Saturday, February 17, 2007

Oh, by the Way...

I had this major, major shit dream about a week ago. Nothing's happened yet, and I hate anticipating things. I only had one print audition, for Nokia, and also went to a callback for it. But so far, haven't heard a thing from them. Plus, if my dream was so major, I don't know how the Nokia job would fit in. It's only for about $1600.

If you're curious how my dream went, read on. If not, I'd suggest you stop now.

I was back home in Seattle, at my folk's house. The entire family was there, each in their prospective rooms. I had to use the bathroom—bad! But after checking each bathroom (there were three), none were available, so I shat in my pants.

To make things more silly, I went around to each room and showed each of my brothers, sisters and parents what I had done, and they were—get this—pleased!

Right after that, I woke up, checked my underwear and ran to the bathroom. Nope, I hadn't shat in my underwear—in real life. Just in my dream.

And as you know, I absolutely don't mind when that happens.

Two-Minute Analysis

I used to do this thing called the two-minute analysis—emphasis on “used to.” I would usually be involved in conversation with someone, sometimes over the phone, most times in person, and often times at a diner.

The two-minute analysis never starts by itself. It usually is initiated by a spark, somewhere in my head and completely out of nowhere, followed by me saying to the other person, “I have this thing called the two-minute analysis.” And with the other person’s permission, as well as a disclaimer saying that it’s just to be taken with a grain of salt and that I am truly not a mind reader or psychic, I begin to give this person my analysis of him or her, often citing instances in this person’s history to back up my analysis. All this happens, of course, within two minutes.

I stopped doing it after many successful sessions when I realized, one, I have nothing to gain from doing these things; two, I have much to lose in terms of friendships, trusts and the like; and, three, a girl whom I had performed an analysis on copied my entire spiel and began performing these “I have this thing called the two-minute analysis. I’m not a mind reader or psychic, and you should take this with a grain of salt” things with other people.

How I know about the girl performing these on other people happened by accident, when I told this guy that “I have this thing,” blah, blah, blah. He then shot back that someone else told him that exact, same line. When I asked who it was, he told me her name, and then we had a big laugh after I informed him that I had done the analysis on her many years ago. And that was how she probably came to do it on others. After that, I decided to hang up my analyst’s uniform and keep my little sparks of initiation to myself.

I like keeping them to myself, in fact, and I have much more trusting relationships with friends, strangers and the like. One thing that I miss about the “TMA,” as I shall now refer to it, is that it often stripped a woman naked, right before my eyes, and then sometimes later in the bedroom or car, be it as it may.

But therapist-patient relationships are not to be trusted nor encouraged, as most shrinks would instruct you, probably out of personal experience. Thankfully, I only slept with a small percentage of my patients. To explain this, you’d have to imagine yourself not liking or trusting someone who used to be very close or intimate with you. Let’s call it a one-night stand, except you don’t remember actually sleeping with that person. So now, when you see him or her at an event, you don’t remember the intimacy at all. All you remember is the discomfort or dislike of seeing this person.

Why? Probably because this person undressed you in a diner, or over the phone, and it was with your permission. Plus, this person didn’t exactly take off his or her clothes as well. He or she just gawked at you for some sadistic satisfaction, looking over your entire naked body as if it were on display at a museum. And try as you might to put your clothes back on, you realize that the sculptor had sculpted you that way and that putting on clothes was not an option.

Recently, I’ve been giving myself these little TMAs, almost on a regular basis. And I must say, I’m not liking the interrogation much, either.

Saturday, February 10, 2007

(Korean) American Idol

Gotta show some support for the Asian brother in American Idol. But why the stupid clip from William what's-his-name? Anyway...