Saturday, September 20, 2003

Just looking over the Forbes listing of 400 richest Americans (don't ask me why) and noticing that the list still includes one Rockefeller and several Hearsts.

Some things will just make you angry, huh?

I despise nearly everyone on this list, except maybe George Lucas and Steven Spielburg.


I dreamt last night that I still lived in my old neighbourhood (from when I was 12 or so) and I was over at a neighbour's house. This guy (who I've never seen in real life) had two kids, two little boys. It was around midnight when I told him that his children were in trouble.

"No," he told me, "they're just outside playing."

"Then let's go find them," I said.

So we began searching the dark streets, finding no one, our sense of panic deepening. We split up.

On one very long, wide street, I spotted a little boy walking in the dead centre. This was not one of the little boys we were looking for. This boy was much younger, not even two years old, and very pale. He walked with an awkward, stumpy little stride and I wondered how he had gotten so far away from his adult supervisors--he was alone. When I approached him, he spoke to me in the deep voice of an adult with a thick German accent. After I brought him home to his mustached and smiling father and his plump, blushing mother, I resumed my search.

Many times I saw the silhouettes of children in the distance but somehow knew that no one would ever reach them.


I've been treading on dangerous territory lately--nostalgic territory. I've been watching my Evangelion tapes and last night I even broke out my Star Trek tapes. I haven't watched my Star Trek tapes since before I was kicked out of my mom's house . . . The commercials back then were so innocent and so, come to think of it, was Star Trek . . .

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