Dream Journal

What follows is a sort of dream diary I jotted down one morning. It's not any sort of prose or anything. It's just the thoughts and ideas and feelings I had immediately waking from this dream. I typed it up into a Google Docs file and have since forgotten about it.

I named it Weaver House, because the Remington House is already taken. Most people don't want to hear about other people's dreams. I don't blame you if you quit reading this now. But I wanted to just put this out as a curious study into psychology. When I reread this, I could very clearly recall the emotions and visions I experienced when I first woke up. I didn't use direct names. I even realized that when I said "Victorian" before I kind of meant more "Southern Plantation". But whatever, it is what I wrote when I first recorded it. Enjoy. Weaver House Dream

… river ride, fishing maybe, boats

… out of the way, idk what state

… known place, as in popular, but no governments seemingly care, and some people seem drawn to the place and its mind-altering reputation like a drug or escape

… Victorian maybe... front covered porch opens up to river, three-season porch on 2nd floor above it. rear porch on SE corner of house.

Walk inside, entry way opens onto wide living room. pillars form a wall. walk left, and see recliners and a coffee table against north wall. across from north door is a couple of bedrooms on south wall. (uncle sits in one watching over a lost cousin). Left of the bedrooms are stairs that go up (IDK what’s on the 2nd floor. Get the feeling like an old couple (Cobb and Mal in limbo) is up there. left of stairs is kitchen and back porch.

spiderwebs in the house, even though you know people walked through this way minutes ago. not quite dusty, but unused. dirty windows let no light through. dark and heavy air inside

entering the house, one feels the sense of still oppression. after a while, one senses an encroachment on their mind, but can’t quite put a finger on it. feeling of something gnawing away at the back of your consciousness, but not quite dread, not despair. Just blackness (not visual), void of thought (subconscious pushing through?).

fear the place as you enter

go to bedroom where uncle is sitting next to a bed, cousin laying almost comatose with a lazy lost look in his eyes, like slow to move to whatever stimulus. feverish without the sweat. get the feeling that being here in this state is a last-ditch effort to cure the condition, not cause it.

others around you start to change. some become different people (victorian?) complete with different clothes (possible hallucinations but you don’t know that). the real world is overlayed by some possessed vision. Sunlight (outside) seems to bring people back to themselves, but they never know they were gone.

outside, headcount of group, notice brother is missing. start yelling for him, see him in 3-season above porch (even with the screens, he’s “inside” the house’s grasp) someone in group (former relative by marriage maybe) runs in to rescue him, lays him in the sunlight as he comes to. this hero decides to stay in the illusion (Cypher from The Matrix).

Yes, I DO even lift, bro!

I am such a wuss.

Back in 9^th grade, when our phys ed class mandated it, I used the weight room at the high school and lifted some weights. I only tracked what I needed to and only did it for as long as the syllabus demanded, otherwise I’d be sacrificing my whole nerd-clique stance that dumb jocks who spend all their time in a gym were just assholes and jerks.

I quickly gave it up for all that, despite seeing noticeable results in a few weeks. Maybe if I had stuck with it in the 15 years since then, I wouldn’t be feeling like I am today.

I’ve nicknamed myself C-3PO. Not because I’m particularly skinny, prissy, or fluent in over 6 million forms of communications, no, but rather because for the last 38 hours I’ve been brokenly shuffling around with my arms crooked and held out away from my body and my back held erect. It’s dawned on me:

Jocks don’t walk around like this to arrogantly show off their barrel chests and bulging biceps. No, they walk around like this because when you lift weights to get big, your muscles are sore, tight, and there’s no way you can stretch them to walk normally!

So my buddy Molimo has been on a huge fitness kick the last year or two, and it shows: he’s dropped 120 pounds and nearly doubled his bench press weight to get it back to what it was in high school. He’s been a big encouragement for my running, weight loss, and now, weight lifting. He finally convinced me to spend the whopping $8 for Snap Fitness’s free 30 day trial (the 8 bones were for shipping me the door card) and I met him at the gym. This was very new to me, and I was very intimidated. We hit the bikes for warm-up and right away Molimo was complimenting me on my muscular legs, so that helped alleviate some of my insecurities right there. Walking into the free weight room, I saw a couple of women working out, probably pushing more weight than my pipe-cleaner arms could push, but that didn’t deter me, either.

“Oh man, even that little dude’s a beast!” I said of someone barely out of high school.

“Who, him? Nah, man, he’s little! You’ll be much bigger than him!” was my coach’s reply.

Molimo started me with bench pressing, and we found my max at 145 lbs. That right there was unexpected! I truly felt I would be struggling with just the bar! After a little formulaic wizardy with his smartphone, Molimo calculated I should do 3 sets of 10 reps at 90 pounds. I figured, pshh! Easy mode! I just did 145!

I only completed 5 on my last set before my arms gave out, but Molimo pushed me to crank out 3 more, then 2 more, then to do the “burnout” which involved a non-stop series of presses, half presses, and slow presses. My arms were cold wet noodles, and this was only the beginning.

Things I’ve learned about myself: I can’t do inclined sit-ups; I can’t do pushups (hell, I couldn’t even push myself up from the floor, had to have Molimo pull me up by my arms!); my legs are much stronger than I thought, and I could do a full set at 220lbs on the hip abductor machine, though that machine is dangerous – one moment of relaxation and the machine could close my legs hard on my package, and I’m pretty sure swollen testicles would put me out of the gym for a while!

Two hours went by quickly, and I felt we should have done more, but I guess doing arms, core, and legs in one day was probably overkill already. I went home and ate anything I could find with “protein” listed on it, and relaxed.

The ache started setting in around bedtime, and by the time I was asleep, it was a full-blown pain. I’d wake up multiple times, unable to rotate my body or reach my hands over my head to adjust my pillow. When I had to get up and piss (I love drinking a gallon+ of water a day, except for pissing so often), it felt like when I had my kidney surgery and I had to grunt and groan just to sit up in bed.

Of course the dog needed to go outside too.

I could walk with my arms held against my belly in imaginary slings, but reaching down to, um… aim at the toilet… and then to flush, and then further to open the outside door for Juno… Each was an exercise in controlled breathing, grunting, and wincing in pain. Work today was the same way: slow ambling down hallways, trying to project a calm demeanor but internally catalogue each tight and sore tendon and muscle fiber. When privacy was afforded, I’d groan and grunt and pant just to do simple things like push the bathroom door open, or stand out of my desk chair.

Is it always going to be like this? Why would people perpetually cripple themselves like this? All the nagging doubts and questions plagued me today, but I kept them at bay with motivating thoughts. My end goal isn’t to be cartoonish like Arnold or Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, but more like fit and strong, like Daniel Craig’s James Bond, or big and imposing like Tom Hardy’s Bane. I’m trusting everybody who says that after a couple of days, this pain will go away, and the next time I hit the same weights I’ll be a bit better prepared.

In the meantime, I’m shoveling down as much food as I can get my hands on, and napping every spare moment I get (like today’s lunch break, when I went home and slept for 45 minutes). My body is calling in the emergency reserves to repair itself, and complaining to me all the while. That’s ok, though. Little does it know that in a couple of days, I’ll be back for more!

Prof Outdoors

Sometimes you come across a review of a live music event and in reading it, just wish you could rewind time and go there to experience it yourself. Other times, you read that article and wonder just what business the author had in being there in the first place. I’m not sure where Frank’s “TheOld Man and the Sea of Gampos” falls. I’m pretty sure where mine is going to fall, though!

Let me start off by ribbing my friends and once-upon-a-time concert buddies: we knew about this Prof Outdoors show since the day it was announced, I had ordered meet & greet tickets the minute they went on sale. We had weeks of warning. So why is it that when something like this comes along, I’m driving solo to the cities and scraping by to sell my remaining tickets?

Now, back to my general audience, who may feel a bit uninitiated with the lingo flying around here. See, Prof is a Minneapolis hip hop artist and rapper who has climbed the ranks of the underground and fashioned a coast-to-coast fan base right in the intersecting loop of the Tech N9ne/Atmosphere Venn Diagram. This show, a 7 hour outdoor end of summer festival at the Cabooze in downtown Minneapolis, sold out to 4,000 Gampos as a testament to his flair, likability, and showmanship.

Oh, by the way, a “Gampo” is Prof’s fan, synonymous to Deadheads or Maggots (Slipknot’s fans; if I have to tell you what Deadheads are you should just stop breathing right now). The OG Gampo was quite a character, legend tells, a paragon of the not giving a fuck, party boy at the expense of society attitude.

Nomenclature and vernacular out of the way, let’s get to the show, and the trials and tribulations found within.

Frank and I hitched a ride to the venue and hopped into the shortest line labeled “Hard tickets” (Protip: Will Call tickets are hard to sell, since they’ll need to be with the person whose name is on the tickets at the booth. Never buy Will Call). We get through painlessly and instantly hop into line for the Meet & Greet. I regret to learn that St. Paul Slim is playing the first set, and I could only hear it while in line. However, I was instead treated to the fangirl mannerisms of a trio of young girls in line ahead of us, obviously excited to see the man of the day.

I contemplated quoting Meghan’s Law, a la “I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell”, but I wanted to actually stick around and enjoy the show, so I avoided any behavior that might introduce me to Minneapolis’ Finest.

The front of the M&G line is where it gets interesting: the trio of girls get told that they needed a yellow wristband for the M&G. Frank and I didn’t have one, either. Turns out, there was a separate line for M&G ticketholders and a 15 minute episode of ineptitude by event staff ensued. After failing to persuade the folks at the gate that yes, this receipt in my email right here is a legitimate receipt for tickets and it says right here “Meet & Greet”, this big bearded biker guy asked my name and immediately said “Yup, I saw their tickets, give them wristbands.” I tried to by my new pal a beer but he would not accept. Thanks, doesn’t-put-up-with-bullshit-from-coworkers dude, this Bud’s for you!

So yeah, met Prof and Fundo for the 5^th or 6^th time, Frank’s first. Go to grab some beers (nobody laughed when I replied to the $5 can of PBR by saying “Someone in Seattle is crying into his beard and scarf right now”) and meet up with the rest of our arriving friends. Eat some high school cafeteria food for $10 a plate. Chit chat with the myriad interesting people there. Feel old.

Yup, I was definitely among the oldest of people there, older than most if not all the performers. When I was in the crowd to finally watch Prof, I kept my hands held up lest some young girl tries to say I grabbed her or something. It was quite uncomfortable.

It was like being a chaperon at any of my future children’s high school dances.

Prof’s set was amazing, as usual. Picture this: the stage is decorated with taxidermy in a way that only Minnesota would allow. Four thousand people appeared out of nowhere and the previously manageable crowd suddenly turned to a sea of people. The 80-degree sun had set, alcohol coursed through bloodstreams, second winds were found by everybody who had already been dancing and jumping around to the opening acts.

The beat of a previously unheard song greets the crowd, and those that can hear it over the roar of appreciation might have been confused, but once that bass hits and Prof spits his first words, any unfamiliarity is replaced by a Gampo’s trust in their master and commander. People jumped. Waved arms in the air. Juggled many beach balls over our heads and upheld a giant hamster ball, St. Paul Slim at the center, trying to keep his balance, failing. Fights broke out, 3^rd base was reached by some of the couples there (including one ahead of me, which again evoked that creepy voyeuristic uncomfortable sensation until I moved around them. Prof had guests on stage, from Slim for Everybody Down into Horses in the Ghetto, and ShaLa for James Bond Blimp. It was everything a Prof show should be, even though at smaller venues there’s a bit more intimacy between the Gampos and their god.

The encore-demanding crowd was instead greeted with a wave of disperse orders from the local popo, leaving a pretty weak closing song that even Prof would later apologize for. Curfews are curfews, and being at an all-ages show means respecting them. We missed “Yeah Buddy”, his go-to closer party song that nobody holds back for. Next time, maybe.

Will there be a next time? I’m getting old, turning 30, which is ancient to the populace of kids who couldn’t yet wear an alcohol-granting wristband. Four thousand people in an outdoor lot was such a removal from the main act that I almost felt cheated.

I’m sure I’ll continue to see Prof in Bemidji or Duluth, smaller venues, where “Meet & Greet” means more than “Hey, now pose for the pictures, now get the hell outta here” (though, to be fair, I did get to give Fundo a piggy-back ride at this show…). But these large shows require a different sort of energy, maybe one provided by Red Bull-mixed drinks and not just light beer, or maybe one found in 20 year olds and not 30 year olds. I’m glad I got to see him in his hometown, but Prof might just be something I can only enjoy in small doses.

I certainly hope he continues to get popular though, so to help do that, I encourage everyone to go to profstophouse.bandcamp.com where you can download all of his stuff for free (maybe one album needs money, but you can safely skip Project Gampo). Bump it, enjoy some more Minnesota music in a vein that Atmosphere doesn't quite touch. And try to see him next time he’s at someplace like Clyde Ironworks or Pizza Lucé.