Yet another dream: Tooth and gum.

I dreamed last night that I was brushing my teeth in that careful way that dentists recommend, in gentle circles on each tooth instead of a rough back-and-forth, but in going through one circle and brushing up against the gum on one tooth on the top right side of my mouth, I peeled part of the gum back from the tooth, as I saw looking into the mirror while I brushed.

My new question for everyone.

"If there's like a brother and a sister and they're in their late 20s for example and they have no skeletons in their closet and they've never been abused and like one night when they're hammered at a wedding reception they're drunk and one tells the other that they've always found them secretly hot, and the other one's like, 'Yeah, I've always thought that too,' would it be wrong for them to get together?"

Why I don't tend to get along with black men.

I realized today that I don't tend to get along with black men since so many of them are caught in this headspace where they're knowingly suave and cocky and crack jokes with a "aren't I cute?" look on their face and the attitude that they're getting away with something, almost like a preacher or a con man... Yesterday at a lecture this one prof mentioned offhand that he took French in high school since he knew it was the language of love and he thought of himself as a lover, for example, and the entire audience laughed, especially the black women, who all had an "isn't he cute?" look on their faces, but the joke left me cold, especially its self-satisfied, posing delivery. To the degree that a black guy is not like that, I can get along with him.

The internet / An etymology.

A friend of a friend who's straight, Israeli, and lives in Jerusalem and is kind of a nice guy I'm told but pleasantly sleazy enjoys getting random ass and so cruises the net and has a lot of random women over to his apartment for fun and, as it turns out, most of them are young, highly orthodox, and very nervous and come over from the orthodox part of town so they can have some fun and not be seen before going back to their homes and their neighborhoods, which are big on community-enforced social norms (e.g. cars are stoned if you drive through on the sabbath, which is true, it happened to a friend).

Also, today I read that the "alder-" part "alderman" is related to "elder" and "old", which makes perfect sense since an alderman has the function of a governing elder or something, only we don't think of that now at all, since the etymology isn't transparent and now the word is just some funky word for a governing position like "mayor" or "ombudsman".

NEWS FLASH -- Tennille isn't leaving after all.

So, when I popped by the hair place this weekend, the receptionist was saying that Tennille was leaving next week or the week thereafter, and rolled her eyes that I should find out when since she's not telling them a thing and is thinking of leaving. I started shitting myself since I need a recovery haircut from this 30s thing on my head, not to mention highlights, so I popped in today to find what's up, and what's up is that I misunderstood, Tennille is just leaving for vacation, not trading out on the place for good.

That said, she's still excited about highlights. She said I'll be the third man this month to come in and get them, and that it'll make me look like more Hollywood. She said that she's been personally trying to bring them back ever since she was down in Atlanta a while ago to visit friends and family and saw a guy with them and realized that it looked edge-y since men's hairstyling has been neglecting highlights the past few years, so if I get them in the next few weeks, I'll be riding the crest of fashion since she has a feeling they'll be big this spring-summer-fall, especially summer and fall. I said that that's cool, and I'll get them this spring and then stop, so that way when people in the summer are getting highlights, I can be like, "Oh, I did that a while ago," and she nodded and was like, "That works."

Also, I apologized for cancelling out on my hair appointment last week so I could be an extra, and I said I was sorry if it lost her any money because she couldn't fill in my appointment, but I'd sell out my mother to be in the movies, and she nodded and said she understood. I also said that I felt like a star since behind every star there's stylists and clothing people and whatnot, and that once I get my highlights and people compliment me, I can be like, "You know, you shouldn't thank me, you should thank my people, since they're the ones looking out for me," and she laughed and said she was there for me.

Soup / Extra-ing.

So like Saturday I went to a friend's co-op for dinner, and they had lentil soup, so immediately I looked at the shirt I was wearing, a brown-and-white striped shirt that I had somehow managed to keep immaculately white, and I feared for it, and I ate very carefully over the table, only to have some kid bump the back of my chair behind me and spill soup over both shoulders and all the way down my back, which I had actually envisioned happening like a couple minutes before (a musing like, "wouldn't it be ironic if someone bumped into me and spilled their soup all over my shirt which I'm carefully trying to keep clean?").

Luckily, though, I grabbed a container of salt and ran to the bathroom and got all the stains out immediately with salt and cold water, though when I returned to the table, it was like I was a contestant in a wet polo shirt contest, though my nipples weren't that prominent, to tell the truth.

On another note, they say that the best part of being an extra is the other extras, and I've found that half true, since a lot of them are assholes. But, there's a few nice ones, like this one old woman I sympathized with during the Thursday night shoot, when we were all out in the rain at 4am for hours on a street corner, and women had it worse off then men since they had thin shoes and short skirts and no scarves to fill in their low-cut coats, and this woman had it worse than that even, since she was like in her late 60s and frail-looking and they asked her not to wear a hat, since her costume looked better that way.

Anyhow, we turned out to talk a little yesterday during the movie theater shoot, and she was pleasant enough - we talked about this and that, like how she had gotten the sniffles from the last shoot, and how I had liked the chicken salad on the buffet, since the caterers had mixed in dry roast peanuts, which I found odd at first but then kind of nice, though I still wished they had added in some red onion -- and then somehow I mentioned how I had borrowed the car of a friend to drive out to the shoot, and that I had filled the tank for her as a thank-you, and how I'm also taking her to martini night as a thank-you, since martinis are only $4.25 and I can get her seriously fucked up for a very reasonable price on some very good martinis.

At that point, then, the lady asked about the martini lounge and where it was and if they had a good dirty martini, and how many it took me to get messed up, and when I said four or five, if we're talking seriously, she said she loved them and it would only take her two or three but she gave them up because alcohol gives you wrinkles, and she used to drink them with friends at this one ritzy legendary bar when she lived downtown before moving to her posh suburb she now lives in, and how actually she used to drink manhattans more than martinis, until one day when she had five manhattans and went home and threw up on the sidewalk outside her apartment and the next afternoon when she left her apartment there was this big stain from her vomit on the sidewalk, and the stain stayed there for over a year, which she laughs about now.

I also met her husband, who grew up in a town an hour away from me. He was okay.

Quip / Dream.

So at a department function on Friday night, I ended up in a conversational circle with this student I know, her husband, and our department's lone Mormon, and it turned out that the student I know's husband is originally from Montana, and our department's lone Mormon has relatives in Bozeman, so he started talking about how once in going over the pass over the mountains into Bozeman he got caught in a really bad snowstorm and almost didn't survive.

"So what'd you do, eat your wives?", I was like.

Actually, I didn't say that, but you know I thought it.

Last night I dreamt that I went into my kitchen in my apartment, and the counter and everything was covered in a heavy dew, and pervading the kitchen was a bracing, hearty earthy smell like just after it rains.

Tempest Storm's first celebrity romance.

As revealed in Tempest Storm's Tempest Storm: The Lady is a Vamp, pp. 115ff (here, taken from p. 118),

MICKEY ROONEY!:

At the Interlude that night, Mickey introduced me to several other stars who frequented the nightspot. And when we left, he drove straight to the Beverly Hills Hotel. "I started to ask, 'Your place or mine?' but I decided it might as well be mine. I maintain a suite here. I hope that's OK," he said.

It was OK. I liked Mickey Rooney. He'd treated me decently, and I needed him.

Once in his suite, he wasted little time. He mixed me a drink -- which I really didn't want -- put a record on the phonograph and waltzed me around the room. He was a couple of inches shorter than me, and his gaze became fixed on my bosom as we danced.

"Damn! All that meat and no potatoes," he said with a big grin. As the song ended, he let his face drop down until it was buried in my cleavage. To Mickey Rooney, that was foreplay.

Within a few minutes, we were in bed.