A quick one while he's away

Ah. The Brazilian Pampas musical exposition that For Some Reason Needs to take place at Three In the Morning has ended. When it initially began, I was laying there in my bed, saying, well things could be far worse...And then I went to the bathroom window, leaned out into the airshaft and politely addressed my neighbor,"Nice work, sociopath. I didn't really feel like this whole 'sleep' thing anyway, ya' child." But in this really nice, conversational tone that basically let his simple ass Know, and furthermore say, Thanks, Poison Dog. I'll see to it that you won't be sleeping in the back of your fucking truck by the end of the month. In fact, I'll see to it that you will have neither truck nor sleep. And as always, I'm not trying to be rude or insensitive here, just espousing my great love of Brazilian music, especially when it is blared at mind-numbing volumes right next to my formerly sleeping head at ridiculous hours. That's all.
I also keep fielding calls here, at the office, from a fictional phone number. (555) 555-1212. Generally once daily, this number pops up on my Celly, and if I try to answer, it hangs up, and never, ever leaves a message. The fact that I seem to be receiving calls from what had been the phone number for Information, before the rise of 411, is ominous, but even more so, isn't that also the number that every character on a television show gives, when asked? There was even that Simpsons quote where Homer is saying, "555-1212? Hey! This isn't a real phone number!"
The last dream that I remember having (that I feel like discussing here: I feel like it is bad luck to talk about the really bad ones in public) concerns myself and Bobby Massage out on the town (an overdeveloped version of Cortez, Colorado, for some reason) with several beautiful, interesting ladies. I keep on noting how wonderful they are, but keep needing to stop and change my shoes, leading ultimately to being known as The Guy Who Kept Changing His Shoes, as opposed to That Wonderful Man Who I Talked To, Last Night. I'm no rookie when it comes to oneiromancy, and I know what this one means. Like I say, that was the good dream.
Creeping surrealism. This is enhanced by the fact that my waking life continues to strongly resemble my dreaming life, and I feel like something may be broken here. Along with the aforementioned Someone From A Sitcom oftentide awakening me ("Mr. Belvedere holding on Line One...") through the use of Technology, I also keep on experiencing horrible rips in the veil between dream, madness and Good Ol' Consensus Reality, which as I say, should largely be kept to myself, as to speak of them in public would just give them Power. This, as Abdul Alzahred (The Mad Arab) would say, is a Great Secret.
The musical guests on the teevee show the other eve were my friends, The Buttery Lords. They snipped at each other and the show, backbit each other constantly, and then threw down the funky ass beats that gits the whole crowd moving that they consistently do. This happened in an unprecedented-ly large crowd. The local paper, as well as one of the local weeklies, had done a glowing review, though hampered by the fact that I came away from said article with no idea what the show actually was about, or why I should watch it. Mind you, for most of your Walking Bags of Salt Water out there, that sort of thing isn't a necessity, and they came in droves. The nice couple who comes by the Troika every morning was there with the vodka they distill right here in the neighborhood, and of course, those fellas from the Slow Bar were there with the two kegs of Pebist they normally bring. This was in an atmosphere where the legal limit for occupancy in that building had clearly been breached, hot and sweaty, and no water or food was available. Pizza Schmizza ("The Food That Makes Fun of Itself!") didn't bring by its usual stack of pies...Well, in this nightmare scenario, Famous did once again use one of my jokes, and four anonymous crowd members helped clean up, at the end of the show. This is pleasing, as at the end of the show I'm usually up on a ladder, drunk, holding a box cutter, slicing zip ties and hauling down still-very-hot lighting rigs. The fact that they were sweeping up all the candy from the floor is fucking awesome.
When Bobby Massage and I went out to breakfast the other morning, we made up fake commercials for the better part of an hour. There were a lot of winners in there, but my favorite was one for a fictional entity named People Like You, International. Its motto is "Because People Like You built the Pyramids." Meditate on that one for a while, will you?
Truth is, I could go on and on here. I choose not to because, as one local woman put it, it is winter, and god just killed another kitten.