Because I know you'll never read this...

Dear You,

A few nights back, you and I were out at the club with the same very loosely knit crowd. Early in the evening I gravitated towards a couple of friends of a friend of ours I had only met a few nights ago. They were good enough company, but they had to work in the morning so they headed out early. After that I spotted an old friend, but soon he too tired and left.

While my mind's on it, when did we hit that age when 11:30 becomes bed time? It really crept up on me. Our friends just don't party like they used to, you know? I sure wasn't ready to go home just then!

At any rate, as soon as my friend had taken off, some stumbling buffoon approached. He must have had on beer goggles with lenses 3 inches thick.

"I may be drunk," he said, "but you're absolutely gorgeous."

"You are. I'm not. But thanks," I replied, hoping to brush him off quickly.

"No really, what's a girl like you doing all alone in a place like this?"

"Chillin'".

"What are you doing tonight?"

"This. Then sleeping."

"You should come to my place and party," he said, making a fumble at me which I evaded.

"No thanks".

"Oh c'mon. Why not? Is your boyfriend gonna be jealous?" I ignored him, hoping he would lose interest or forget where he was or something, but of course he persisted. "Are you even here with someone?"

"Um... yes," I replied, lying through my teeth.

"Well, WHO?" he demanded, now right inside my personal bubble and seeming irate.

"Um..." My eyes darted around the room in search of an escape route, and that's when I spotted you a few feet away talking to a group of friends. "Him!" I blurted. I then walked towards you. As I approached, you looked at me, said my name, and smiled. Then you went back to talking to the group you were with, but it was enough to send my unwelcome companion slinking out the door.

Anyway, to sum it all up I just wanted to thank you for the split second romance you'll never know we had and I, for some strange reason, can't stop thinking about.

Sincerely,
Me.

Mr. Sandman bring me a dream!

I had a pretty weird one last night. I was at the ocean, I guess, on a moody foggy beach. I looked out at the water and there was an ornate coffee table with a pail on it just sort of sitting in the shallow water. I waded in to check it out, and the water was just teeming with cute little fish. they looked a lot like the little tetras and things I used to keep as a kid (which were fresh water fish, for the record). Anyway, I looked in the pail on the table and there were more cute little tetras, so I decided I would free them. When I poured them into the ocean, they disappeared! I looked around for them, but they were gone. It was then that I noticed Agent John Dogget from the X-Files standing next to me.

For those of you may not have been into the X-Files, John Doggett was a special agent played by Robert Patrick (of Terminator 2 fame) used to fill out the cast when David Duchovney left the show. It's tempting to say he replaced Mulder, but really the whole thing played out like some weird game of musical chairs. Mulder's out, Scully takes Mulder's place, Doggett becomes the new Scully -- trust me, it made no sense.

Moving right along, I was still kind of confused about the disappearing fish and hoping that they weren't hurt or lost or anything, then Dogget and I had the following conversation.

DOGGET: They're not in hell, you know.

ME: Ummm... probably not.

DOGGETT: I know what you're thinking, but the table is made of ORDINARY wood. There's nothing supernatural about it, and I will NOT go to hell with you to get the fish back.

ME: I wasn't thinking that.

DOGGETT: YOU CAN'T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU HEAR!

I was pretty annoyed by that point, so I decided I would wade back to shore. I noticed a group of people on the beach crowded around a ghetto blaster. Someone shouted "I love this song!", then the whole crowd starts go go dancing like in some ridiculous Frankie and Annette teen beach flick. The lyrics of the song in question were simply "Timbuktu! Shooby dooby doo!" repeated ad nauseum over a straight 4/4 major blues progression (typical surf-music style).

I spent the rest of my dream running around (in my typical long black attire) yelling at the bikini-clad crowd "Can't you see? This song is... DUMB!" They all paid me no mind and kept on dancing.

Even in my dreams nobody listens to me.

Anyway, if anyone has any possible interpretation of this dream, I'm open. So far the best I can come up with is "season 8 of the X-Files blew chunks a little".

Lyric Writing For Dummies

I'm listening to the radio, and that song by The Killers comes on... you know the one.

"I've got SOUL but I'm not a SOLDIER!" (repeat. a lot)

What does that even mean? Last time I checked, one was not required to be a James Brown impersonator to get into the army. In fact, I think they discourage that.

And it's not even a little throw-away lyric either. It's the biggest hook of the song. It's the lyric you would sing to the hapless min-wager at HMV if you (like myself) did not know the title of the song and (unlike myself) wanted to buy the album. See, to me, it's the same deal as singing

"I've got LICE but I'm not a LICENSED PRACTITIONER OF NEUROSURGERY"

See? Not so good.

Pondering Pudding

"The holiday season, when a young woman's fancy turns lightly to thoughts of pudding." I doubt Alfred Lord Tennyson could have said it much better himself (given his present condition).

Let me start by saying I am not a subscriber to the belief that the British are entirely terrible cooks. I canceled my subscription to "Boiling The Living Fuck Out Of Vegetables Monthly" just last week, as a matter of fact. But jokes aside, I could honestly drink Worcestershire Sauce by the bottle. Thank you, United Kingdom, for that culinary treasure. Crumpets are okay too.

One thing I don't trust though is British pudding. While more often than not, when a friend from across the pond offers you pudding, they do indeed mean some sort of Jell-O instant chocolaty goodness, the word "pudding" can be used to encompass a variety of more sinister semi-solid foodstuffs as well.

Take, for example, the bubonic pudding. Erm... I mean the black pudding. Either way, the stuff should be avoided like the plague. Who thought this stuff was a good idea? Why did it catch on? I always get this mental image of a sweet little old granny rushing about her kitchen, preparing for her grandchildren to pay a visit. Lo and behold, she discovers she's out of pistachios. Oh bother, what will she use to flavour her pudding now? Then suddenly it occurs to her. She picks up an axe and hobbles to the barn. Oink. Chop. Thud. A few moments later, Granny returns with a jar, glistening crimson with the old sow's vital fluids. There's a different gleam in Granny's eye now as she stirs the viscous substance into her pot. Won't the grandchildren be surprised!

Then there is the matter of Figgy Puddings. I have never actually heard of these outside that popular albeit redundant Christmas tune, "We Wish You A Merry Christmas". The line, "Now bring us a figgy pudding," honestly baffles me year after year. And to make matters worse, the next verse of the song informs me that the Carolers in question won't go until they get some. Could someone please just tell me what a Figgy Pudding is so I can get these figging Carolers out of my FIGGING HOUSE? If they start singing Feliz Navidad, so help me God, someone's going to get a knuckle... pudding.

And of course, the holiday festivities would not be complete without the reading of that beloved Charles Dickens' classic, "A Christmas Carol". Yeah, forget Jacob Marley and The Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come. For sheer creepiness factor, how weird is that part where the Cratchit children whisk Tiny Tim off to the wash-house 'that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper'? Uhh... I don't think that "singing" is a verb i personally want applied to my dinner, thanks. But oh, those lovable Cratchit imps.

God bless us, every one. And also our freaky singing pudding.