July 14, 2004 - 4:19 AM

Nightmares of Paris

First came the slow-dawning, horrifying realization. Then there was the shame. While the attempt at a self-inflicted lobotomy (which I found out is pretty much impossible) failed, the subsequent mental enema found success. And yet, the after-effects and memories still managed to linger for hours.

Early this past Sunday morning, while in the throes of deep sleep, I had a terrifying dream. In this dream, amid long narrow halls and tall, wretched walls, in a world that was slate grey and and marbled black, I found myself not just fancying, but also dating Paris Hilton (if you have no idea who Paris Hilton is, count yourself lucky).

Oh, please, no, don't look at me that way. It was an accident, a mistake! The neurons in my brain would never fire to such thoughts consciously, I swear. I don't find Ms. Hilton to be attractive at all, with that lopsided, flat-face and those glassy eyes and lids at perpetual half-mast (suggesting that, while there might be someone home [extra emphasis on the "might"], that someone is too drunk and/or stoned to give a rat's ass); her what might be termed "insouciant moue" (more like "insipient moo"), although that would be an insult to all the actual fashion models who have that stupid professional pout down, and who also have more than 3 brain cells to rub together; and that stick-like body she borrowed from a praying mantis. *shudder*

In the dream, though, through that insane dream-logic that rules with an unbreakable tyranny, I thought that she was cute, and I also knew that she was an ok person. True, she didn't say much of anything, but it was inherently known to me that there was good in her. Which of course goes against reality.

Later that evening, as I flipped through the Sunday Primetime programming on TV, I happened upon an airing of an episode of Ms. Hilton's "reality" show, The Simple Life 2. My thumb froze above the Channel Down button as I tried to figure out if there was any merit to the actions of my dream self.

No. No there wasn't. I suffered through a minute of prologue that explained what Ms. Hilton and her accomplice did last season, and what they were doing this season. Then my fingers spasmed, mashing at the remote buttons to get me far away from the skronky wench as quickly as possible. I don't normally give much thought to her in real life, but my quick assessment of her is as follows: trust fund heiress brat/bitch, lazy dilettante party girl, no-talent trashy fame whore with the ass of a rat.

I tried to figure out what my brain was thinking when it placed her as a decent person upon whom I could foist my affections in my dream, and then it hit me. The setting of the dream had a decidedly Tim Burton-esque flair; the grotesqueries of this nightmarish world were reflected in both the architecture and the inhabitants. Into this bizarro land stumbled one simple, plain soul (me) who heroically developed a relationship with one of the more pitiable denizens. Yes. That must be the explanation.

The scars. The scars.

******

Meanwhile, in the real world, I had an actual date with a girl I contacted on an online personals website; we've been emailing/phoning for a couple weeks now. Friday night, we went to Amoeba Records on Sunset to use up a gift certificate that the Tech Director at the El Portal theater had given to me as thanks for my work on Ramayana. I think it's a cool idea to go walking/shopping on a first date. There's less pressure when you're not forced to sit across from the other person and fumble through conversations while also attempting to gracefully eat. Instead, you can stroll side-by-side, let the talk flow, comment on the other shoppers, get a glimpse into what kind of person the date is by seeing what catches his/her attention while you're browsing. She (we'll call her Polly since she's involved in public policy/government stuff) was fine with it, so we fiddled our way through the aisles for about an hour.

She didn't want any DVDs or CDs (although we both marveled at the box sets for a BBC comedy called Red Dwarf), so I picked up 4 CDs and took them to the register. After my purchase, we headed one block west to the Cat and Fiddle Pub for some food and drinks. We filled the next hour and a half with some funny conversation, a few uncomfortable silences, and a lot of making fun of the people there. Polly is about as much a pop-culture addict as I am, so we had a lot in common and a lot to snark about. I'm not sure how much she took to me, but I think it was a good enough date that we could at least be friends. I know that it would be fun to have someone with whom I could just "couch potato" it, watching my dinky shows like Joan of Arcadia or Gilmore Girls or Scrubs (or whatever new venture Joss Whedon might throw up on the Little Screen in the next few years).

Now Listening To : Leona Naess-Comatised
Random Thought : A day of no baseball. How will I survive?

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