Breakfast for Elvis
10:29 a.m. on 2005-02-12
So, well, okay. I've been having dreams about meeting famous people lately. Last night, my first dream was about meeting Bush and Tony Blair. Tony Blair put two diving boards in his swimming pool, at my request. Bush was too busy watching the Super Bowl to do anything else. Then I had this dream that I was a elementary school teacher, and Elvis came to speak to the class (even in my dream I was thinking, "I thought he was dead?"). He was wearing this beautiful yet effeminiate necklace for some reason, and when the class filed out of the school, on the way to the auditorium to see Elvis preform, I saw the necklace waiting on the sidewalk. So. after the performance I went in search of the guy so I could give his necklace back. I was thinking, yeah, the necklace is pretty, but isn't it worth more to say "Hey! I met Elvis!" Of course he had all sorts of bodyguards and various hangers-on, and none of them would let me near him until I brushed my hair and put on makeup. I kept insisting that I didn't want to have sex with him, but they just exchanged knowing looks and showed me where the eyeliner was. I felt like I was being served up on a platter. I finally got led into this room and left alone with Elvis, who was really just a sort of smelly old man, falling apart at the seams. I gave him the necklace. "Do you want to have sex with me?" Elvis asked. No, I didn't really, but, you know, this is Elvis, right? Thank GOD, I woke up before it actually happened. What was this shiny bauble I was giving up in exchange for unwanted sex with some famous old man? Was that my virginity? My innocence? I'm one of those people who is demented enough to think that dreams are just as meaningful as reality. So, we're in our house, and it rocks, rocks, rocks. It is beautiful out there. We're repairing the barn and the fence, and we're going to get a dairy cow. My garden is already plowed and ready for planting, in a few more months. I think it is good to produce as much as your own food as possible. For one thing, then you know what is in it. And, another thing, as my husband pointed out, every can of soup, every gallon of milk, that is some poor workers' (and likely some animals') misery. Some poor saps are working shitty jobs to make, package, ship and sell you your Froot Loops. Your T-Shirt is a 15 hour day and a whipping to someone in Asia. That Cracker Jacks box is full of the pain of a wasted, monotonous life. I'm just saying, that's all. My husband is tired of his factory job. Of course.
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