The Alan Floofson Project (floofinition) – A British floof rock (flock) musical band active between 1975 and 1990, the group had two core members and utilized contracted talent and studio musicians as needed. Their greatest success came in the North Floofmerica market, where numerous songs cracked the top one hundred and the top ten in several categories.
In use: “One of The Alan Floofson Project’s most popular albums was The Turn of a Friendly Floof, from which came multiple hits, although their sole number one song in any market was “Floof In the Sky”, from a later album.”
Fade in to people speaking. It’s not a large group. I’m among them. So is a black guy. We’re sitting at tables in what seems to be someone’s home. I think we’re drinking wine and beer and eating.
Sadly, not having a black friend is an oddity in this phase of life. Few blacks live in Ashland, or southern Oregon. I have no black friends outside of Facebook and memory.
In the dream, we’re talking about Black Robin Hood. Apparently, a Black person is robbing rich people and redistributing the wealth to poor blacks. This group of people approve in the dream. We even declare there should be more, perhaps a nationwide group of Black Robin Hoods, stealing from the rich, giving to the poor.
Then there’s conversation about how such a person, or persons would be vilified and hunted. I put out in the dream, Colin Kaepernick just took a knee and look at the reaction. Agreement abounds.
I float into a conversational tangent. This would be a good movie or television show premise, Black Robin Hood. It could be modern, serious, or parody. We figure it’s already been done. Surely Spike has done it.
Then the Black guy says, “I’m Black Robin Hood. I’m the one who’s been stealing from the rich and giving it out to the poor.”
That totally stopped the conversation, and ended the dream.
BTW, watched a film the other day about Colin K in the SuperBowl, and the way he played in the post season that year. It’s beyond belief that some team didn’t pick him up.
Okay, take me to court. Today is a repeat from 2017. Sue me.
I awoke with Billy Idol blasting “White Wedding” into my mental stream. I knew I’d posted it before and looked it up.
It was a brief post pre-NC (novel coronavirus).
But, then, naw…”Rebel Yell” began streaming, and quickly segued into one of my favorite Billy Idol tunes, “White Wedding.” “It’s a nice day to start again.”
It’s cooler today, with a projected high of just eighty-eight under clear blue skies. Definitely a nice day to start again. Here it is, Billy Idol, from nineteen eighty-two, when I was just a wee man of twenty-six years. Boy, what would need to be sacrificed to be twenty-six again, hey?
Which is exactly where my mind is today, you know, the start again part. It seems like we’re always starting again, beginning again. You clean the house, and then it’s time to clean it again. For me, it’s the bathroom and the yard. Did the front yard on Monday, went polished the wooden cabinets in the kitchens and bathrooms, and polished the furniture in the master bedroom. Now it’s, clean the bathroom, vacuum the office, and work on the back yard.
Oh, yes, and there’s writing.
“It’s a nice day to start agaaaiiinnn.” Right after I have a cup of coffee. Maybe two.
Tucker Carlson has a problem with disappearing papers. From NY Mag Intelligencer:
On Wednesday night’s show, Tucker Carlson reported that his team had acquired incriminating documents. However, they sent them from Washington to Los Angeles, and the documents disappeared. And they neglected to make any copies. So now the only copy of the documents that would nail the probable next president of the United States are gone:
Few believe poor Tucker. He’s being mocked to hell and back.
I understand, though. I’ve been there.
I was taking university classes with the University of Maryland (go, Terps!) around my schedule when I was stationed with the Air Force at Kadena Air Base, Okinawa, Japan, back in the eighties. My wife and I lived with two cats in a tiny place off base outside of one of the gates.
Finishing a paper, I put it on the bookcase by the door so it’d be there when I departed and I was less likely to forget it. This was pre-computer days. I’d pounded out the paper on my used government IBM Selectric II typewriter. Our cat, Jade, jumped up on the bookcase and puked on the paper. Gross as was, there was no way I could turn that in. I thought about bagging it for evidence but laughed that off.
Abashed, I reported what happened to my professor and asked for another day. Dismayed, he said, “Well, I’ve heard that before, or variations, but I never expected to hear it from you. Well, okay, I’ll give it a day.” It really pissed me off that he clearly didn’t believe me, but he gave me the day.
Next time, I’ll bag it and turn it in.