Dream Journal - 5 FEB 2009

I had discovered a small abandoned Disney theme park, and/or inherited it. It was tailored to fit me - for instance, there was a miniature bank inside, labeled the Bank of Eric. But at any rate, it was empty, and I was not wealthy.

Passing a fresco of the Magic Kingdom, I ran my finger alone the top of one of its walls to see if I could find my bank card - and indeed, I found something, but it was a folded up work order signed in either mayonnaise or White-Out by Christian Bale. I know I was in financial straits because I flounced it in front of my family, bragging about how he was "hot right now" and thus his signature on any paper would be worth a lot of money. He signed his name with little wings at the side, like the Dan Halen logo. I imagine the white signature manifested in dream land as I had made a large amount of pasta salad the previous day.

Some time passed and apparently I had figured out how to hide the letter inside the main castle keep, which had to be opened by traversing some mini-golf-esque greens that floated on water, culminating with one set that rotated around a central hub. I remember my father was there, and I remember that I worried that he would be disappointed in me if his shoes became wet from this, as it was a frivolity and thus I was a letdown as usual for bringing him to a place that his shoes might get wet. This does not reflect on how my father acts in real life, but does reflect on how much of a failure I see myself as in his and my mother's eyes.

After a way-too-complex system of entering the main keep, I came to find that the keep was a bit of a museum for comedy, with pictures on the walls and spaces for more pictures. I know time had passed and I had been there already, because a portrait of Larry and Balki hung in one spot (it must have been a concession I made to Christina). Around the long table in the center sat comedians in high-backed chairs; David Spade sat at one, talking seriously about events in his life, and I knew that this must be some secret club I was privy to, where comedians spoke as real people. Sort of like a Friar's Club, but instead of seeing comedians tear each other apart for sport, this was just a place for them to be regular people. I think the root of this group's appearance in my dreams is that I began commenting on Acheworld, the Achewood discussion area, and my absence before recently had been noted. It felt good to be among people who recognized me and shared my sense of humor.

There was a glass-top coffee table there whose main feature was a pewter, two-foot long sculpture of a terrified man or child, hands thrust against the glass. I recognized this table from a previous dream, and began to feel comfortable. But unfortunately, that is also when the reality of the dream began to unravel.

I was especially disappointed to wake up, because of several factors. I love Disney parks. I love comedians. I love feeling like I belong somewhere, and I love owning something that other people can use. My sense of loss upon waking was palpable. I felt so angry at the loss of this wonderful place that I began to wonder if I should really change my life, to put away childish things and stop dreaming of things I will never attain.

Submersiball

Cork Board (January 2009)

We haven't seen my cork board in a while; what have we got on it nowadays?

Clockwise from upper left (click to enlarge):
- a swatch of rainbow coloration that my youngest fan, Rowan, saw fit to give me,
- my Perler Professor Hazard, a gift from Brainfreeze,
- a caveman-published anti-Geico propaganda ad that I got in the mail,
- Rowan's mom Heather's business card,
- a big red thumbtack that serves as a dock for our back-scratcher,
- my OMNICORE ID card,
- Christina's business card,
- a beautiful picture of Christina and I, drawn by Rowan,
- a terrifying knitted monster given to me by Rowan,
- my Screwloose Bootleg portrait of Professor Hazard, from Snipe Con 2008,
- a little comic from Achewood that came with some merchandise from there,
- a coupon for a free comic book at Mountain Empire Comics,
- another picture of Christina and I, by Rowan,
- a yellow-and-black crayon tornado, by Rowan,
- a coupon that says "KEEP THIS COUPON",
- and in the middle, some little Japanese papers that came with little Japanese toys.

I love my cork board. Passing by it every day makes me feel a little better.

Watchmen, I died a little tonight.

A moment of toilet brilliance led to the creation of this comic. My parents will be so proud of me for making a new comic that features a bodily function.

Gettin' Bushy

My wife threatened to beat me if I didn't make this comic, after I pitched the premise to her. I don't think it's that great, but she laughed so hard she pooped a little, so.

November Arts

Doesn't really seem like a lot, but then again it's certainly more than most people accomplish in a month, art-wise. Plus, November still has a couple of weeks left in it.

Some days I'm ready to throw in the towel.

It's gotten bad these days, people.

If you understand basic arithmetic, you're a NERD. If you can spell at a fifth-grade level, you're a GRAMER FAG. At some point, it became all right for people to not only become appallingly under-educated morons, but proud ones at that. For the most part, they seem to demand the right to ignorance. God help you if you show the slightest hint of adequacy, because these tuber-creatures from the anus of humanity will give you an earful over it.

I don't want to send my kids to school with these dumpster babies. I don't even know what to think about the horrifying idea of them running the world when my generation is too enfeebled to do so. I tell myself that maybe every generation is like this. Maybe every generation thinks the next one down is so stupid that it will leave the world a shambles.

What kills me is their sense of entitlement. OH, YOU THINK YOU'RE SO SMART BECAUSE YOU UNDERSTAND THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THEIR, THEY'RE AND THERE? No, dipshit, I think that that is something a child should understand. Maybe if you didn't stub up and act like I just called you a racial slur because I implied that you should be as smart as the janitors were in my high school - maybe if you took five goddamn seconds to commit to memory how to spell words, and why they should be spelled that way - but no. You've got some kind of right to acting like...

You know what, I think I'm just going to walk away from this article before it ends with gunfire