and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

Monkey's, touching themselves, bouncing around in the trees with the 'nanas and the 'boons with their nary-a-hair-on-me-bum smirks.. They're the ones having fun. And if - IF you ask - if they are having fun but are, in their crippled little minds, unawares of how joyous an occasion their life is then is it a crime? Is it a sin, a punishment, a forlorn state of the union of our planet?

Let me, with little fanfare, point you to our national motto:

Ignorance Is Bliss

And that should about sum things up for you and you and you and why the Monkey's are, in all likelyhood, having a much better time of it than I.

Speaking of Monkeys.. In my infinite wisdom - knowing that man must know his boundaries, limits, and possibilities in order to be a content man - I rushed home on Thursday evening hoping to arrive there before one of my many (2) friends might venture to call. I slipped and lost the opportunity on Wednesday evening to dial our favourite doll down at ma bell, *69, and find out who in fact called my humble abode not once, but perhaps twice, on Wednesday evening following the wonderful rambling messages of one aschwa at isla vista. I did not, however, want to make the same mistake twice so knowing how unpopular of a phone I have I rushed home Thursday evening to dial my doll and see what she had to tell me.

It wasn't what I expected.

To recap, for those just joining our hero, he is awaiting a phone call that will never arrive - much like charlie on the MTA. I don't know why Charlie's wife, having brought him lunch and passed it through the train every day for a long long time, didn't just bring him some change so he could get the hell off the train.. but I digress.. Our hero is awaiting contact from a gal, referenced first in this post, then this one, then this one, following up with this one.. and maybe a few inbetween.

Continuing..

I listened intently as the numbers came spilling forth from Victoria, or Samantha, or whatever ridiculus name the programmer had given to this particular computerized vixen, and as they came it only got weirder.

2 0 7

Yeah.. well I recognize *that*.. at least I know an area code when I see one. Of course, here in the bustling metropolis of Maine we have but one area code, so the first three digits did little to ease my mind - except to ensure that alex, in *his* infinite wisdom, did not call a third time.

7 7 3

What? 773? What kind of an exchange is that?! Certainly not one coming from the hospital. Certainly not one coming from a doctor's office or from a cell phone or even, in this case, the apartment of one particular doctor - the doktor. This exchange, this prefix, was familiar but yet strange. Only one number in my large menagerie is, in fact, a 773 number and it certainly was not *this* 773 number.

6 ..

Well, I'll stop now to spare whomever it is that has called me. I will say, though, that this a strange and unexpected turn of events. Some hemming, hawing, and a few quick searches on the innernector delivered me a map of Portland, with a red star right ... near .. my house.

Strange.

A subsequent lookup resulted in a name attached to the number, and the number having been attached to the map, gave me a full picture... but I can't for the life of me figure out who painted it. The number is foreign. The street, though just a hop skip and a jump from my stoop, is foreign as well. Even more foreign (even in a literal sense here) is the name itself.

Having the only land line in the apartment means that someone *could* have called for a roommate but this seems unlikely. One roommate has been gone for a week and the other, to the best of my knowledge, doesn't even know the land line number.

There were not one, but *two* hang up messages.

Things just keep getting curiouser and curiouser.

or more curious and more curious. whatever.