Back to blogging.

Last night as I watched my son, I went through my Facebook profile and did a little editing, mostly just un-friending people that I once thought were cool but suddenly realized I didn't actually have any connection with; it wasn't a prerequisite that I actually know them in real life, because a lot of my favorite people are online-only friends whom I have yet to encounter in the real world. Rather, I decided a little pruning was in order, simply because I am sick of going onto Facebook and seeing updates from pages I once deemed (for a few seconds at that) funny and clever. I am not alone in this, I am sure. I have noticed the times when I have been un-friended and thought to myself, "Maybe I post too many You Tube videos that are random and meaningless."

I put on Blue's Clues in the Netflix queue for J.R. and got around to reading a book about Charles Manson. The book is not a rehash of the Tate-LaBianca murders but dwells on what Manson is doing now. As you can guess, he isn't doing much save for rotting in jail and rambling nuttily at length about the most whacked-out shit ever conceived by a madman.

Then, my wife came home from a fashion show. It's Midwest Fashion Week, and she works in fashion, and we're in the Midwest, so it all makes sense. She had a ball, and she even got offers to model from other designers. I was happy for her, but that happiness was tempered by J.R.'s excitement at seeing her come home, even if it was almost midnight. (Yes, I know, he should've been asleep earlier, but I worked late and he wasn't tired in the least) Little Man went into hyperdrive as we labored to calm him down.

My, how things have changed since those heady days when I wrote in this blog several times a day, searching for a connection in the vast cyber-wasteland of the (ack) blog-o-sphere...

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I had a dream that my co-workers and I were giving a going-away party to our manager at the bookstore. It was one of my "big house" dreams: If I ever could claim that I had a recurring dream motif, it is the Big House. I often have dreams that take place in a huge mansion with multiple rooms. The house never belongs to anyone in particular, and the people living in the rooms are often just friends and acquaintances. Thus, the going-away party took place in a Big House. I invited everyone I ever knew -- or, more to the point, everyone I am friends with on Facebook, which goes back as far as my grade school days. I was so wrapped up in planning the party that when it actually started and people began to arrive I greeted them cursorily and went about my business of renting recording equipment for some big jam I had planned.

The dream then skipped to the next day, when most of the people had left and only a handful of us from the bookstore were busy cleaning up. And that's when Manson showed up. He was the one who rented us the recording gear, and didn't want us to record over some of his songs that were on the 2-inch tape. We listened to the jam and decided to forward the tape past Charlie's tunes so we could record another post-party jam, mostly because I had not been included on the first jam and I needed to be a participant. So I grabbed a microphone and sang, improvising words and the musicians played, and at the end (when the music suddenly turned violent and thrashy) I handed the mic to Manson and he finished it off.

As the dream neared its end, I was helping my co-workers get the gear loaded so we could return it to the rental place. One co-worker made a snide comment about Manson, and we were shocked to discover that Manson overheard it, as he was standing behind a hedge only three feet away from us, undetected. He was a little pissed, and the co-worker who'd made the comment instantly became frightened and walked back into the Big House. Manson assured me he wasn't going to seek retribution, but after giving me a bear hug he slinked away and headed towards the Big House. Concerned, I followed suit.

When I got to the Big House, it was completely empty. My co-worker had a sawed-off shotgun in his hands with the barrel in his mouth. His aim was to commit a murder-suicide, aiming the shotgun in a manner that would allow him to also kill Manson as he killed himself. But when Manson entered the room, my co-worker pulled the trigger and MISSED Manson (not surprising, seeing as he had to face the opposite direction in order to send any buckshot in Manson's path) and also failed to fully kill himself.

The big irony was that Manson was holding a pipe and a bag of weed. He had intended to offer a peace treaty to my co-worker instead of vicious revenge. But the look on Charlie's face made me wonder if he hadn't "mind-controlled" the kid into blowing his own face off.

And that's when I woke up, and I swore to never browse Facebook and read about Charles Manson in the same evening ever again.