THE NEW DREAM #61:

The up too early error

No explanation for this lowly Nimby Jones-a-like

Consciousness surging ahead of body

Workaholic spirit dragging the battered flesh forward to yet another pseudoglory

Blame it on late night ice cream or doomscrolling or general endstage capitalist malaise enhanced by things like Climate Inferno, the death of democracy, rising costs of existence, et cetera

Paranoiac panic

Sensation of chest cavity exploding doom of lateness

I’m surging forward into a driverly morning

Parts of me still locked up

My targeting system’s not working

I can speak, but the words are limited

I can drive, but it’s rolling dice-call it gamified driving, with that element of chance, right?

I can breathe, but I can’t enjoy it

I can crash car, but I probably won’t mind it in the moment

I can eat, but I can’t taste it

I can work, but I’ll hate it

I can hate it, but I still love the sense of power the firm lets me taste as we influence legislation that makes our masters that extra bit special and everybody else less so

I can love it, but how could I ever tell

By lunch interval I’m about okay or in the vicinity,

hmmm

More like Fake Okay,

Which is better than dead or broke or-

-the After Lunch Era

much less grumpy

I’m thinking how driving, even at my most alert, is still a gamble. I can be perfectly safe, and then some asshole crashes into me at 100 mph just because. 

And then I’m thinking my lack of alertness contains Secret Upsides: not enjoying food means I lose weight . . . hating my job means less heartbreak when I get downsized-hell, I might not even notice . . . Climate Inferno and the death of democracy and the affordability crisis encourage me to be less needy, right, cut those pesky needs down to the bone, then cut out the bone, then cut out the cutting out-

Here, it all takes a turn

I’m energy, I’m light, I’m back to the cosmos

My discontented spirit is still surging out ahead of all things, a vanguard of desire

The spirit’s hiring an army of mercenaries to secure my property-thus inspiring other spirits to raise their own private armies-I mean you can only keep up with all the look-a-like Nimby Joneses of this world before you’re in an all out shooting war

There’s this huge pile of toys and weapons and tanks and fighter jets and missiles and sports cars and mansions and fast fashion sweatshops and survival bunkers and waifubot factories and castles and drug labs and ammo dumps and substandard worker dormitories and dragon’s hoards of gold and vast refrigerated complexes filled to bursting with the choicest cuts of alchemically foundational Primum Steakum-and me and all the other Joneses are surging back down from Cosmic Oneness and into the Meats, furiously chasing each other all around the base of the pile shooting and stabbing and bombing each other . . . and I know this all sounds super irresponsible. But we’re all careful about the pile. We’re all fully alert. Our targeting systems are up-to-date and everything. 

Here, it all takes a turn.

All us Nimby Joneses who haven’t died in battle bed down for the night. Even though we’re at war with each other, we’re all sleeping together in this big ditch that was supposed to be some new affordable housing development, but we did so much damage with our out-of-control warring that it just became this ever expanding trough of filth where we all gather to sleep like some post-apocalyptic sitcom ensemble trading spiky banter and brawling over blankets and such. There’s this running gag about how all of us keep sneaking into each other’s dreams at night to steal and vandalize and sabotage-it’s actually a very well written show. This shit goes on for, like, fifty seasons.

But one morning we surge awake to find ourselves inside the Final Episode.

The treasure pile is gone.

But it left all us Nimby Joneses a note.

And all us Nimby Joneses see the note . . . and we get it.

At last.

We get it.

Don’t even need to read it.

But, of course, we need that memorable last scene of the camera panning across our scarred, filth-caked faces, our gore stained Brooks Brothers riot gear, our blazing red eyes, our crazily bared teeth, our tears cascading down every last cheek-lotta people got sets of eyeballs installed above their buttocks-as we all sullenly cue up to each take our turn reading the note.

Cue John Sullivan & Wendy Talbot’s theme song from the US version of Dear John . . .

NOTIONAL HEADLINE #261:

“WE’RE JUST GONNA HAVE TO SETTLE FOR STATIC, WELL COMPOSED CLOSE-UPS.” CRISIS IN THE WORLD OF CINEMA AS TWO MARTIAL ARTS MASTERS SQUARE OFF IN A DUEL OF DRAMATIC SNAP ZOOMS INTO THEIR STERNLY DETERMINED FACES THEREBY CREATING A SHORTAGE OF ZOOMS AVAILABLE TO OTHER FILMMAKERS . . . “OH, HOW I HUNGER FOR CHANGE AT ANY COST!” AN ABANDONED WAREHOUSE FILLED WITH HEAVILY ARMED MEN DYING IN SLOW MOTION DURING AN APOCALYPTIC FINAL SHOOTOUT FINDS ITSELF YEARNING TO BE THE LOCATION OF A QUIRKY INDIE DRAMA, AN INTROSPECTIVE CHARACTER STUDY, OR EVEN A FORMULAIC ROMANTIC COMEDY . . . “IT’S MY HOLLYWOOD DREAM COME TRUE!” THE CYCLOSPORA PARASITE-WHOSE RECENT BREAKOUT POPULARITY INSIDE THE GUTS OF THOUSANDS OF AMERICANS HAS EARNED IT BILLIONS OF VIEWS ON SOCIAL MEDIA-HAS JUST SIGNED A LONG TERM DEVELOPMENT DEAL WITH A24 TO STAR IN A SERIES OF FOODIE THEMED ELEVATED HORROR FILMS TO BE DIRECTED BY AIs TRAINED TO IMITATE INSUFFERABLE TIKTOK INFLUENCERS . . .

YOUR DRAWING PROMPT #111:

A law-and-order-based approach to financialized avarice.

SIMPLE PLEASURES #29:

Having a Dr. Pepper with Godzilla . . .

FUN YOU CAN HAVE #29:

Put your action figures in a big bag. Stash the bag at the back of your closet. Let all the time necessary pass . . . ‘til one fine morning when you awake to find a lone action figure lying exhausted from ordeals of battle upon your pillow staring into your face. Honor your new champion, and proceed to creating a new Era of Glory with this exceptional plastic warrior leading the way.

FANTASY MASHUP FORCE #41:

A shot-for-shot remake of Hudson Hawk starring Rodan in the title role.

THE SECRETS OF FINAL TOWN 109

THINGS NEVER SAID #63:

“The woodchipper in me is irresistibly drawn to the acrobatic disaster in you!”

NOTIONAL HEADLINE #260:

MASTURBATING UNCLE SAM-THE BREAKOUT STAR OF PRESIDENT TRUMP’S STATE FAIR-IS RUMORED TO BE COURTING GRAHAM PLATNER AS VEEP FOR A POSSIBLE WHITE HOUSE RUN IN 2028. PLATNER-WHOSE POLITICAL CAREER HAS BEEN DEFINED BY HIS DECISION TO TATTOO HIS BODY WITH A NOTORIOUS NAZI SYMBOL AND A GROWING NUMBER OF ALLEGATIONS AGAINST HIM OF SEXUAL ASSAULT-POTENTIALLY BRINGS ALONG A VARIETY OF INTERNET FAMOUS INFLUENCERS-SUCH AS HASAN PIKER, SAM SEDER, KYLE KULINSKI, AND CENK UYGUR, AMONG OTHERS-WHO SUPPORTED HIM DURING HIS RECENT UNSUCCESSFUL MAINE SENATE CAMPAIGN . . . WELL, IT’S LOOKING LIKE PRESIDENT TRUMP’S FOREVER WAR AGAINST IRAN-WHICH NEVER ACTUALLY ENDED-IS BACK IN FULL SWING. MAJOR MEDIA OUTLETS ARE LIKELY TO CONTINUE DOWNPLAYING THE SLAUGHTER OF CIVILIANS ON THE GROUND WHILST FOCUSING ON THE RISING PRICE OF GASOLINE TO MORE EFFECTIVELY PANDER TO AN APATHETIC HYPERCONSUMERIST AMERICAN PUBLIC . . . AS STAGNATION WAGES, INFLATION, THE BLOCKADE OF THE STRAIT OF HORMUZ, AND CLIMATE INFERNO DRIVE THE PRICE OF EXISTENCE UP FOR THE MAJORITY OF U.S. HOUSEHOLDS, MANY FORMERLY DEVOUT RELIGIOUS FOLKS HAVE BEGUN TO PRAY TO THEMSELVES RATHER THAN A TRANSCENDENTAL SKY-BASED DEITY. FOR THESE DISGRUNTLED BELIEVERS THE LORD HAS FAILED SO MANY FOR SO LONG, THAT THEY HAVE DECIDED TO ATTEMPT TO ‘PRAY THEMSELVES UP’ INTO A HIGHER STATE OF BEING, RATHER THAN LAVISH SO MUCH SPIRITUAL ENERGY UPON A SEEMINGLY INDIFFERENT, OFTEN TIMES HOSTILE GOD . . . STOCKS ARE UP . . .

YOUR DRAWING PROMPT #110:

A kidnapper who insists that, despite all outward appearances, they’re always using the word abduction strictly in the philosophical sense.

SIMPLE PLEASURES #28:

Taking a nap inside of a dream . . .

PLACES YOU CAN GO #15:

There’s a park you can visit, get your steps in . . . but I’m going to the abandoned warehouse where all the final shootouts take place.

Oh, I used to go to that park all the time, it’s a lovely place.

But one day, just as I was finishing getting my steps in, I got a notification from my step tracker app that I had completed getting my steps, and it was time to advance to the apocalyptic conclusion. 

You see, for the longest time you would just get your steps in . . . and get your steps in . . . and get your steps in . . . until you’re too old and frail to move anymore.

For multiple generations people just stepped their lives away!

And people aren’t stupid.

People caught on how tedious, how Sisyphean, how endless, how Waiting For Godot the whole gettin’ steps in deal actually is, and so people gave it up on a massive scale. 

People’s health declined. Rates of mental illness increased. Folks got miserable. Lifespans dwindled.

But then one day, fitness authorities decided to jazz up getting steps in by adding a dramatic apocalyptic ending . . . but you gotta earn it, friend!

Which is what you’re doin’ goin’ to that park. 

So keep it up.

One day you too will follow me into that abandoned warehouse of glory!

‘Til then . . .

FUN YOU CAN HAVE #28:

Have your action figures deal with injuries associated with attempting to use human-scaled power tools to renovate their headquarters playset.

THE SECRETS OF FINAL TOWN 108

THINGS NEVER SAID #62:

“I don’t go to the party. I let the party come to me . . . so, ah, I’m basically just sittin’ here . . . I get stuff on this screen. I just read this thing about a ‘loneliness epidemic.’ Sounded weird, at first, but I think it makes sense. And then I watched this video where this rich bald guy on this podcast was telling people to go out and get shitfaced at parties to meet new people. ‘Make some stupid decisions,’ this guy said. So, uh, then on a subsequent episode the host guy who interviewed the rich-bald-stupid-decisions-guy actually went out to some parties over the course of a month and, well, most everybody was on their screens. The host guy drank a little bit, hit his weed vape a bit-it just wasn’t a party feeling. Not anywhere this guy went. The host guy tried it out with college kids, with some office karaoke types, with these old married guys who drink beer and shoot pool at a bowling alley, with a bunch of people who worked at a hospital, just a whole lotta nothin’. The hospital people had their faces all blurred because they had all this truly primo opioid shit they’d liberated from the pharmacy-so they were all floated-the-Christ-out by 1:15am, kinda no stamina with that bunch, but definitely feelin’ no pain. The college kids were barely even partying, just snorting Adderall to tighten up for study screen time during a somnolent DJ set in the brightly lit dorm basement. The students were all seated in a tidy arrangement of desks, full fluorescents blazing overhead, grinding away at keyboards and touch screens. The host guy reminisced about how back at the turn of the millennium everyone was partying their faces off like they were a bunch of fraternity assholes-even the art students and the theatre kids like himself. The office karaoke types were basically five people who watched two people do all the singing, with little to no variation in the set list. This one lady who just watched said they used to vary up their routine, but over the years they found the perfect set of songs, and if they deviated from that perfected lineup of 1980s & 1990s classics people were at risk of panic attacks and anxiety episodes and so forth. The host guy kept offering to do “My Way” and “Pink Pony Club,” but, well, neither of those songs were ever on the set list so no joy. The old guys playing pool were strictly interested in playing pool, and being away from their wives-those old dudes didn’t even know each other’s names! On the plus side, they didn’t have any screens on ‘em-except one guy had a flip phone that he hated but his better half insisted that he keep it on his person at all times. The aged pool sharks barely even looked each other in the eyes. “Faces distract,” this one silver haired hustler said, presumably referring to his gaming technique, which made sense to me . . . so, uh, later on . . . I find this other video of the rich bald guy talking about his daily rich bald guy routine. He talked about how he rarely went out, how he had his home office profits-to-profits pipeline worked out like a fucking equation . . . and I keep waiting for someone to ask him why he would recommend other people go out and party when he himself never did. No one asked. I watched some more videos with this rich bald guy to try to make sense of his seemingly insincere advice . . . but I think it’s all there on the surface. The rich bald guy goes on podcasts, says stuff, and people listen to him because he’s rich. He just says what sounds good in the context of whatever host he’s addressing, and tries to pander to the presumed audience demographic attached to that particular host at that particular time. Sometimes he tells people to all be Stoics. Other times he’s pro-Hysterics. On the left-wing podcast he criticizes the excesses of capitalism, says he would be happy to pay a higher tax rate. On the right-wing podcast he extols the virtues of the free market system and the individual free agent. On the free form chatty casts he rambles about his marriages and divorces. On the crypto coin show he gets super granular and focused on the foolish wagers and the sure bets and the differences between the two . . . at a certain point . . . I realized that this guy . . . was just another bald rich guy . . . and so I moved on to True Crime . . . and then UFOs . . . retro video games . . . audio-only Neo-Jungian analysis . . . audio-only ASMR . . . someone once told me that faces distract . . .”