Dear diary,
I overheard someone talking about a news story yesterday, and I wanna paraphrase what they said — I’ll probably get most of the details and the main point wrong; but just bear with me. (I’m trying to avoid having to research and find the original article; I’d rather start writing right away, from my own stupid perspective.)
Apparently there was some prude fellow who decided to take his fellow prudes to the museum, to look at the statues. But before their planned visit, this prude commanded the staff of the museum to go around and put underwear on all the statues; for these statues were depicting unclothed humans.
That’s all. It’s just a simple story. The reason that I like it is that it brings to mind a thot or two. Here’s my first thot about this story: I assume that these prudes were trying to avoid experiencing carnal temptations; yet, is it really less tempting to stroll thru a gathering of folks in their underwear than to walk thru a gathering of classical nudes? Aren’t both ideas equally beguiling? If you were a door-to-door bible salesperson, I suspect that you’d be less enticed by someone who answered the front door wholly unclothed, versus someone who came to the door in lingerie.
And I guess I have no second thot about this issue.
I also wonder how I might get a job as a sculptor for the Prude-Safe Museum; cuz it’d be much easier to produce sculptures fully clothed, even with coats, hats, and scarves — you wouldn’t even really need to chisel or sculpt anything; you could simply ransack the mannequins from a retail clothing store; even steal them outright. Or drape clothes on a framework of hangers (each spectator’s fancy will do the work of imagining what shape of body lies beneath). They don’t even need to have heads. Headless models are preferable, actually, because heads have lips, and lips can be lipstick’d to produce an illusion of sensual arousal, which facilitates seduction. This is evil. Remain armed and dangerous.
*
The next thing I need to confess today is that I watched another interview with a popular political figure, whose appearance is notoriously scruffy. I’m trying to avoid mentioning his name because it’s not important — what’s important is what two commenters commented about him. Recall that back in 2019, streaming video services were all the rage; and the individual videos of these platforms could be commented on, by way of a public forum situated directly beneath each screen: all that one need do is write one’s quip down on a postcard, add a stamp, and sign a fake name. The video service’s staff will then take your words and pin them to the corkboard.
“I’m gonna photocopy it and post it all over the place for everyone to enjoy.”
—Officer Shirley Holmes, on the photo of Officer Sunshine that she found; from the film Wrong Cops (2013)
Anyway, so this video interview featuring this notoriously scruffy politico bore much fruit, online-commently speaking. I’m sure that there were many excellent observations that I missed, because I only had the patience to scroll thru the first few that had been appended, and a couple of them won my heart straightaway, so I wanted to share them here in my private journal. The first comment was from the account named “Siddhartha02”:
This guy looks like he adds coffee to his morning whiskey.
I like this remark. I hope that someday I can achieve an appearance that will garner similar reactions from good people in my audience. Now here’s remark 2 of 2, from the “Nathan Schoenack” account:
This man answers the question of ‘How many collars can one man wear at the same time?’
The reason for this second observation has to do with the subject’s attire. In the video interview, “the man” was wearing a collared coat over a collared shirt, and, beneath that collared shirt was another collared shirt, and so on and so forth. It was really magnificent. But it wasn’t the type of thing that you’d have noticed, on a first viewing: the fact of his multiple collars wasn’t apparent at first glance: it wasn’t a choice designed to stand out and grab you — it wasn’t an intentionally flamboyant fashion-statement (I presume) — which is why the comment has such high worth for me: it made me glance back at the video screen and focus upon this aspect of the interviewee’s person, and remark “Well I’ll be darned if the commenter isn’t right — the man IS wearing an excessive amount of collars.”
Remind me in the future that my new goal is to look booze-worn and multi-collared. I very seriously admire this fellow’s mein.
*
Now, in the final part of this here entry, I need to relay to you last night’s dream. Not the whole thing, cuz it started out pornographic and I’d have to clothe everyone who was involved to make it presentable — I’d need to drape them with layers of collared undergarments — and I don’t have enough burlap to make that happen. Honestly, the dream really did have a colorful beginning. It’s one of those things where I can barely remember it — it’s all cloudy; only the ending sticks in my mind, cuz it was scary (it made me wake).
But the earlier half of this dream was indeed literally about porn — I myself was somehow in charge of setting up the entertainment for a big party — it was a wholesome family party, like an anniversary or something; so all sorts of regular people were there — and my job was to turn on the movie projector and play the film that everyone was wanting to watch. But the tricky thing was that this projector was hooked up to a modern computer, like the kind that is known as a “tower” because it’s oblong shaped, like an office building with a motherboard, and whoever was the owner of this computer really had a lot of porn stored on it, cuz when I started the movie projector, it began to play the (intended) film, but then all these porn images began popping up on the screen, automatically (some rogue program in the background was making this happen), and I had to use the control button to click the tiny picture of an “X” in the corner of each intruding image, in order to get them to go away… but there were so many pornographic superimpositions that I couldn’t keep up, they were appearing faster than I could eliminate them; thus they eventually inundated the screen — and it was a huge screen, like the kind that they use at multiplex theaters.
So I was very embarrassed, even tho this lapse was not my fault; it wasn’t even my computer: I stress, it was the establishment’s device (God knows who last used it) — but the weird thing about this dream was the crowd’s reaction:
All the hundreds of family members who were there in the audience expecting to watch a wholesome movie but who were feasting their eyes upon this porno cornucopia — I assumed they’d be furious at me and act extremely offended; but it was the polar opposite: for, when I began to apologize, they stopped me and proclaimed with utmost sincerity “We kinda like this stuff; it’s interesting to us.” And they reassured me with an earnest and straightforward delivery that they would like to see more of this type of material. And they took the controls from me and turned the projector back on.
So I felt relieved that they were not enraged, cuz I assumed they would maul me. I was so thankful that I went from person to person, around the entire audience, to every single member, and gave each one a hug — the way you’d hug visitors at a wedding or funeral.
Then the next thing that I remember is that part of the dream that I originally wanted to tell you about, cuz I can’t recall anything that happened before it:
Somehow I was on a beach, and there was a vast expanse before me: there was sand and lagoons, and also vast patches of snow and ice (no ocean, however). Then I looked over my shoulder and noted that my parents were reclining in lawn chairs, and that I was lying chairless on the sand. Then my dad remarked: “I hope that gator doesn’t eat all the beach-folk.” And I looked back toward the expanse, and there was this gigantic alligator chasing the multitudes of people. The people were all dressed in swimsuits and sporting little blow-up buoys or life-preservers on their arms, and wearing sunhats and carrying surfboards, etc… Basically it was a standard, cliché beach crowd; yet they were all trampling awkwardly forward and back, in a zigzag line, heading closer and closer to me, from the horizon to the foreground, as they were being chased by the gator. And the zigzag pattern of their flight path ended directly where I was lying in the sand. So when the multitudes approached with the gator hot on their trail, at the very last moment, all at once, they performed a trick maneuver and turned sharply out of the way, thus avoiding their pursuer; but the gator was left charging directly at me. I panicked and put my feet up, and kicked like I was riding a bicycle, and my bare feet kept hitting the jowl of the monster, in the flesh beneath the left side of his jaw. And his green, bumpy skin felt thin and artificial, and it trembled like a rubber costume at each kick — it was like the old, earliest movies about Godzilla, where the lizard looks obviously fake but he’s still terrifying — and I could hear the creature grunting and moaning ferally, but I could tell that its anger was not personal: it was like how a dog growls unintentionally in anticipation for the object of its desire, during a game of fetch; and the gator’s eyes were not even focused upon me: they were blankly staring out each side of its head, beyond. The head also seemed like a mask. I started to think that the monster might be unaware of me; but I kept kicking, in fear, and started to use one of my legs to lunge wider and farther, to pivot the creature and direct it away from me. And this all happened pretty quickly, in no more than a few instants; but I successfully got the alligator to change its path of motion, and to leave me alone and go chase after the beach-folk again. And that’s when I woke.
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