Welcome everyone! Welcome to dreamboy! January 1995.
 
I was hoping to begin this month's dreamboy! with the exciting results
of my loosely-described "contest", from last issue. But no one entered,
believe it or not, which makes me think none of you are actually
reading any of this. Do you just receive dreamboy!, only to delete it?
Is this some form of pity? Spare me, I beg you!
 
I'll try it one more time, and if no one enters, oh well. I'll put the
contest idea to rest. Here are the NEW rules. Send me 10 days worth of
your uncensored dreams by Valentine's Day, 1995. Three entries will be
selected at random. Those picked will receive a free copy of DECEMBER 22,
the high-quality paperback containing all my dreams from December 1991
to December 1992. Over 206 pages of subconscious out-pourings! If
you're one of the sharp few who actually purchased DECEMBER 22 for
$12, then I'll send you a free copy of volume two, upon printing (two
years, illustrations, and over 600 pages!)
 
Here's your big chance.
 
That seems about it. Take care, everyone, and be sure to listen to your
subconscious...it's telling you something. Believe me.
 
Chris
 
PS - If you're in the Los Angeles area, be sure to visit Jim SRcomic book-style
pages of his dreams, fully illustrated and with
captions. It's a riot and highly recommended.
 
*****
dreamboy! currently has 97 subscribers.
*****
 
January 2, 1995
 
I'm a video game tester. It's my job. I'm sitting at a console with two
other people, though there's room for up to six. Maybe four. We can play
together or separately.
 
I'm a man with a gun.
 
A fiery sun comes swooping down; I must dodge low to avoid it. heavenly
satellites shoot down, attempting to nail me. I
have to shoot high in the air as a defense.
 
It's all pretty stupid, and I have a hard time determining the point.
 
*          *          *
 
Time for battle. I'm engaged in a terrific shoot-out. Me versurto the death?
 
I'm running around my old neighborhood, wielding a gun with ferocious
bullets. Lethal, with a real 'L'. I have my opponent in my sights and I fire
away. I pump rounds in his direction, butto no avail. Why? I have him
dead to rights.
 
He comments. We both know he should be dead. Neither of us know what
happened.
 
I have a meeting with rebel forces and find out our weapon technology
has somehow been compromised. Mathematic charts explain the
suspected problems and potential solutions. Now I know why the enemy
got away.
 
*          *          *
 
I'm sitting at a large table, engaged in a group discussion. All my
comments are somehow doo-connected. I'm talking about pools, pits,
splatters, the runs, and just fudge in general. Everything comes back to
fabulous feces.
 
Certain members of the group are tired of my banter. They think I'm
stupid and childish. Maybe I am. Maybe I even get somewhat embarrassed.
But still, I think doo is key.
 
January 3, 1995
 
Dueling computer geeks. Their systems are rip-roaring and they'to go.
 
January 4, 1995
 
I show up to work and it seems I'm the only one in the office. . Is today some
type of holiday?
 
I ask about Rick at the front desk, "...is he doing all right?"
 
They tell me he is. They tell me he's motivated again, which is a really
good thing.
 
I'm taking a shower in his office, asking questions out the open door.
Beautiful Tamala Terhune pops in, to get files and take care of
paperwork. As she approaches my nude body, I say, "Excuse me," and
place a washcloth over the Johnson. Mr. Johnson to you.
 
"Shit," she says. Tamala then turns and tosses a towel at me, eyeing me
like I'm stupid.
 
Damn, she got me.
 
I go to her desk and lay her down across the tabletop. I then strip away
her clothes, because I desperately need to investigate. Ah, just as I
suspected. Even though her skin's a velvety dark chocolate, the vital spots
are still as pink as can be.
 
*          *          *
 
I'm in fucking grade school. We're all wearing baseball uniforms-yellow
or orange, like my old Brewers and Angels gear from Little League-and
the teacher is taking role. We're sitting in specific places, supposedly in
alphabetical order. I make a mistake, though, and forget my
pre-determined spot. Everyone gets whacked out by my error.
 
John Riggi is sitting in the front row, with Ron Sandanato right behind.
Shit. I should be between them, but instead I'm four or five seats away.
 
I'm given a chair, but I don't fit. So I'm assigned a second seat. This time
I fit much better.
 
January 5, 1995
 
I'm in a structure. A large classroom, at the end of a long hallway. My
bedroom is on the other end.
 
The class is an art class. I'm not enrolled-god forbid. I'm just milling
around. Loitering. The class has green walls, and it's filled with unhappy
females. The instructor, yet another female, tosses a paint-loaded brush
across the room. The glob of light blue paint slaps in the middle of Susan
O'Neill's inept effort. Mindlessly, she mixes the light blue into her
painting and then looks up. The teacher, apologetically, admits to tossing
the brush and tries to comfort Susan.
 
Whatever.
 
I'm with a girl, and she's also just hanging around. She has a
student-friend in the class, and she screams to her, "You gotta get out of
this class." We walk out.
 
I don't know her name, although it could be Melissa Newman. Let's just
pretend. She's kind of thick in the calf area, but I won't hold it against
her. We go to my room.
 
I call Jennifer on the phone. Hello?
 
"We're moving next week," she says immediately. Well, it's a good thing
we're talking, I guess. I've been having a hard time getting a hold of her.
I've missed her, and I know she's going to get married soon. After that,
we'll probably never talk again. But I can't tell her any of this, because
Jon's sitting on my beanbag chair and he won't let us have "our moment."
 
I ask her for her new phone number and address. A small woman enters
the room and stands there, waiting to talk with me. She's cute, so I brush
he cheek with the back of my hand. She doesn't like it and moves away.
She moves to the door. When she looks back, I call to her, but instead of
returning she leaves completely.
 
Jennifer wants to know why I want her address.
 
"So I can send you mail," I say.
 
"Oh!" she replies. But I think she's afraid I'm going to try an, which is
silly. I reach for some paper, but I can't find anything
blank. Everything is a god-damned-mess. There's just shit and clutter
everywhere. Kipple. I'm knocking stuff over and the phone somehow gets
disconnected. I call back and Jennifer is horribly upset.
 
*          *          *
 
Max is smoking in the kitchen and I have a fit. He says somethi
only wanting to smoke two and then being finished, and I think, fuck you.
 
He'll smoke his two and then Candice will want to smoke in the kitchen
and then everyone will be. Stinkin' bastards-give smokers an inch and
they'll try to take a mile.
 
January 7, 1995
 
Rick tells me super-secret business information.
 
The information is later leaked, and Rick thinks I'm the source. But I'm not.
 
Later, I'm at the headquarters. I see a woman investigator and she's
questioning all the men. She knows something, I can feel it. The man she
interviewed thinks I revealed the secret and I'm really upset. I can't
believe they think I'm the snitch.
 
The investigator returns to the office, I think. Another woman takes
notes. She tells her a man called, and screams, "Yes!"
 
She has a huge, white wig and grey skin.
 
January 8, 1995
 
I'm at the movies with Jinko Gotoh, watching Stargate, of all fy he's sitting a
few rows ahead of us.
 
Jinko leaves for a moment.
 
Amazing stuff happens on the screen and I'm afraid I won't be aturns.
 
Jinko returns.
 
On the screen, a huge blob-monster enters through the back of a movie
theater. Our theater? It's going to eat little children.
 
The actual floor of out theater moves with the film. A mechanical device
of some sort has been placed under the rug, but it feels more like a
severe earthquake. People are screaming and jumping and going crazy,
and Jinko wants to know what's happening.
 
I calmly tell her, but even I'm surprised when the full energy of the
shockwave hits our seats. We get up and move to the side of the
theater-by the aisle, where it's safer-and wait for the rocking to end.
When we return to our seats, we find someone has taken them.
 
Damn'em all to hell.
 
I hold our current position as Jinko looks for better seats.
 
*        *          *
 
I'm outside with Joe Henke and Jinko. Joe and I are actually walking
together, and we pass Jinko who's completely engaged in her own
activity. She lost a bird, and she's having extreme difficulty returning it
to her cage. Over and over again, she manages to corner it on the
blacktop, but every time she reaches for it, it flies out of her reach.
 
Joe and I leave.
 
*          *          *
 
There's an e-mail contest.
 
I'm just sitting there, and it hits me. The answer is Betty & Veronica #8,
from January 1971, where Veronica is drawn even more cartoony than
usual. I want to use Linda's e-mail to send in my answer.
 
*          *          *
 
My family is supposed to move, and my parents have filled up their cars
with as much stuff as possible. They've parked their cars on the street
below, so they can leave first thing in the morning. My mother walks
outside and then rushes back in.
 
The cars are gone.
 
NASA has towed the cars, claiming they're illegally parked and some type of
ordinance. How can they do that? All our stuff is in the
cars. A Mexican woman from outside sympathizes with my mother.
 
"How do you know it was NASA?" I ask.
 
"Because of the black card...but now I can't find it."
 
Shit.
 
We'll never get out cars back without the black card. The black card
functions like a laundry ticket.
 
Regardless, I continue my loading chores in the garage. I pull a
screwdriver out from the wall and get terribly depressed.
 
*          *          *
 
I park my truck in the driveway. It's a steep incline, so I'm sure to lower
my vehicle's kick-stand. Only, it can't support the weight of the truck.
 
What did I do before? I've parked on tons of hills.
 
January 11, 1995
 
I'm hanging around in a run-down shack, by choice. Dead mice and pigs lie
on the dirty floor; everything is encrusted with shit. This place is like a
chicken coop, only housing vermin and rotting hogs.
 
Brian Inerfeld is here, too. We're here because the room is riddled with
disease, like the plague. You can feel it whenever you breathe. The virus
has a taste all its own.
 
Worriedly, I look to Brian and wonder, "Where are all the baby mice?"
 
Brian points to the floor.
 
I move, and holes begin to open up everywhere. Baby mice-half mouse,
half insect-begin to pour out. They're going to get me. I get frightened,
and seriously consider running away.
 
*          *          *
 
I'm transporting a large package from work. I'm supposed to send it
somewhere, via UPS. I bring it to the large UPS building in the bed of my
pick-up truck. I get a 4-wheel dolly from somewhere and use it to move
the package.
 
I'm in the building, in a long line. Suddenly, I realize I'm missing my
wallet. Crap. First I lose my Versateller card and now I lose my entire
wallet. I have to leave. I have to find my wallet. I quickly turn around and
begin maneuvering the dolly through the crowd.
 
Two workers are fiddling with an extension cord. I see an opening in the
sea of people and go for it. Unfortunately, I tag one of the workers with
the dolly, running over the heel of his foot.
 
The screams are incredible.
 
I apologize, and tell him I once rode an extremely heavy dolly over the
side of my foot, but he doesn't care.
 
I call a woman on the phone and tell her I'm unable to complete the
delivery. I flirt with her a bit and then tell her about my wallet. I'll leave
the package at a nearby friend's house in the meantime.
 
*          *          *
 
I'm at Greg Steiner's place, talking about the live-action Mortal Kombat
film about to be released. Some guy from high school directed it,
actually, and the others in the room are pissed off. They look up his
image in the year book, and start making fun of him. I look at his photo
and see it come to life. He's wagging his tongue and salivating. He mocks
me. He mocks us all, I suppose. As he should.
 
I'm not directing anything.
 
*          *          *
 
I'm watching cartoons. They're funny, but not drawn very well. Bugs Bunny and
Mickey Mouse are together, in a movie theater. They're
fighting it out, to the death.
 
I don't really know what's happening, unfortunately, because the
drawings are all really poor.
 
*          *          *
 
I'm in a car, with two others. We drive down a very long, very tight
alleyway. There's barely enough room for us. Who's the driver? Is it Tim
Sakamoto? He shows us his workspace, approaching from the back-alley
side. Again, we drive down a long alley, to a dead end. Somehow he
manages to turn around in the super-tight area.
 
I'm amazed.
 
We drive back and parked cars almost block us in. We get to the
my left, an old black man is chaining a gate, closing the gate off to the
public. It's his job. After 6 p.m. the roads are closed to through traffic.
 
There's a small girl in front of us, locking the alley shut. No! We want to
go that way. Luckily, the girl is too weak and too stupid to get the gate
closed, but she won't get out of the way. We honk and she moves, but she
drops her doll in a mud puddle. Her mother looks on from the distance and
yells something. With the little girl now out of the way, we zip by at
break-neck speed.
 
I look at the mother and yell, "Hey lady, lock the fuckin' fence yourself!"
 
January 15, 1995
 
I'm sitting in a shallow classroom. It's very wide, but there's only one
row. Our teacher is a comedian. He's rambling, and it's obvious he thinks
he's really funny.
 
I have a stomach ache. I fear I've soiled my underwear, actually, and I
want to check the situation out. I want to sit on the pot and push a little,
just to finish the job. But people keep getting up and beating me to the
bathroom. I figure it's a good idea to get up and wait in line, but the
teacher is talking to me. He wants me to read part of a specific magazine
article, but I can't. I have the jitters and I'm unable to hold anything
still.
 
I see Elizabeth Wallen with another woman, and I can't believe it's really
her. I haven't seen her in ages, and she looks pretty darn good. Her
eyebrows are thick and her butt seems small. Or smaller. I squint, just to
make sure it's her.
 
"Hello Chris," she says.
 
I read the review of the comedian, and he reads along with me. He loathes
the part where they say his act is "hammed up."
 
I get up for the bathroom and wait in line. I'm first. Looking around, I
notice there are women everywhere, and I just know they're going to hear
me squirt liquid feces.
 
The comedian is flirting with Lisa Anne Auerbach in the other room.
She's cuter than I remember. Like she's now half Asian or something.
 
*          *          *
 
I'm describing this next scene to Princess Leia. I'm the director, see, and
she has to run and jump off a cliff. I mimic the actions she's to take and
accidentally fall off the cliff myself. Luckily, I hit the lake at the
bottom.
 
I come up for air and I'm immediately hit with a horrible vision. All I can
see is a huge, great white shark lunging up from the depths to eat me.
 
What would I do?
 
Go for the gills! Go for the gills!
 
It's my only chance.
 
*          *          *
 
Linda and I are running around the woods. The landscape is desolate;
we're looking for food. Linda spots a felled tree, resting in a stream.
 
"Are those apples or pears?" she asks.
 
We cross the stream and Linda pulls off some fruit. "Is it a pear?" she
repeats.
 
"No," I say. "It's a crab apple. Don't eat it."
 
"Shit," she says, "you're right." She tosses the fruit to the tream, right past
us.
He's a happy grizzly bear-you can tell by his smile.
 
I get the strange feeling I'm supposed to model a pear or light bulb for
work.
 
*****
 
Entire Contents(C)1995 by Christopher Dante Romano.
All Rights Reserved.
 
To subscribe or unsubscribe, write to cdromano@delphi.com.