Another pregnancy dream?

While I was pregnant with what I knew to be a son, John Rosenberg suggested that I name the boy John George. I wasn't so keen on George, so I went with John Jorge. After an impromptu and painless birth that occurred while I was sitting on my bed at home, and that concluded with my father severing the umbilical cord, I brought John Jorge the two or three doors down to John Rosenberg's house so he could meet the newborn, who was already quite a lively baby at the young age of several minutes. John Rosenberg wasn't home, but some strange landlord/housekeeper lady was there vacuuming. I told her to tell him about John Jorge. The baby wasn't his or anything, he had just helped me to select a name for him. And somehow, I was also pregnant with a girl, or knew I was going to be, and was mildly concerned that I didn't yet have a name chosen for her. John Jorge, I could tell, was going to be such a character, a sweetly hilarious, charmingly animated child. I could somehow see into his future, into his young manhood, and these traits were carried on. I was hopeful for his future.

My plan for today is simple: I will tear through the stacks of paper strewn about my desk with shocking efficiency. I will install the new computer in the "business center," which is actually a veritable lobby closet. I will build the podium, to the delight of the judge. I will walk home from Rockridge BART, with a detour to Piedmont to pick up my drycleaning. I will sit on my front porch in the dwindling sunlight. I will drink beer; I haven't all week. I will debate between going to a coworker's birthday party in the city and staying at home with our newly acquired board game, Pass-Out, which claims that it is not intended for use with alcoholic beverages, but which also says "DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE!" on the back of the box. Nevermind that nearly all the spaces on the board give the command, "Take a Drink," and that some of them even say, "Light Up," and that still others ask you to read a tongue twister from a card that features a picture of an elephant holding a glass, with X's for eyes, and the tell-tale "drunk bubbles" floating around its head.

And tomorrow I plan to fly a kite.

Ian, you know what song I really need? Givin' Up Food for Funk. If you ever make me a CD, you lazy bastard, put that song on it. Also, I'm really into the Sandycoates EP. I thought it would just sound like a quarter of a Moore Brothers album, what with it being half the members and half the length, but it doesn't, what with it having a fair amount of post production. Melody Memory is such a lovely song. It incites in me a fiery desire to be serenaded.

And Roby said to me, "The Gay Science? Hm, last I checked, you were neither 17 years old nor male." He also said something about existentialism being so '50s and '60s. I might argue that that's old enough to be kitschy (duh, obv.). Then we talked shit about Walter Kaufmann and the forced rhyming of the little poems after being translated from German. I mean, we think German's ugly, but where in German these poems were littered zealously with exclamation points, these same poems in translation sounded impossibly stupid. Maybe they do in German too. Probably. I bet Nietzsche would like !!!. You know? Ecstatically angry with a funky beat? "Like I give a fuck"?

So, I switched to Steinbeck's Travels with Charley, which will hopefully incite in me a fiery desire to travel. Not that I need to further fan the flames.