- One of today’s questions: does peanut butter come in a jar or a can? My wife and I are certain that it comes in a jar.
- The can/jar question rose because it’s time for the bi-monthly food donation to our town’s food pantry. Bi-monthly is one of those ambiguous expressions that often causes more conversation than it saves. “Do you mean twice a month or every other month?” Raised eyebrows often accompany the question, along with a still expectation as everyone waits to hear, which is it?
- COVID-19 has caused our food bank to decree “cans only”. Why not jars? I don’t know. They quarantine the cans; couldn’t they quarantine the jars? I haven’t researched the issue. Did I miss a Fauci about cans and jars? “By the way, jars are not safe. Cans are.”
- The food bank puts out a list of needs. On that list is peanut butter. That’s why we’re perplexed. PB comes in jars. Of course you’re going to need peanut butter if you’re only accepting cans. What’s wrong with you?
- Anecdotally, I’ve never heard or read someone say, “Go get me the can of peanut butter,” so I think we’re right on this. I wonder if they’re changing the way that we think of cans and jars, like they changed the way that we think of literally by changing the meaning because misusing the word became so commonplace that everyone agrees, easier to change the definition at this point.
- Guilt has set in. Others are raving and recommending television shows. I’ve tried them. I don’t like them. I want to like them, for their sakes, for the world’s sake. I feel like I’m undermining the social order by saying that, “No, I don’t watch that show. I don’t like it.” “The Tudors” was one of those shows. Friends raved about it. I turned it off.
- Among shows that underwhelm me are all reality shows. Never got into any “Survivor”. Yes, I do like the “Great British Bake-off”, or whatever its name is. I wore down my molars, gritting my teeth as we streamed two seasons of “The Masked Singer”. My wife wanted to see them all unmasked, even as she shook her head at the show and snapped, “If I hear them say that one more time…” She never specified the threat. She didn’t like hearing the hosts bubbling again and again and again, “That was wonderful. You’re amazing. Who are you?”
- My wife wants to make mushroom stroganoff. See, she likes mushrooms and she’s a vegetarian. I do not like mushrooms. They’re an abomination. I can accept them steeped in cheese and buried with real food on pizza. When I encounter them elsewhere, they remind me of slimy fungus. I do like mushrooms grilled on meat, or grilled with other mushrooms.
- The question is, will I eat the mushroom stroganoff? Sure, make it; I’ll try. If I don’t like it, I’ll eat something else. She’s bought the ingredients. She understand my mushroom dislike; she feels the same about raisins. Mushrooms are my raisins, if you follow.
- Food. We all need it, we all want it, we all might not like it.
Trains & Cars – A Dream
I was a young middle-aged man, about thirty yeas old, I’d say. Outside was a place where organizers had built a huge platform for HO-scale cars and trains. These are the moderately small things but not the really small or tiny ones. The layout was huge. Workers were in a center pit. From there, they could go anywhere to reach the cars, trains, and track.
I ended up as one of the people allowed to play there. I first built cars. You These models were replicas of famous sports racing cars through the decades. My main car in the dream was a white Chaparral 2E.
Young people were there to help. A group of teenage girls controlled the parts stock. I’d go to them to request parts and supplies. Young boys were always willing to paint things for you for a small fee.
After perfecting my Chaparral’s looks and performance, I began practicing on the long track. The racing car controller was a pistol type, with a light trigger. That made it harder to modulate the speed through corners. I had all but section of track mastered within a short time. The one part was right by the end. I knew it was a curve but it wasn’t visible to me.
After wrecking out on that one place multiple times, I went up to take a closer look at that particular corner and discovered that it was like a parking garage corkscrew. It reminded me of Laguna Seca’s famous corkscrew, which had a blind approach before diving into curves and descending eleven hundred feet at speed. I told everyone there that’s what it reminded me of, then set it aside to deal with later.
For now, I’d play with my trains. A young boy had been painting them for me to forge detailed realism. It was with great pride that I set them on the track and started running it. This train wasn’t short, but was one hundred and two cars long. All went well for a bit, and then my train derailed.
A pit person went to retrieve my train and set it up again. The derailment had taken place at an area accessible to me, so I went there, too. As the pit man set it up, he gave one car to me, saying it was damaged. As I took it, another person came up. I recognized Jeff, a person I haven’t seen in thirty-five years. The man gave Jeff an identical car to my car. I believed it was my car, that I’d had two, but the pit person didn’t understand what I was trying to say. That’s where it all ended.
It was an interesting and vivid dream. My other sharply recalled dream was about a job I had counting prostitutes, but it’s really too weird to go into. For one thing, some of the girls would disappear into smoke when I would try to count them. For another, I didn’t know why I was counting, a question that I kept pursuing, without ever finding an answer.
Three out of Five Dreams
Three out of five dreams. It sounds like one of those old commercials about dentists and gum.
Of my five remembered dreams last night, two were intriguing but don’t pester my brain as the others do. The last one was downright depressing.
In the first of the three, I’d come to have a new Aston Martin roadster. Gorgeous car, ticketing out to a quarter million dollars. Deciding to keep it, I forged documents to show myself as the owner. Then I drove it around, showing it off.
People were admiring. I basked in it. Young friends asked for rides. I obliged, turning off traction control and shredding expensive tires with smoky burnouts.
Then…I started wondering, what’s going to happen? How will this end? They company will realize that the documents are forgeries. I thought, I need to get it back to them, and began crazy plotting to do that.
I assign this dream to the imposter syndrome surfacing yet again.
The second dream, brief, was amusing and sardonic.
I was in a large warehouse sort of building. Pale green, it was well-lit. Several others were with me. As we walked around and looked around — the dream provided no excuse for this setting — someone said, “What do all those buttons and switches do?”
And I, still looking up at the ceiling, answered, “Try them and see. That’s what I always do.”
Yeah, see? I always press my own buttons.
In the third dream to be discussed, I was leaving one overseas location to go home. I don’t think I was in the military…at first.
Ah, yes: confused identity. Still fall back on identifying myself in the military as who I am.
There was a gathering first…for someone else, another, who was younger. I supported that, giving gifts. I had a collection of things I wanted to keep together. Some many things were happening in parallel, all became a hasty rush. Going to leave — because it was time — someone gave me a pile of shredded docs and torn papers.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“That stuff you wanted to keep because it was important.”
I was incredulous, of course. “It’s all destroyed.”
“But it’s all there.”
They thought was a joke.
I tried shaking it off. Champagne was there.
“Let’s have champagne to celebrate my friend.” I picked up the bottle and unwrapped the cork, then popped it off. It discharged with tired energy, barely emitting a pop and shooting off about six feet. So dismaying.
Champagne foamed out. I stoppered it with my thumb. “We need glasses.” All started searching for something to pour the champagne in. No drinking glasses could be found. We improvised with paper cups that we made.
Then I was off to leave. You ever see the show, “Burn Notice”? Bruce Campbell plays Sam Axe in it; he sometimes employs a fake identity, Chuck Finley.
Well, here was Bruce as Sam, saying he was Chuck, accompanying me to the checkpoint.
I’m in an Air Force uniform now, last in light. An old guy is checking me through. You put your name onto a clipboard and sign it, then produce your document. He was looking for a form 126. I didn’t have my form 126. I searched and searched. I had it earlier; now it was gone.
“Then you can’t go in,” he said.
Sam Axe to the inspector, “Come on, buddy, can’t you cut him a break?”
The inspector just looked at him.
Sam tried again. “You know who he is?” He indicates me. “You don’t want to piss him off.”
I pulled out my wallet, the one purchased in the Philippines long ago. I still have it, it’s lovely, but I don’t use it. In the dream, it started falling apart in my hands. “My wallet,” I said. “I bought this in the Philippines when I was young.”
The inspector graced me with a sad headshake and walked away. Sam said, “Well, I tried.” He handed me clothes and walked off.
I was in my uniform. I would change now. I removed my Air Force trousers and put on the new trousers. They were about two feet too long and way too large at the waist. They also emitted a weird black dust.
Sighing, I removed them, intending to put my uniform back on. A tour group of women arrived, talking about books, as I was changing. “One woman said, “Sir, you need to leave. You’re in our way.”
Ouch. Dream end.
I half-awoke with dreams drifting through my head. Grey morning light dully lit the room. A cat could be heard puking in the other room.
Ouch.
The Camp Shower Dream
I was at a camp. Everyone at the camp were sitting in a large building with orange wooden walls. The building had three rooms. One was a small shower. The largest room was filled with rectangular orange wooden tables and chairs. The third room was small and bare.
All the campers were in the room with the tables. Most were seated at tables, but a few were standing. I was standing, back behind the leader to one side. The leader looked just like Enrico Colantoni, the actor. He made an announcement that everyone was going first be allowed to take a shower. People began getting up and moving toward the shower, located on the end of the table room.
I told the leader, “You can’t do that like that. It’ll be chaos. People in the shower will come out and have nowhere to go because everyone will be waiting to go into the shower. It needs to be organized. Have everyone leave the room and go wait outside. Call them in one table at a time.”
He dismissed the idea, but I kept preaching it to him until he capitulated. As he explained the plan to the assembly, I walked around the third room. Empty except for broken extra furniture, I listened, kicking furniture pieces as I did.
I realized that it was cold outside, so sending people out to wait wasn’t a good idea. Returning to the main room, I saw it was already empty. Six people were emerging from the shower, the first group.
I told the leader my concerns about people waiting in the cold. He said, “They’re okay, they’re waiting in their cars and running the heat as they need to.”
I reacted, “They have cars?” That surprised me.
The dream ended.
Stake Out
He hadn’t planned a stake out. When had he ever? But usually he had coffee or water. Neither were present today.
Weather was good, though. Smoke was clearing, letting stray sunshine sneak in. No rain seemed likely.
Good. He hated rain on a stake out. Always ended up with steamy windows.
At least this car was decent for it, an accidental good choice. The Mazda CX-5 was his first SUV. The front seats were roomy and comfortable. Lots of space to relax, wait, and watch.
Not like most his cars. The Porsche was a joke on a stake out. The Mercedes and Audi were alright, the Bimmer a little tight. Still, it was better than the RX-7s — three of them– and the Camaro and Firebird. The last RX-7, though, the R1, was the worst. Pretty car but the interior was made for driving and not sitting and waiting.
Movement. He sat up, poised to move. Yes, there was his man.
Jumping out the car, he hurried forward and waved his hand. The tow truck driver slowed his vehicle. He pointed across the street the gray Ford Focus. “Over there.”
The tow truck diver nodded.
Ben walked to the Focus to wait. Funny, he’d never done a stake out in it.
The ID Stack Dream
I was progressing through checkpoints…using four fake identifications.
To make them work, I was stacking the IDs on…automobile engines.
Each ID was a gray rectangular box, I’d guess 4″ (l) by 3″ 
by 2″ high. Going along a line of cars, I’d open the car hoods and mix the four fake ones among the genuine ones in the cars, often putting it on top or second from the top. One car said, “Warning, your stack is too high.”
I went about lowering that stack. Some ‘real’ IDs crumbled. The stack become unstable, like a game of Jenga. I managed to balance them.
While I was going through this, a uniformed officer came by and asked for ID. I gave him one of the fake ones. After looking at it, he handed it to me and thanked me, using the name on the ID.
I replied, “Who?”
The officer said, “That’s the name on the ID.”
Laughing, I answered, “If you say so.”
Giving me a look, he turned away.
I didn’t care. I was busy stacking IDs.
What a fun dream it was.
The Library Dream
Randy and I were going to the library. Randy is a friend who died of colon cancer five years ago. He was a few months older than me.
In the dream, he was the Randy I always knew, although he was driving a black Mustang GT, which is unlike Randy. When, in the dream, we got out of the car, I said, “I like that car. I’ve rented one three times now, although they were the next generation. All of them were white. One was a convertible.”
Randy said, “I know, you told me.”
We went into the library. It was a modern brick and glass building. They’d called me to fix something there. Randy was just giving me a ride. Then he and I were going off to have a beer.
In the library, I sought the head librarian. She gave me blueprints. They were highlighted by supports that I needed to fix. She went off immediately. As I studied the blueprints, Randy asked, “Why are they having you do this?”
I replied, “I’ve done it before, and they know that, I guess.”
Studying the prints and the building, I found where the supports were to be fixed. But as I studied the situation, I decided that what they intended wouldn’t work.
Off I went to find the head librarian.
She was in another section with a man, working on fixing something else. Seeing me, the man said, “Oh, just fix it.”
Showing them the blueprints, I explained to them what I thought was wanted and why I didn’t think they’d work.
The head librarian said, “Well, you’ll have to take it up with him. He’s the one that sent the plans down. I’m just a messenger.”
I’m like, “Who is him? How do I get old of him?”
But the librarian was ignoring me.
I went off again to reconsider the supports and the fix. I remained convinced that they wouldn’t work.
People started entering the library. Some event was going on. Randy and I found books and then sat down to read, along with dozens of others. Most were men.
A woman introduced a man. The man, small and dark, began speaking. I stopped reading to listen to him but he was speaking so softly, I couldn’t hear and understand him.
Randy kept reading. Seeing that, the man walked over and handed Randy a card, and then walked away. He was still talking but I couldn’t hear him.
Holding up the card, Randy said, “What’s this? Let me take my glasses off.” He couldn’t do that because he had a book in his hand. He handed me the card. I read, “See what you’re missing when you don’t listen?” on it. Randy took his glasses off, handed them to me, and took the card. As he read the card and I held his glasses, I realized that my palms were sweating and his glass lenses were getting wet and smudged.
I apologized to Randy as I handed his glasses back. That’s where the dream ended.
The Boots Dream
Dream fade in. My wife and I had been traveling. We stopped at a little place. Turned out that an elderly couple owned it.
They were very friendly. Walking around, we visited with them. I noticed some of their yard, driveway, and parking lot was unkempt compared to their business, so I cleaned it up for them. That pleased them, as they showered me with thanks.
As I cleaned, I discovered a car for sale. An old bronze vehicle, it was circa the early sixties, long and wide, with the wing fin rear end popular among American vehicles of the era. As I checked it out, I discovered another car was inside it, and another car inside that. Three nested cars! All were bronze and white.
The man asked me if I was interested in it. I told him that I didn’t want to buy it but I wanted to drive it, if it drove. “Oh, it drives,” he replied, providing me with the keys. I drove it around the parking lot, grinning as I went. I sat inside the innermost car, which was normal size, and drove the three vehicles in one around.
Other friends arrived. My friends and I dressed to go out on the town. I was much younger now. For some reason, I was wearing ostrich leather cowboy boots with my jeans and along duster. I thought I looked great in the dream even though my consciousness within the dream was saying, “What are you thinking?”
We wandered around alleys and streets where cars weren’t permitted, poking in on shops, restaurants, and bars, trying to decide what to do as evening fell. I became separated from them for a bit and walked on my own. When I came across three of them again, I called out, “Hey, there you are. What’s going on?”
They didn’t respond, walking past as if I wasn’t there. That annoyed me. By then, I’d decided I didn’t like the boots or the duster, so I decided to head back to my hotel room. Other friends came by. They called from behind me, “Where you going?” Not up to explaining, I just said, “I’m done. I’m going on.”
I returned to the hotel room. My wife said, “Why are you wearing those boots? Where did you even get them?”
I answered, “I don’t know. They’re not me.” Then I wrenched them off and tossed them aside.
The dream ended.
The Clothes & Garage Dream
I had a large new home which made me proud and happy. Then, dream switch, I was visiting with Mom.
Mom wasn’t home. She and the girls were out. I was about my current age. Mom’s home was the small brick ranch style house where I lived from 1965 to 1972 in Pittsburgh before departing.
In the dream, she had coats hanging up outside, like on a clothes line that stretched from the house to a pole by the street. It was a temporary thing, but she’d had this going on for several days, and it bothered me. When it lightly rained and the rain then turned to ice, I decided that I needed to move them into the garage. However, the garage still needed to house Mom’s car. It was a one-car garage, so that would be a challenge.
Going through the garage, considering angles and materials, I began thinking about how I could do it. My little sisters (who had been out with Mom) arrived and commented on my plans, expressing doubts that it could be done. (They were their current ages and appearances, and in the dream, I wondered if they as little girls were with Mom while their adult selves were present in the garage.) I was gaining confidence that it could, then, and passed off their objections with jokes. They left.
As progress was being made, TC arrived. He and I had been stationed at Onizuka together. The same rank, he retired a few years after I did and moved away.
In the dream, he was coming for a visit. I was expecting him. He showed up in an exoctic burnt orange car, not the kind of vehicle that he would ever drive. He had young twin children with him. I played with them as we exchanged greetings. The car then went off and I realized that he’d been dropped off.
I returned to working on hanging the coats in the garage. I could show progress. TC asked what beers I had. I’d been planning that moment and replied as a joke with the names of a number of cheap American beers such as PBR, Schlitz, and Old Milwaukee. He always drank Miller Lite, and I knew that’s what he wanted.
Then, in a move that surprised me, he said he was going to the neighbor’s house. He said he and the neighbor were friends. As we discussed this, I stepped outside. The light rain had ceased. A car drove by on the street. Dusk was falling. My Mom’s neighbor was at a table in his yard, waiting for TC, who walked toward him.
The dream ended.
Warning Shot
It wasn’t as if he was doing this without meditation and forethought. A dangerous situation prevailed. This wasn’t just his opinion. He’d researched studies on the internet and sought validation by experts. It was only then that he formed his plan and executed it.
First, there was the gun, ammunition, and the ability to aim and fire it. Done in a thrice (an expression that he loved). Next he chose his location. Months of research were conducted. He wasn’t a marksman. A moving target wouldn’t work. Distance was also a premium.
It all came together on a bright and quiet Sunday morning. A guy driving a Prius rolled along, left hand holding his cell to his ear, dismissive of the person in the cross walk. Probably didn’t see them, too occupied with his cell phone. What was so damn important that he needed to drive and talk? Infuriating.
So it wasn’t hard to finally convince himself, do it. The blue car cruised toward him (a little over the speed limit, if he was to judge). He didn’t expect the Prius to stop at the sign. The driver nearly didn’t, but an elderly woman in an elderly green Subaru forced the issue (it was like God was helping him).
Stepping up to the Prius’ passenger window, he fired at the driver four times. Spinning around, he tucked the weapon into his pocket and walked away (calmly, at just over normal speed), defying his body’s urging to run.
Around a corner, he went into an alley where his vehicle was parked. Only then, after he’d gotten into the car, started it up, and driven it away, did celebrations begin.
He’d done it. Laughing, he hit his steering wheel. He didn’t know if he’d killed the man (a kill wasn’t required, the message was in the shooting), but he’d definitely hit him at least once.
Oh, the adrenaline, the feeling of exhilaration.
One down. More shootings were probably required before people got the message (most people were so stupid that they needed to be hit over the head). He’d send a letter to newspapers (that would take some doing to cover his tracks), explaining how and what he was doing. Talking on a cell phone while driving was dangerous. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He was saving lives by sending a message.
Nodding to himself, he halted his car at the corner stop sign and watched a police car speed by, red and blue lights flashing, siren screaming. Even if caught and convicted, he was sure he’d be pardoned. He was absolutely certain that his President would approve of what he’d done, killing one to save many. Why, he was just like the police.
Smiling again, he decided on a change of plans. He was hungry.
Time to celebrate.
Michael Seidel, writer 