My Dream About William Shatner

THE HILL TOP CONVERSATION CONTINUES.

Me:  I'm not sure what you're doing up here in the dark by yourself, but after you're done doing it, I'm pretty sure you're not going to have any interest in doing it with me.

Shatner:  I'm afraid you're right.

THE NEXT DAY.

There is a gathering at the "Old Homestead" consisting of a few of my family members and Hollywood mega-stars.  Shatner and I have become an item.

Shatner:  You made quite an impression on everyone last night, dancing around on the hill, like you did.

Me:  I don't remember that.

Shatner:  Well, you did it, and everyone saw you.

Me:  It was pitch black.  You and I were alone.  No one could have seen me.

Shatner:  No, it wasn't.  No, we weren't.  And, yes, they did.

Marcia [A woman from work who I really like but don't know very well]:  Shatner was being a real butt last night.

Me:  Yeah, he does that.

Marcia:  I want to go to McDonald's, but Shatner doesn't.  He's being such a bitch.

Me:  I'll ask him.  He'll go with me.  Hey, Shatner, go to McDonalds with us.

Shatner:  OK.  Sausage.

Me:  Sausage to sausage level II.

Shatner:  Ha ha ha!  What about Master Tao?

Me:  I'm afraid I'm not up on Japanese history.

Shatner:  You were up on the hill.

Me:  That's different.

Strangely, in this dream, Shatner is two feet taller than I am.  I'm 5'4" in real life, and I happen to know that Shatner ain't no 7'4," because I met him once in real life.  Here's the photo of us together, so you can see our relative heights.

Incidentally, the photo above also appears in my first blog ever, Me and William Shatner.  Try as I might, I cannot get back onto the dashboard of that blog. Can you imagine?  Locked out of my own blog!  In that sense, I'm like Captain Kirk, trapped in the center of a distant planet, screaming, "KHHHAAAAAAAAAN!"  Except I'm screaming "BLLLLAAAAAAAAAHHHHG!"  If you want to see it, click here...

www.meandwilliamshatner.blogspot.com

But back to the thing about Shatner's and my relative heights.  I remember my dad saying, back when I was in elementary school, back when the original Star Trek TV show had just gone into syndication and was on after school, "William Shatner is so short, he has to stand on a box."  Of course, I didn't question it.  Dad was always right.

My dad was sensitive about his own height, which he didn't feel measured up, so he was always pointing out the big deal guys like Shatner, who were "short" like him.  Actually, my dad wasn't all that short.  He was 5'9," but he always lied and said he was 5'11,"  the implication being, "I'm almost six feet tall."  As if six feet was the ultimate standard.  It was the perfect mark of maleness, and he had missed it.  WHATEVER!

Now the dream about Shatner is fading.  Fading.  I'm getting sleepy.  Maybe I'll have another one.

Caio!

Good Ol' Crayons!

"Hand" Wax Crayon on Paper
by K.K. Remus Copyright 2014

Just discovered some old drawings in an old sketchbook done with good old fashioned wax crayon.  I love crayons, except for those little messy chunks of wax that stick like boogers to everything.  There's no easy way to get rid of them.  Anyway, when I saw this drawing, I immediately rembered a dream I had last night, that I'd completely forgotten.  Something was "wrong" with my left hand, so I had opted for a hand transplant.  Just a "partial one," from the wrist to the fingers.  Like they were going to sew my actual fingers back onto the donor hand afterwards.  All of the preparations were being made.  The donor hand was ready.  I was meeting with the surgeons just prior to the procedure, when suddenly, I thought, "WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING?!"

"My left hand is in perfectly decent shape.  I don't know what I thought was wrong to begin with.  Let's hold off on this transplant thing, and see how things work out.  The transplant could make things worse (as if anything is bad right now).  My body could reject it, and then I'd be in real trouble."

The surgeons reluctantly agreed to stop the procedure.  I felt faint guilt, as they had been eager to proceed.

What was that about?  It's been YEARS since I read John Irving's The Fourth Hand, so it couldn't have been that.  No, it's something going on in my present.  Will have to ponder further.

"The Coud Factory"  Wax Crayon on Paper
by K.K. Remus, Copyright 2014

Here's another Crayola drawing from the same sketchbook.  No, it's not a statement about climate crisis.  It's actually a benign factory in a fantasy world that makes pretty clouds.  It's innocent.  I used to live in an apartment with a balcony that over looked a coal processing plant that churned out white clouds of steam.  They were pretty.  That's what gave me the idea.

"Angry Evil Dude," Wax Crayon on Paper
by K.K. Remus, Copyright 2014

And finally, here's crayon drawing #3 from the same sketchbook.  Obviously, it's not a "benign" scene.  Sorry to leave you with such a searing image of crazed malevolence.  It's sort of silly, though, like a muppet.  I think that balances it out.  I was still working in the wrong profession when I drew this, so I it probably reflected my frustration.  It also semi-resembles a bad goon from the past. "Let bad goons be bygones," I always say!

One more thing...  As a young child, crayons always frustrated me, because they wouldn't do what I wanted them to.  The colors were never right.  I hated the "boogers" even back then.  But after the passage of about 30 years, and a bit of formal art training, I started to realize their potential.

The End (for now)