"Sweet dreams are made of this..."
--Sweet Dreams, Eurythmics

This is going to be an odd, odd entry.

Cero: This one's for the house of fans. You know who you are, cuz you sign the guestbook.
Uno: Jesse, who identified the fact that I have a problem with oral sex, has made some Desktops out of pictures of people he knows. I took all the pics except the ones of Kate and Lee. Go see them, use them, and leave comments for him.
Dos: I have decided to accept SUBMISSIONS for my site. This might be a confusing idea, since its a personal page. But oh well. I'm looking specifically for Rants and additions to the Gaming section, although Stories and Poems will also be accepted. Photos will be accepted on the condition that they are of attractive girls who pay attention to my site, and are at least half-naked. Hey, it worked for Stile.
Three: Holls are wonderful wonderful things that make Justins feel all warm and good and fuzzy inside. If there were more Justins in the world, they would need a corresponding number of Holls to talk to.

The highlight of the day was my not going to the Gay Pride Parade. I was invited to go with a few people, and bowed out of all of them. I have issues with the Gay Pride Parade. Not really the Gay part - just the Pride and the Parade. In reverse order, parades just don't seem to be my thing, possibly because they're filled with people. And people is not Justin's favorite activity. The Pride part actually bugs me a little bit more. My views can be partially summed up by this Onion article, with much more hilarity than I could have managed in the same space. Justin is irritated by people who need to inform everyone they talk to that "I'm a FAG and I fuck GUYS!" Good for you. But your sexual preference should be a part of who you are, not the entirety. Identity without personality can't be a good thing.

Then there's my larger issues with attempts at pride/equality in general. Quite possibly this is because I'm a middle class white guy. But almost every time I see something that's an issue of equality, it turns out to be anything but. Affirmative action, or reverse discrimination, is just the tip of the iceberg. For example, the evidence that I can see points to the black community as practicing a self-imposed form of "separate but equal," which I always thought was a bad thing. There are no major magazines completely and totally devoted to white people, as opposed to Ebony or Jet, which make quite the big deal about being black publications. We've got BET (that's Black Entertainment Television) but no WET. And I'd like to see what would happen if I tried starting a "White Pride Club" at American University.

Back to the gay thing because a search turned up another one of my pet peeves - condom fatigue. The idea behind condom fatigue is that gay men are getting bored of having safe sex and having to monitor their sexual activity. So they have unprotected sex. If a boy and a girl do this, it's deemed stupid, irresponsible behavior. For gay men, on the other hand, condom fatigue is a complex psychosocial issue that needs to be understood before it is dealt with. There's just all sorts of bile rising in my stomach. For those of you who think I'm blowing this out of proportion, it was a major news issue something like a year ago. A major leader in the international gay community was claiming that you couldn't blame gay men for having unprotected sex because they were suffering from condom fatigue. Grr.

Reactions and comments on this belong in two places: the Livejournal comments section, and emails/IMs to me. I don't mind getting flak for this, just don't clutter my guestbook with it.

Aside from the paragraph on the Parade, this entry was not supposed to happen like this. This entry was supposed to be about two dreams I've had lately. So here they are. Any person I refer to as knowing in the dreams is someone to whom a real person's (or persons') identity was assigned. I'm not going to mention who, though. Some things I get to keep to myself.

***
Dream one: surreal
The earliest part I remembered was wandering around my old junior high, which I thought of as Stuy. Already odd. It felt like I had come back to it after a long time, and was checking it out to see if it was how I remembered. I seem to remember having a card saying my locker was Moon Base threehundredsomething, in the basement. Not an actual moon base, mind you - that was just what the locker numbers in the basement started with. It made sense at the time.

I went out the basement exit for reasons unknown, and came to the top of an escalator descending down into the floor, which was suitably reddish and dusty and rocky and post-apocalyptic. I didn't get on it yet, because I was distracted by some black shoes on the ground, which I realized belonged to a girl I knew. At this point I was approached by another girl I knew. We talked, and she then threw the shoes down past the escalator because she thought they were mine, and it would be funny. I panicked because they weren't mine, and went chasing after them. I got on the escalator, which turned out to be more like a slide, since the step you were standing on moved downwards independently of anything else. I slid by everyone else on the thing, moving in and out of traffic, to intercept the shoes. I think I caught two out of three, or one out of two - I don't remember how many there were. Angry at having to do this, I stalked towards my dunebuggy so I could leave, where the girl from the top of the escalator confronted me, trying to convince me not to go. I got past her by ripping the door off of my ride, although I didn't get far before I decided to come back - possibly because she was cute.

We walked into something between a parking garage and a construction site, devoid of people. I don't recall what we were talking about, but she started crying hysterically at some point, and it was at that point that I realized that the button down shirt she was wearing was completely open. I think she was actually trying to make a point with that. This was when her father, who seemed to be only a few years older than us and not based on a real person, showed up. He was remarkably calm about what was going on, especially strange since I think he was a large factor in her crying. He gave us a lift on the tram thing the construction workers (who were busy all over as if they had been there the whole time) used to get from one end of the complex to the other. While the girl calmed down, I talked with her dad about movies. That's what I recall from that dream.
***

Granted, that wasn't all too interesting. Neither is the second one.

***
Dream two: implausible
I was in my dorm room at night, bored, so I decided to walk over to the club and see what was going on. There was a much larger crowd than I expected and I was definitely underdressed as well in t-shirt, buttondown, and jeans. I found out why rather quickly - the lead singer from Placebo was doing solo stuff. It wasn't actually Brian Molko, though. Seemed more like Brian as played by the girl in Boys Don't Cry.

I leaned against the back wall while he sang to the crowd and played all the music required on piano, the single instrument producing drum, synth, guitar, and etcetera. I had a remarkably clear view considering that I was in the back and the performer wasn't on a raised platform. The song ended, and dream-Brian stalked off stage for a between set break, hugging himself protectively and glaring at people who were too close. One girl tried to get him to hug her, which just produced more glaring. She was confused mightily by this, and I explained to her that sometimes celebrities don't like to get bothered. She took it well, and we started talking. I don't think she was based on anyone in particular. She had short, spiky brown hair, and really nifty piercings: odd arrangement of studs on her nose. Three on each side of her nose from the top to halfway down, then three more just on the left side, for a total of nine. It didn't seem excessive at all. We talked more, mostly about music, and before she left she gave me her CD player to borrow until the next time we met up (Rrrow).

This thing was incredible. It looked somewhere between a CD player, a crescent moon, and a plastic croissant. The fact that it couldn't physically hold a CD was irrelevant to the dream logic. It had a screen in the center which displayed a flight over a landscape that was formed by the music in the same way that a computer player might have a graphics output program for swirly lines or ripples or such. I'm sure the dream tangented off there for a while with me flying over cities, mountains, ocean beds, and whatnot before returning me to the club with a good sense of how nifty this item was.

I figured it was almost time for the second set to start, so I went to get a good seat - there were seats up front now, right in front of the piano. I was informed by someone (who I didn't quite register immediately) that I couldn't sit there. That was ok by me, since I moved to straight to a loveseat type thing that was about fifteen feet directly to the left of the piano. Still a good seat, and comfier than the regular chairs. All of a sudden I feel my seat moving closer to the piano, and I look around to see the person who vetoed my earlier choice pushing the loveseat closer to the piano. It was at that point that I realized it was one of the girls I went to school with, who happened to work at the venue.

I asked her what she was doing, and she explained that she hadn't given me a birthday present yet, and this was it. A footrest was somehow produced, and my feet propped up. After the initial shock passed on my part, much grinning and laughing was involved on both our parts. She seated herself on the loveseat as well, feet up between mine, leaning back against me. I wrapped my arms around her, and she reached down, took my hands, and slid them up under her shirt to rest on her breasts. We watched the rest of the show like that.
***

Now, the thing that both of these dreams have in common is the presence of breasts. I went and checked a dream-symbol-meaning dictionary today while I was in the city, and discovered that when you dream about pillows, that actually means breasts. So quite obviously, my subconscious is trying to send me a message about pillows.

And then there was a riot.

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