Sorry, I haven't been on in a few days.........been pretty busy. But more than that, I've only slept 7 hours in the last 48..........so, I think I'll hit it and, hopefully, not have this happen in my dreams........

Nighty night!

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i am still sick and la poo poo says i have down sindrome but i think i am so happy how can i be down/

grapes said the doctor said its just a fever but were not sure. i am reading corduroy all day now and sleeping and eating baby food wich grapes said i should hav been eating a long time ago but i skipped that fase becuz i loved yogurt so much. yogurt is the food for old peeple, babies, nd astronauts, sed la poo poo. grapes also plays meeka for me to make me happy so i cannot be down for down syndrome.

maybee i wil get bettur but for now la poo poo stays with me and sumtimes he sneeks me a peese of a cupcake. la poo poo is the best bt he said shh grapes cannot noe. i think it is going to be a surprize for her1

I'm not afraid of open spaces or of closed spaces. I'm not a hydrophobe or an airophobe or even a dirtophobe.

The greatest fear in my life is that one day, when I pass away, two strangers will come along and Weekend at Bernie me.

In my dream - or nightmare, if you will - I can never identify the people who play the parts once graced by the sublime Andrew McCarthy or the long-forgotten Jonathan Silverman. They are two faceless strangers that walk into my place where I am plopped on the coach. The only known thing about the situation is that I am playing the role once adored by Terry Kiser on the silver screen; a dead man wearing sunglasses, living (?????) by the beach. My greatest fear is ripe for comedy and classical slapstick.

Once they discover I'm dead and not napping, McCarthy and Silverman fear they might be accused of murder. So McCarthy and Silverman tie their legs to my legs and place their arms around my back as we walk up and down the beach, getting ourselves into various beach capers. People smile and wave. McCarthy takes my arm and wave back, flapping my arm around from side to side. People on the beach notice my limp wave and merely think that I'm a little down on life at the moment, but still very much alive.

Things start off innocent enough. Lounging by the pool or lying on the beach, always a half-filled glass of lemonade nearby to further the illusion that I am still alive. Everyday I'm wearing the same white pants and blue button-down shirt; others on the beach just assume I'm going with what works so why change it? Even though it is my greatest fear and my worst nightmare, I still look rather hunky in blue.

Soon, McCarthy and Silverman get bored with my deadness and send out invitations for the hottest party on the beach, a party that I will never be able to enjoy in my present condition. As the young hotties arrive, McCarthy and Silverman, with my ankles tied to theirs to simulate movement, walk around and awkwardly wave to all those in sight (for some reason, I always seem to be waving at people). But as the party moves on, I get dumped on the coach. People walk by and wave (people always seem to be waving at me too. It's a vicious cycle, it seems. I guess that's what makes it my greatest fear). Despite my lifelessness, people still look at me and say, "Hey!"

I say nothing.

Two scantily clad women in bikinis sit on the coach, one on each side. As my head tilts slightly to the side, one remarks how lifeless I look and how I remind them of that one guy from that one movie. Is it the aviator glasses? The manly mustache? I can't say for certain what gives it away. The women, however, will never realize just how accurate they are in their comparison. It's just another case of vintage bimbo-ism for which there is no cure.

As word of the party gets out, mullet-sporting mob members arrive, armed with syringes, thinking that I have the money when in reality, I am merely a plot device. McCarthy and Silverman are unaware of the mob men's intentions; they sense things could get ugly. They pick me up by the arm pits, wave goodbye to the bimbos, and we soon escape to my laboratory.

In my greatest fear, I own a laboratory.

With no regards to my reputation, McCarthy and Silverman begin work on a cure for small pox, even though one already exists (I think). They grab my arms and mix various chemicals in beakers. Take some of the red goo, pour in some green liquid. Mix vigorously and see what happens. To view the results, McCarthy and Silverman lower my head towards the microscope and they'll laugh and laugh and laugh. Being away from the mullet-sporting mob men is of great relief to them.

As my research on small pox progresses, the two start to publicize my results. They'll even issue press releases about my breakthrough in my small pox vaccine. I will be humiliated. People will view me not as the man curing an already cured disease, but rather, as the man who issued a press release that the AP ignored.

Because of McCarthy and Silverman's stupidity, the Mullet Mob finds out where I am hiding and they come after me. Naturally, I have very little to fear. McCarthy and Silverman, on the other hand, evidentially have a reason to live - mainly due to their ability to live. This contrasts nicely with my inability to live since I've been Weekend at Bernie-ed.

It gets complicated, but stay with me...

We soon escape to a yacht floating just off the beach. Due to a clerical error by the yacht captain - played by Gilfrod Godfry in an unforgettable cameo - I am entered in a shuffle board tournament with the middle-aged, single beauty, Holly. Unaware of my condition, Holly stands behind me, sensually grabs my arms and pushes the shuffleboard thingy towards the end of the shuffleboard court as we try to score a goal and put some points on the shuffleboard.

As we get to know each other, Holly falls in love with my great listening ability. Because of my quiet sensitivity, we soon are lying on the beach below the full moon. Waves are crashing on the beach, wetting the sand and exposing the clams.

Before it gets too kinky, McCarthy and Silverman reappear and interrupt our night swimming. They pick me up, make the idle excuse that I passed out drunk, and leave Holly alone on the beach, waving goodbye. My greatest fear only gets worse as I am pried apart from my shuffleboard seductress, unable to wave back. My only hope is that some day the love of my life gets Weekend at Bernie-ed "too."

I guess it shouldn't be too unexpected. I've followed this election closer than any other, as I'm sure many others have. After listening to Palin's introductory speech at the Republican National Convention, I was so appalled that I considered, for the first time, volunteering for a presidential campaign... Obama's presidential campaign.

The way that the McCain campaign has played the "poor defenseless woman" card is absolutely disgusting and I would hope that women everywhere are as insulted as I am. How on earth can you expect our next-in-line for Commander in Chief to make difficult decisions when you can't even let her answer questions from reporters?

http://blogs.abcnews.com/politicalpunch/2008/09/palin-media-a-2.html

Also, the campaign's attempts at controlled pr stunts completely floor me. I feel like this should be a major discussion point for every news program and among citizens. All of this closed-door, "we'll let you know what we want to let you know" is infuriating, misleading, and outright wrong.

http://politicalticker.blogs.cnn.com/2008/09/23/media-presses-mccain-campaign-for-access-to-palin-meeting/

http://firstread.msnbc.msn.com/archive/2008/09/23/1436401.aspx

One more tidbit:

"At Palin's rally, reporters weren't permitted to talk to the audience, the St. Petersburg Times reported. When reporters tried to leave the designated press area and head to where the crowd was seated, an escort would dart out and turn the person around, Times staff writer Eileen Schulte wrote on the paper's Web site."

http://www.etaiwannews.com/etn/news_content.php?id=756947

Há dos grupos de vídeos não postados: WorldMax e 3GP(e afins).

WorldMax:

 - Juntarei alguns vídeos do WorldMax para postar vários de uma vez. Até então, tenho 7 (1 do Decco, 6 da Fabi) - eu acho. Já devo estar postando em breve.

3GP e Afins:

 - Alguns vídeo foram gravados por celular e a qualidade geralmente não fica boa (maioria 3GP) e acho que não vou postá-los. Mas se tem algum vídeo em que você aparece e gostaria de vê-lo aqui, é só pedir que a gente cata e, se der, o postamos. E se alguém tive algum gravado, me passa pra eu poder postar aqui. Agora, tentem imaginar como ficará o vídeo depois do "processo de tratamento" do YouTube.

Mais vídeos para vocês (não são 3GP's xD ):

* Fabiana - Chung Hwa Ban Jeom (Nightmare) - A

* Jesus - Bemera (Nightmare) - D

The whole graphic novel and comics scene is kind of foreign to me, but the self-publishing, DIY zine, anti-establishment mantra of indie press is all in the same spirit as a lot of music. The artists were extremely friendly and engaging. They seemed to genuinely want to know about your own projects, even though they'd been standing at their booth all day meeting strangers.

I did a little bit of window shopping with album artwork in mind and particularly liked Ben Walker's role reversals between humans and wild animals. Funny and aesthetically engaging, and yet politically meaningful if that's how you wanted to interpret it.

Josh Johnson's work... deliciously spooky.

Speaking of spooky, I had a nightmare last night about zombies a la Shaun of the Dead. It was terrifying and very cliche, and I actually woke up flailing my arms because I had a baseball bat in my hand and a zombie was coming toward me. It was 6:58am. Still had a couple more hours till daylight :(

I was with someone, a guy, a boyfriend - but not anyone I actually know. We were driving and we were in an accident. We went to the hospital. We were bleeding profusely. Then we were in another accident. And I don't know what. I don't remember the exact details.

I was feeling really anxious before I went to sleep last night. That might have caused it.

I was also tired. As I am right now.

Wish me luck.

In no particular order:

Tim Burton's legacy will always be tainted by the few stinkers he's done, especially as of late, but I can't hate the man because he's having a bad streak.  Sleepy hollow is an effective little horror period piece that faithfully retells the legend, while spicing things up just enough to make it feel hip and modern.  Add some great use of clever humor, as rock solid cast, brutal and gory death scenes, and Christopher Walken as the Headless Horsemen, and you have yourselves a winner.

The Witches, from the brilliant writing mind of Roald Dahl, is an often forgotten spooky movie that is intended for kids, but comes with a heaping helping of adult size fun and scares.  Incredible make up and effects litter this film, as does a cute story about a boy turned into a mouse who must stop the evil Witches from taking over the world.  A sleeper hit no doubt, and one you probably haven't heard of or never paid much mind to, seeing as the audience it's geared towards.  Take a chance on this one to mix things up this October.

Another sleeper gem that most would overlook due to an overly cheesy cover art and no real hype at it's time of release, this fun little slasher takes place on Halloween, and has a few interesting gimmicks and noble ideas that makes things more interesting than your average slasher.  The well-placed dark humor and twisted nature of the whole tale more than make up for it's other shortcomings.  If you think you've seen every Halloween based slasher flick, pick this up.  It might be more entertaining than you think, even for the diehards.

Call it nostalgia.  Call it being  a Tim Burton Fan boy.  I call it a masterpiece of animated cinema, one of the best holiday themed movies ever made, and Tim Burton's crowning achievement.  Nothing will ever eclipse this, even when people try to enhance with updated soundtracks and 3-d glasses.  I'm begging for the hate mail to come pouring in now, and I may even lose the trust of my co-writer here on Midnight Showing Ronnie, but I still feel as much love and devotion to this film as i did 15 years ago.  A masterpiece.

AS IF YOU DIDN'T SEE THIS ONE COMING...

THE Halloween movie to end all Halloween movies.  John Carpenter's timeless classic is the epitome of how to create tension, atmosphere, and intrigue with simple pieces. Most don't even realize that some of the movie is simply shots of interiors and exteriors of houses and neighborhoods, with just the theme laid over top of them.  That's how genius it is.  He takes a dark stairwell and makes it terrifying.  Combine that with some shots through wide screen and other strange lenses to give it a surreal feel, the most memorable killer of all time, and the emergence of Jamie Lee Curtis as the "door next girl babysitter" and you have one for the ages.  Who would've thought one of the most recognized movies in the history of horror cinema would be as tame and bloodless as this flick?

We hope you enjoyed our picks for the Top 5 Halloween flicks this year, and stay tuned for more themed content coming throughout the month of October.

Sleep tight and remember, the killer about to call you is already in your house.

I have attempted, on several different occasions, to keep a dream journal. However, it always proved to be just a bit overwhelming, and after a time, terribly confusing. Too much information can be as difficult to deal with as not enough. And, even more important, it would begin to interfere in my regular journal pages, creeping into them, or sometimes, actually overwhelming the purpose and focus of those pages. I eventually hit upon a compromise that serves my purpose and allows me to explore and discover without getting wiped out in the process.

If a dream wakes me in the middle of the night, I usually pay attention, especially if it is some form of nightmare. I personally believe that dreams are messages from the subconscious mind. My rule here is, if it wakes me up, it must be important. And the resultant emotions, because they are so strong, have a tendency to emphasize the details of the message far more readily than otherwise, therefore, making them far easier to hang on to and remember in a conscious state.

I've also learned through experience, how easy it is to fall back asleep and re-enter a dream interrupted. Here I retain my choices. If its a nightmare, with heart raising emotions attached, I simply lie still and examine the most important details while my heart rate has a chance to settle down and resume a more restful rate. This does two things. It lodges the details even more firmly so that I can go back and explore them in a conscious state without the emotions attached, and it does allow me to settle down and to eventually resume a much easier sleep state within a shorter space of time.

The following morning, I will briefly write out those details in my journal. Then go on with my regular entry. By writing it down, I signal that I am aware and will deal with the message when I have more information. Invariably, the associations and connections will slowly seep into my consciousness over the next day or two. That facilitates a much easier and more concrete analysis and interpretation. It is far more relaxed than a dream journal and makes the whole process easier.

If one rushes to analyze a dream, one is in danger of being overwhelmed by objectivity and logic that desperately wants a solution and answer so it can move on to "more important" things. Remember that putting the puzzle together should be fun, entertaining, and relaxing. It should also relieve the anxiety that such an experience can and does induce. I am a terribly curious creature, but patience mixed with that curiosity is far more apt to bring about a more concrete understanding. It can also precipitate a dream in which I have chosen some awkward or snail paced form of transportation.

I recently went through this process because I woke myself up yelling for my Mother to come and rescue me from a dark and unknown terror. The thought of my 90 year old parent coming to physically rescue me actually made me smile, but also made me realize that I was dealing with a buried issue from the past that needed resolution. As the other associations and connections came swimming to the surface through the next few days, they even suggested some means of resolving the important problem that the dream message came to tell me about.

It is very important to remember that the one person necessary to dream analysis is the dreamer. He/she alone is the only person who can really know what the associations and connections are really all about. They come through the filter of that individual's perceptions and belief systems. Others can and will make suggestions, but the ultimate interpretation is in the hands of the one who created the dream from the bits and pieces of his/her experiences. Every detail, no matter how seemingly minor, is a product of the individual dreamer. So much so, that my sister could have the exact same dream and might come up with an interpretation that resides somewhere on the other side of the globe from my own. We may have grown up in the same exact environment, gone through almost the exact same growth and learning process, but her perspective is far different than my own. It is what makes us distinct individuals and therefore, distinctly different dreamers. Even the mother image in our dream would represent different ideas, symbols, and meanings.

Although my journal plays an intrinsic role within my dream process, I the dreamer, the human being who has lived each separate moment of my life, retains the far more important role. The words I choose to define that experience play another important role. They too, come from the subjective aspect of my own mind and often, their very choice is an important aspect of the later dream interpretation. And later, as I write out that interpretation, most often in phrases with dashes instead of punctuation marks, I find the puzzle coming together in a very natural manner, with ease, comfort, and a sigh of contented satisfaction at a job well done.

Although this blog is mainly about nightmares and dreams that go bump in the night, there are many different forms and types of dreams. Each of those types should be approached with the idea of a personal message from the individual to the individual. Remember, if we respect the messenger, we are far more apt to receive the full message and even understand it better. Can we really afford to dismiss those messages and define them as the result of yet another run-in with Aunt Lucy's potato salad?

I am far too distraught to write anything coherent, so here in its entirety is the text message conversation between my brother and I during the game last night (I hope he doesn’t mind).

Warning – there is a lot of swearing in this conversation.  I will bleep out most of it, but if you are easily offended by salty language you may want to skip this one.

My comments are in red, A's are blue

8:44 - Cell phone ready?

8:46 - Yep

9:07 - Oh!  I am so nervous

9:09 - S isn’t watching

9:12 - Too much for her

9:15 - Me too. They can win, I know it!

9:16 - Keep the faith

9:23 – F**k

9:28 -  Double f**k

9:29 - Y do we pitch 2 Loney?

9:54 - Because they’re idiots

9:58  - D**mit

9:59 - G*d d**mit can we get some hits with less than two outs please?

10:04 - Oh no

10:05 – I can play better infield

10:09 - They better walk Manny

10:10 - Thank you

10:11 - Amen

10:13 - Whew

10:15 - I’m shocked they didn’t score

10:18 - Finally a hit with no outs

10:19 - I love Soto

10:25 - F**kity f**k

10:37 - Come on boys it’s getting late

10:40 - WTF

10:40 - Cable is out, mercifully

10:42 - Oh no do you want updates

10:47 - Marshall warming up

10:48 - 3 to 0

10:48 - Listening over the internet

10:53 - No!  Not Marshall

11:01 - Park warming up for LA now is our chance

11:01 Fingers crossed

Long actual conversation where we wondered what the h*ll had happened and decided the Cubs had peaked too early.  Both of us upset.

11:45 - F**k

11:50 - Go DeRosa

11:55 - F**k this f**king game

11:56 - You said it

12:03 - Last chance

12:11 - Here we go

12:11 - I h8 these guys

12:12 - No words

12:13 - Tears b4 bedtime

12:15 - If I were alone I’d be too

12:19 - Goodnight

12:20 - Goodnight

And just in case some tiny part of your heart is still functioning

However. My orthodonist felt it was necessary to shave down the space between my teeth so that when invisalign adjusts them they will fit better.  And oh my god. First of all, now I have a new greatest nightmare du jour.  I experienced both the drill and then the manual file, all while the assistant looked on and chuckled at the sheer terror in my eyes. Second MY TEETH LOOK DIFFERENT. And uglier. I'm so angry about this; they're all straight now without that cute beaming outward character to them. I paid $4000K for invisalign so that my teeth could look better, not so that they would resemble a group of perfectly lined commie soldiers (yes that is how i think of them now).

So lesson is: if your ortho says s/he wants to shave your teeth, Do Not Consent.

Moving out of the air-conditioned centre a few moments later, Addison is struck by the stifling heat of the morning. He turns towards the main shopping centre and heads for a particular shop where he has seen both clothes for mothers and toys for babies. He wants to buy something for his new family. Perhaps a loose smock for Carla, a mobile for Dinah. He will become an active participant in this new world. The baby will become more theirs and less Carla’s legacy.

He can’t quite reconcile the two parts of his life in his mind. He always pictures himself not as both but as one or the other: the rescuer-priest or, since nine days ago, the father. 

He views the row of ceramic name plates for doors. There’s no Dinah. 

If he were to choose another name for himself, it would be Melchizadek though he can’t find that either. When he reads about the guy in scripture, he feels a kind of kinship: no beginning, no end, a priest forever in his own city. (Like Carla, Addison has no contact with his family now.) And people bringing him tithes. That’s how Addison lives, in a priestly way, on the tithes of the Followers, money gladly given in appreciation for his work among them. He never mentions money, of course. They just give spontaneously out of love for the God who has rescued them. Addison has mediated, and the tithe is rightly his. 

He chooses a mobile with six plastic swans and battery-operated flashing lights on each neck, and then a cotton nursing top for Carla. The assistant helps him with this, explains the front buttons as though he were an idiot. He smiles at her, nevertheless, and pays. The Followers couldn’t have chosen better.

On the Superbus he forgets about godless humanity and contemplates soberly his invitation. What if by a stroke of chance she is married to some highly educated professor of Divinity? And Addison has invited him to tea? 

Addison feels like a warrior sent to battle, armed only with basic counselling and aromatherapy.

***

Carla’s mug of tea slops dangerously as she lowers herself stiffly onto the living room settee. 

She sits, awkward and hunched, trying to calm herself by inhaling the sweetly pungent aroma wafting from the coconut and lavender candle on the mantelpiece. A nightmare assaulted her in the early hours and she needs to clear her head before Addison returns. It’s over an hour since he went. Dinah is in her cot upstairs, heavily sedated with the comfort of a full breast of milk. This should be a mother’s space. 

But the warmth of the morning barely touches the cold in her soul. Maybe an oil burner would work better than candles - if she ever gets to go shopping again. She hugs herself instinctively.

Will I dare be in town? 

Her body remains in the grip of the dreamt terror: she can still feel herself being dragged by a relentless and unseen force from Helen’s moving car into Steve’s, the cars remaining locked together as if in battle; Helen holding her round the waist, her spine stretching as she begins to tear apart; the traffic circling past them, mindless of her screams for help, the drivers only interested in reaching their destination. And Steve calmly pronouncing a list of charges to do with her character, like a grand judge summing up the decision. Mixing in promised revenge as a deserved punishment.

Her thigh muscles clench together involuntarily as she imagines him carrying out the threats - as he surely will if he finds her. It’s enough to make her stomach turn. Only a deep, slow filling and emptying of her lungs saves her from retching. Helen alone stood between her and Steve’s hell as she woke, sweating and rigid, to the sound of Dinah’s cries for attention.

She pulls her bare legs up onto the settee, as if to protect them, slumps suddenly sideways against the cushions, rests her head on her arms, drained of the energy to hold herself up.

She must concentrate and think. 

It is obvious that the nightmare was just that, something looming from a subconscious fear. But the precipitating event will not go away: how could Steve be at the window of a car behind them in town? She is sure that as they rounded the junction she recognised him. Neat floppy hair, straight nose, cigarette tilted just below it. She never wants to be close enough to Steve to know his features. Even across a football stadium would be too close. He’s dangerous. Her heart thumps again. Steady, she tells herself. Don’t start. This is now, not then. You’re safe here.

She forces herself to relax and breathe sweeter air. She makes her eyes move round the room, take in the reality of the home she shares with Addison: the simple furnishings, possessions they have been given, the piano, the table, the chairs. The ordinariness of it all. It’s impossible to think of her past being here with her.

Steve won’t have followed her here. He has other business, a living to make. He wouldn’t be able to spend time chasing her across more than ten miles to another city he hardly knows. She’s been unsettled by the sight of someone who merely looked like Steve: clean-shaven, handsome but steely. Tidy hair when calm, flopping forward like Steve’s would when his anger rose after a drinking session. Her head’s organising gremlin has made a mistake of identity due to the speed things happened.

Would it even take Steve six months to track her down? Would he bother? She was not that important to him. Others can do what she did. The special bond between them broke long ago. Long before she ran. Long before the refuge, Addison, Helen, Dinah. The list is a tool: pushing away the time when she knew Steve for what he was. 

In fact, it wasn’t Steve she feared. It was the man he became under the influence. And not just of drink. It was more. Jealousy? Competition? No. She tells herself it wasn’t that. She offered none. If he thought so, it had been in his mind. The mind does funny things when unbalanced. She knows that. She hadn’t been able to fight for herself before.

Before it happened. 

But afterwards, influenced again by the hormonal upheaval of pregnancy, she’d known she could do anything, anything, to ensure the safety of this baby. Perhaps Steve, too, is unstable. If he thinks her gone to someone else, maybe he will go to the ends of the world to take her back. Maybe it was him, after all...

Fear is encroaching again. The candle wavers as she stares into its golden flame. 

Then she thinks: the light that fear provides is not a good guide to right and wrong. Daylight is better for making judgements. She jumps up and goes to the window, blinking in its sudden brightness as she focuses again. For some moments she absorbs the clear blue of the morning.

‘This is my life now,’ she tells the blackbird on the wall outside. She must have shouted: the bird rises with a flap and disappears. 

‘Sorry.’ She is contrite at the sight of the vacant perching place. But the knot slips from her stomach.

It couldn’t have been Steve. She was less than worthless in his eyes once pregnant. Some stranger has put this idea in her head, just by happening to be within her line of vision when she glanced round. It’s too coincidental. She won’t contemplate it. It’s senseless to let unproven fears take hold. Besides, he never knew she was pregnant again. She’s sure of that.

So sure that she checks the time, strides to the candle, blows out the wick and pinches it hard, then retires to the galley kitchen and starts making coffee for Addison’s imminent return. He is strong. He will protect her, but it’s better not to add to his already heavy burdens. She may have no affinity with his mission, but there is an overwhelming need to repay him. Busyness will keep things in proportion. 

She pushes any lingering anxiety somewhere it cannot affect her face, and reaches for two mugs, noting how quickly the smell of coffee overpowers the coconut and lavender she knows Addison does not entirely condone.

All he wants is to be loved.

Recently my dreams have taken a turn for the worse; they're simply not as much fun anymore.  The setting for last night's dream was a busy construction site, the kind one sees when a new subdivision is being built.  I was walking near the site when--to my surprise--a loader dumped a load of gravel right next to me.  The result: I was up to my waist in gravel and could barely move.  My struggle to free myself proved to be futile.  The load of gravel was then followed by a load of boulders.

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