2006-04-04 - 4:43 p.m.
I’m not a big believer in the subconscious. Freud always seemed a little too eager to blame the shadow mind, and those who spend hours parsing their late night Id screenings for personal definition seem slightly deluded to me.
Given, my dreams, when I can remember them, make about as much sense as David Lynch film when watched with enough LSD stamps in your mouth to get a decent sized package from Cleveland to Zimbabwe. In fact, and here’s your over share of the day, if anyone wants to tell me why I had a non-sexy, to the point of clinical, sex dream about Alexis Blisdel the other night I’d love the explanation. She is legal, and got to prance about in a short skirt in Sin City, but that doesn’t really make it any less creepy. Neither do the presence of charts in the scene. Charts, people. (Seriously though, people tell me about waking from their steamy night exhibitions with bated breath. All mine manage to treat the topic like a stodgy British surgeon circa 1832, or else make it the most frightening thing on the planet. You don’t even want to know about those images. Hey, thanks Catholic upbringing!)
So, my chaste nightmares aside, I’m not big into the quiet whisperer of the mind having all that much sway. So, it is with great cynicism and quandary that I recollect the inexplicable presence of Tiffany’s “I Think We’re Alone Now,” on my lips the other day.
Simply put, I’m moving. Again. This new place will be the fifth apartment I’ve had in Brooklyn in the last three and a half years. The first went up in flames. The second was ripped out from under me when a neighbor complained about me playing a Michael Moore movie too loudly. That complaint probably wouldn’t have held too much water if the neighbor weren’t the owner of the building. Number three was just too expensive, just too occupied with rats, and just too on the sixth floor.
The forth? Women.
One of my two roommates decided to move in with his girlfriend, and while I offered to grab a double with my other roommate, he saw freedom flash before his eyes, and made the dream a reality with a private studio, all to himself, out in the wilds of Queens.
Back to craigslist I go.
Despite the requisite bitching about how the market has gotten so much more expensive in the last couple years, I found something I could reasonably afford, and only a block away from my current place. Ground level? Yes. Overly complicated terms of lease? Abso-frickin-loutely. (Please note, that may be the only use of ‘frickin’ I deem acceptable.) But hell, it’s close and I won’t have to sell my second born to live there. (Already sold the first born. How you think I get this glistening baby-blues, honey?)
How does this serve as the backdrop for our favorite hand-dancer? After plunking down the deposit, I wandered back towards my current apartment, rolling the new domicile around in my mouth, contemplating the move, and the next year of my life in there by myself. I stood on the corner, smoking my requisite cigarette, and suddenly…
“I think we’re alone, now. There doesn’t seem to be anyone, aroooouuuunnnd…”
Didn’t even realize I was humming it. I actually reacted to the words as if someone had passed by me murmuring it.
I don’t mean to get all dramatic about the whole move. In fact, I’ve been quite lackadaisical about it. Apparently so much so that my mind resorted to the use of Tiffany to get me to feel weird about it.
Given that, I’m trying to figure what my mind was trying to do playing “Bloody Well Right” by Supertramp through my internal soundtrack this morning, as I considered my little two headed frog of a life. (Ahh...impenitrable symbology.)
Possibly, just offering up an alternative to the Alexis dream.
No, really…Charts, people.
P.S. Points for anyone who caught the Boondock Saints reference.
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