive in. My first snowfall in Utah happened to be a whiteout through which I had to drive home from work. I was very excited to see snow, since I had been living in California where there is none. It finally began to fall around mid morning. I looked longingly out the window, waiting for three o'clock when I would be free to go home and throw snowballs at my siblings and build a snow man and make snow angels and learn all about yellow snow and why you shouldn't eat it... and then came the hour. I got into my car, turned onto 3900 South and immediately regretted it. I was slipping and sliding all over the blasted road. I had no control whatsoever. Two doors down from work I parked the car and called my dad in tears, begging him to come get me. He told me to man up and drive; I wasn't in Kansas anymore. "I've never BEEN to Kansas!" I told him, "Besides that, they have snow too!"

He won, and with much fishtailing and sliding, I finally made it home with a new determination to NEVER build a snowman or ever try eating yellow snow. Dad explained that driving wouldn't be so bad if I weren't in a rear wheel drive vehicle. I got a new car shortly after.

Herbivores are like rear wheel drive vehicles. They are mobilized primarily by the hind quarters, which have strength enough to jump into flight from predators. This mode is also ideal since herbivores are less concerned about determining a destination. Rather they need only turn this way or that while grazing. Since their food is everywhere, they don't have to think about where they're going. They just go wherever the land takes them, much like the snow had more control of me than I had of it. This frustration with winter driving then, is stemmed from my inherent nature to be in complete control and my conscious determination of what direction I will be going in. Gazelle don't care though, since when they're moving they jump about like fish flopping on the floor. I think I would go insane if I were a gazelle.

My next car was a front wheel drive, and things improved greatly. I would still lose control, but very rarely, and it was not a loss of control that was impossible to correct. My driving confidence has restored and I'm surviving my sixth winter. I should be rewarded.

Why thank you!

Carnivores need to have control. They take direct routes to their food, and they rely on those fore quarters to hold their prey as they tear flesh with their teeth. Snow had nothing on these super intelligent beasts. My dog Dotty used to love chasing after thrown objects, but when she realized she couldn't recover a snowball, the game was over and she stopped playing catch altogether. See? Snow cannot best them! I also can't help but feel more akin to carnivores because of their total control over the elements, and I'm sure that most people would agree with that. All my favourite animals are carnivorous, most mascots are predators, and it's the carnivores that have become our closest companions.

Four wheel drives are the best. This is my opinion anyway, because I'm sure there are people who disagree. I don't know enough about cars to really care. All I know is that in order to drive over mountains and zombie corpses, you should invest in a four wheel drive vehicle. I never feel safer doing doughnuts in the stake center parking lot than when my brother is driving the Durango. I still hate it, and I still start crying, but I at least know I'm probably not going to die. Probably.

We omnivores are the four wheel drives, which rocks. It's also why zombies are terrifying, because they're now carnivores with the power of an omnivore. Not only can we hold things down while we shred them to bits, but we can do the shredding with our hands, and then when a bigger something comes to take us down we can run like heck in any direction we like with the determination of a hunter. Are you being shot at? Run in zigzags to confuse your predator. Are the British coming to start shelling some discipline? Run in zigzags to warn as many people as you can.

Just think about this for a minute, and you too can see the brilliance in my dog's parallel drawing skills. In the meantime, consider this:

No, they weren't dropped from UFOs.

That's right. Goats in trees. Because goats can climb. Because goats eat EVERYTHING. These things are more awesome than even humans because their four wheel drive capabilities don't require thumbs or any other fingers or toes (thus earning them the place as PABST's mascot). They have the hooves of herbivores but the gas tanks of offroad Jeeps.

On Tardiness

I am too punctual. I like to be on time every time, and this is probably why my social life is awkward. When you're habitually on time to a party that is meant to actually be arrived to in a less than timely manner, it leads to silences that are hardly desired. Unless I'm around my very closest friends I always feel awkward, and unfortunately it's never my closest friends throwing the parties that I arrive on time to.

If you're early, you're on time. If you're on time, you're late. If you're late, you might as well put a shot gun to your head and pull the trigger because you are completely unacceptable as a responsible adult. This is the philosophy I adhere to, and I am very rarely late. Today, however, I'm trying to justify my tardiness (45 minutes!!!) to work. My boss has forgiven me and has expressed that I not worry myself about it, but when you wake up at the time you should be clocking in and putting on your badge, your first thought (if you're me) is going to be 'UTTER FAILURE, TIME TO LOOK AT A JOB BOARD'. I thought this within a minute of waking up; immediately after an appropriate explicit word and a run down of my emergency daily routine checklist. Shower. Clothes. Makeup. Door. That is the bare minimum, but today I skipped through the whole thing and went from Thinking about a New Job to Realizing I had No Time for a Shower to Clothes, Throwing Food at the Dog, and then ending in GREAT CAESAR'S GHOST I'M STEALING A CAR!

A car stealing blaggard.

Yes, I stole a car. More like borrowing. Without permission, but I had every intention of bringing that car back to my roommate in one piece, which I managed to do. She, however, had left her phone in the front passenger seat. So when I tried calling her later in the day to explain the predicament at hand, she was home freaking out. From her account, she had heard me shuffling around in a panic, and said it sounded as though the dog were being tortured. When she noticed the car gone, she began jumping to the conclusion that the house had been broken into, the dog traumatized, I was kidnapped and dead in the back of her stolen vehicle, and she couldn't call the police because her phone was also missing. I could have been expired under mysterious circumstances and in the middle of the Salt Flats where no one would find me for weeks. No one has ever had to endure hours of worrying about me like that before, and I was sorry it had to happen. BUT IT HAD TO HAPPEN.

I'll tell you why, and this is where I justify my tardiness to work and grand theft auto. You see, I tend to care too much about people. I try too hard to save them, because they need saving. I'm the only person qualified to do it too, because I'm more intelligent than they are. I don't like people. I don't even necessarily like the people I try to help the most because of the simple truth that they are imbeciles. The people I like the most are people who are already capable of taking care of themselves, and while I care about my friends, it's nice to not have to worry about them. Because I could. I would, in fact, because I am such a worrier. I worry sometimes about things that involve my friends, but I can trust that they don't need me. If I don't have to give a crap about you, I probably like you all the more for it.

But when you're working in a mall full of retarded consumers perusing shops that sell over priced and under qualified merchandise that I guarantee will fall apart after one wash, you have to worry. And when that mall is surrounded by certain death and these idiots are all in danger of an early demise, you have to save them.

I suppose this is what watching documentaries about deep sea creatures does to me late at night. I've never had nightmares about shrimp, but if you've ever seen a gulper eel, you'd be a bit terrified yourself. They come from space. I should know, I witnessed it through the large entry way windows at the mall I was working at last night. They were the size of whales, and came slithering down from the night sky in dozens, landing in the emptying parking lot where they proceeded to devour anything that moved. I had to go into action. The doors were immediately barricaded, and when you have lock down a shopping mall, immediately means about half an hour. Those eel worm things were all over us, trying to push their way through the doors, but we kept them out.

The British man told me these things can swallow ANYTHING.

My next move was to gather everyone into what I deemed was the safest store in the mall, which happened to be a Hot Topic department store. Why? I don't know, maybe the darkness of the decor's soul felt as though it would envelop us safely, while the neon colours of band shirts would keep our spirits up in the dim lighting provided by the moon shining through the glass ceiling above the mall promenade. Or maybe if the worms got in, they would be intelligent enough to assume we'd lock ourselves in Abercrombie and Fitch, safely guarded by the hot models in the photos hanging in their windows. We'd fool them in the end!

These gents may have the athleticism to intimidate giants worms...

but I doubt they can screech lyrics to make a worm brain slushee like these fellas. 

Now, when you're locked down and safe, and everyone is accounted for, the next thing to do is to find a way out. Or at least gather food. So I went out on my own to do this. I could hear the worms outside trying to knock over cars in search of prey, and I knew we had to think fast. By we, of course, I mean me, because apparently the people in Hot Topic were skipping the whole escape PLAN bit and were going to just escape through the back door. Note the emphasis on the word plan. They lacked it.

This mall I worked in had no food. It also was NOT a mall that had one of those crazy Asian stores with swords and knives in it, which would have been better than nothing. I had the custodian climb crazy Guinness Book worthy ladders up to find an escape to the roof where we could at least shout for help and sit it out a la Kevin Bacon in 'Tremors'. Nothing happening there. Meanwhile, one of my lackeys left in charge of the HT came looking for me. He told me that people had walked out and brought attention to the employee door, where there were now worms waiting. The attempts at escape were, of course, fruitless, and this dream (I don't think I mentioned yet that this was a dream) had suddenly turned into the most cliche alien invasion flick ever, including stupid people who die because there are ALWAYS stupid people who die. YOU'D THINK WE'D LEARN! I knew what I had to do.

These are scifi movie survivors.

I told lackey to go back to HT and tell everyone to start being noisy. We'd been in this mess for almost the entire night without any casualties (at least not any at anyone's fault but their own), which had to mean that these worms, though very large and very hungry, did not have the strength to do structural damage. Looking out the glass doors, I could see that they hadn't even managed to knock any cars over. The plot hole was discovered and these monsters were the biggest pussies ever. The plan? Attract the attention of every motherflipping worm in the lot to the one door and then gradually sneak people out to safety through the others. It would only work for a while, but it was a start.

The process was slow going, but I am too dedicated to my task to give up. THAT is why I was late to work, THAT was why I got away with a felony this morning, and THAT is why I will never watch deep sea documentaries deep in the night ever again.

On Towers

Being the bizarre child I was, before I found that I actually held a talent for drawing, I spent much of my free time devising plans for castles and mansions or graphing maps of imaginary nations. This was all fueled by the lives I followed in the countless novels I was attached to. I can't even begin to list them. The farthest back I can go in naming the books I've read is probably Harry Potter, and I only first crossed paths with him in middle school. Before that I read anything and everything I could get my hands on. I would stop to read the fine print on advertisements, much to the chagrin of my mother when she was in a hurry. This is probably why I spent so much time on the end of a leash as a child. I had an insatiable curiosity, but I never had to be told to not touch anything.

One of my dreams as a child was to have a tower. I was considering today how differently I perceive that ever coveted sanctuary. When I was young and drawing up the floor plans to the perfect house in which my family would reside, this tower was rather Victorian. It wasn't MY tower, it was merely a rounded part of the house that is... called something I'm sure, but I can't begin to be bothered with architectural vocabulary at the moment. All I needed was a section of my room where I could sit and be surrounded by windows.

Today my tower is much more isolated and cozy. It happens also that it's very dark on the inside. Today this tower is an independent entity. It stands at least four storeys, and is about ten feet in diameter. There are no windows. All that stands in the tower is an overstuffed chair, accompanied by a table with a lamp on it. On the walls are books, two and a half storeys of books. There is a ladder on a track that runs 'round the room. At the top of that is some old ship rigging, perfect for using to climb up to the ceiling where there is a trap door in the center. Beyond this door is another room barely tall enough to stand in, and full of pillows and draped in rich Oriental fabrics. Solitude within solitude.

I wonder what brought the drastic change from windows to books?