Rock the Mic Like a Vandal

I am Vanilla Ice. Not early, parachute pants Vanilla Ice. Late-career, county fair, sideburns and tattoos Vanilla Ice. I am sitting in a bathtub with the shower running, singing Ice Ice Baby. I know that I am no longer relevant, but that if I can sing the song to myself and enjoy it, that's the only success that matters.

The Shadow Out of Rhyme

I'm reading a pop-up Lovecraft book in my living room at night. Somehow, whether it came from inside the book or not, I grab a large snake behind its head. It's dark green, monochrome, and about 3 feet long. It is tremendously strong, and it takes all my strength and both hands to hang on to it. I remember that there's a herpetology convention in town. I look on the internet and there is no herpetology convention. But the snake is Anorexic, so to neutralize the danger of having it around I make fun of it for being fat.

After a while, it stops struggling, and I carry it around the house for a bit. I accidentally lose it when I dress up like Mike D from the Beastie Boys and dance in front of a mirror.

These Colors Don't Run

The Joker has kidnapped me and two other guys, and is forcing me to drive all of us to a cliff where we will be held hostage. He is talking calmly about how deserters in the Vietnam War joined the military deliberately to "disgrace the flag." After a tense silence of disagreement, we start listening to John Denver. The Joker says, "I remember when I didn't need these stupid hearing aids to listen to this." He has a wistful little chuckle, remembering his youth. I ask everyone how old they are. Two people, including Joker, say they're 38; I couldn't hear the third's answer, who says, "Looks like you're the youngest!" Self-deprecatingly, I yell, "Hey, who loves Justin Bieber?! Isn't Pokemon cool?!" We all laugh, and then, remembering that he is a supervillain, The Joker sings a 'menacing' song with a 'villainous' lisp.

Cornucopia of Wrong

I have been keeping an irregular dream journal for a couple of weeks, and these are the best passages, unaltered from their original, half-awake composition.

For some reason, I end up wrestling with an old man to remove his socks. In the course of wrestling, he steals $10 from my wallet. We laugh about this, I tell him I "respect the hell out of him" and he gives me three wet cheek-kisses with his old mouth.

I am at somebody's house, staying as a guest. In the night, I wake up to find Binkley [the cat I had while growing up] nestling into my arms (I'm sitting up). Binkley presses himself hard against my chest and nuzzles his face right under my chin. I'm looking down at his face, all black with the little white chin, and I realize that it's actually the face of a Juggalo who has snuck into my room. We fly apart and both begin freestyle rapping.

Superman, parking lot at night. Get into car, man in car. Get out, fight man + 2 others. Hit 1st man w/ piece of wood in face, nail in wood gouges eye, blood everywhere. They do not relent for a while. Long standoff, few punches. They leave, people walking by watching.

Earlier, some manatees.

I'm playing SNES with an 8th grader, the game is a Mortal Kombat-style fighter, and all of the characters are racist Mexican stereotypes. I'm playing as a Mexican mother with too many children.

Watching a movie about a guy who joins an S&M "cult" who meet at the beach, where they all wear bondage gear and robes and hoods/masks, and are each given a snake to care for. But they're too preoccupied with S&M to pay attention to the snakes, which get into the water and precipitate shark attacks.

In Scripps Ranch, I became aware that there was a potential terrorist attack looming. It was late afternoon and raining lightly. I was on Red Cedar, by Miramar Ranch, scooting along in my "neighborhood watch" wooden rolling desk chair, making sure the gates to the soccer field were all locked.

Paper, Tigers

Myself and a group of people are camping on the outer steppes of Hell; the sky is the same black as the slate ground, with a band of red along the horizon. Nothing moves but the air.

On a walk I find a tunnel, leading down into the ground at a steep angle. I emerge at the other end into a space even more barren than the steppes. We are all in a book of paintings of Hell, and I have arrived at the last pages, which are a solid maroon, blank except for tiny white credits typed along the pages' bottoms. I return to the campsite to fetch the others, but they refuse to follow me because they are too afraid of monsters.

I am in a jungle, training a group of children how to be brave. We are surrounded by tigers, all of whom are named Sasha Baron Cohen.