dice, mohammed, scribbles, and the 70s

I just finished reading about Resa's nightmare in which her teeth all fell out. I have dreams like that every once in long while too, and apparently it symbolizes a fear over losing good looks. Good ol' vanity.

Anyway, this morning I realized that I never typed out the entry I hand-wrote this past Saturday. Isn't even an entry, really, just giggling over a movie they showed on "Mystery Science Theater 3000."

Saturday

Last night I asked my mom to tape "MST3K" for me this morning. The show shocks the banana-lovin' out of the monkey, but I'm sure as hell not setting my alarm for 8am on a Saturday morning just so I can watch it and probably make myself sick because of it. Gasping for air to feed your incessant laughter takes its toll, you realize. Today's showing was entitled, "The Blood Waters of Dr. Z," a 70s film about a man, Dr. Z, who decides to take revenge on his colleagues, who doubted his scientific theories, by turning himself into a catfish and rallying an army of massive walking sea life to take over the world. Seriously, this was a real movie intended to ignite fear into the hearts of young children and bedwetting adults. So yeah, the man-catfish killed his two victims of choice by pimp-slapping them to death, given that, naturally, his forearms were drastically strengthened during his transformation so that he may bare more likeness to a catfish. Personally, I felt the bow-and-sequins of the entire ensemble were the patches of moss that jutted out from his shoulders and bikini-line region. Dr. Z also seemed to fight like a third-grader and wield the artistic ability of a cat. The former could be seen in the flailing, pinwheel-like manner in which he used his claws, and the latter was demonstrated by his large day-planner that was reminiscent of an Aztec calendar. He even pinned up photos of his victims and used a thick, black marker to scribble on them once they had been rendered lifeless.

Present

Speaking of scribbling, while the crew and I were visiting Himeji Castle in Japan, there was a sign that read, and I quote, "No Scribbles," and then underneath there was a little diagram of someone scribbling. If I were the kind of person who stole, I would've ripped that puppy straight out of the gravel and then used it as a weapon against any soft-spoken Japanese men who opposed me.

My piano teacher asked me if I was treated any differently in Japan because of the lack of respect towards women, and I replied, "No, it was because I was American." Among the sea of black-haired heads, I stood out because I'm blonde, Nick because he's tall, and Di because at first glance, she seemed Japanese with her black hair and what-have-you, but then when you looked twice you realized she was a goddamn American, kind of like a hologram or a pop-up book.

Pat and I drove to a park a few days ago, and a small boy named Mohammed explained to me that I was too big to properly utilize certain parts of the playground, like the large curly structure with the net. He was all, "You can't drop down through the holes in the net like me," and then I was all, "Watch me, pinhead." Sans the insult, naturally. Mohammed sort of wove us into his lethal little game of pretend, where Pat and I soon became the yuppies in his grand scheme against the sharks and the pirates and with the guns. And then he started sparring with Pat, and told him that picking him up, tickling, and pushing were all illegal, which were all of Pat's methods in watered-down child warring, and then Mohammed showed Pat how to fight. Watching a six-year-old explain to an eighteen-year-old that the only way he can fight is by means of scratching certain body parts is strange, much like getting a CD ROM with a box of Cheerios. Eventually Pat fled to the top of the monkey bars to escape. Mohammed said it was my turn to fight, but I don't fight children, because I might end up drop-kicking them in the face, so I told Mohammed that I was a pacifist. Not that I am, but confusing him with unknown words sent the message, along with the fact that I ignored his commands as captain of the ship and boarded the pirate ship without his permission. I had been playing his little game for ten minutes and wanted to have my own fun outside of his strict make-believe world where only he could do anything fun. The little fuck shot me while I was on the swings, for the sake of everything sacred. When I was his age, we didn't have guns, we had magic and inanimate objects. I should have fallen asleep on the wood chips so he'd learn the consequences of waving a gun in someone's face -- people get pissed, and then the fun is over, kind of like your favorite TV show only being thirty minutes long.

Sometime before or after the park, Pat and I saw a game store and assumed they would carry video games, but when we walked in we realized they meant the kind of games you need helmets for, like chess or D&D. The store bored me to blank stares and shifty eyes, but I thought the many-colored dice were fun.

In conclusion? Colored dice are fun, don't play with children named Mohammed, no scribbles, and if you want to take revenge on your friends, mutate yourself into a catfish, otherwise known as a man in a wire mesh costume with moss and a gas mask.

Damn, I wish I had grown up in the 70s.