Therapist's Chair - Inaugural edition
We are starting up a fun new feature here, mostly because the dreams that we have been having are so weird and funny that it would be a shame to forget them. But we are also thinking that with all the budding psychologists out there, it would be a fun way to get some feedback from anyone reading the blog that isn't our parents and extended family (not that we don't love hearing from the fam).
We will periodically be posting dreams that are especially noteworthy and fun, and encourage/insist/demand that people put their best psychological interpretations in the comments. In case anyone missed the earlier posts, one of the exciting side effects of the anti-malarials we are taking is vivid, lsd-like dreams. The best explanation will be selected by our resident psychologist after consulting our panel of experts.
The winner will receive any number of exciting prizes, including: one (1) rapid malaria test kit, hand-delivered in September; one rolex (2 fried eggs wrapped in chipati) sent via standard mail; one bootleg chinese DVD of Rob Schneider vs. Anthony Hopkins (40 movies! 0 intellectual property laws! Yay!). But you can't win unless you enter. So just do it. Humor us.
Last night I dreamt that I was playing baseball at Oak Hill, the small private school that I went to for middle and high school. Pretty much a baseball diamond like any other, but with me playing third. Of course, I never played much baseball as a kid, due to an uncanny ability to get hit in the face with the ball, but whatever. It's just a dream.
But there I am, glove in hand, ready to play. I look over to the shortstop to say something hepful like "here we go, now" or "two outs, cmon." And I notice something odd. The shortstop is a certain basketball player. A certain famous basketball player. A certain Sidney Dean.
("You either smoke or you get smoked. And you got smoked")
OK. So that in itself would be weird, but fine. We talk a bit, mostly trash about the relative shortcomings of our respective races and how that might impact the ability to play baseball. A lot like the movie. It's funny, without going into too much detail because I can't remember any. And naturally, the same guy is playing all the other positions for our team. So this is getting more weird by the minute.
Then I look to the plate. And who should be coming up to bat, but another famous cinematic baseball player. I'll give you a clue: He's very fast, a little flashy and can't hit to save his life, but ultimately a good guy.
Yup, Wesley Snipes again. Willie Mays Hays vs. me and an army of Sidney Deans. After some more trash-talking from all parties, Willie hits a dinger into center field. He's rounding second as the throw comes in and gets caught in a run-down between third (me) and home (him). After a lot of fakes, throws back and forth and general chaos, Willie just beats the throw home, sliding under the glove and scoring the game winning run.
(SAFE!)
We will periodically be posting dreams that are especially noteworthy and fun, and encourage/insist/demand that people put their best psychological interpretations in the comments. In case anyone missed the earlier posts, one of the exciting side effects of the anti-malarials we are taking is vivid, lsd-like dreams. The best explanation will be selected by our resident psychologist after consulting our panel of experts.
The winner will receive any number of exciting prizes, including: one (1) rapid malaria test kit, hand-delivered in September; one rolex (2 fried eggs wrapped in chipati) sent via standard mail; one bootleg chinese DVD of Rob Schneider vs. Anthony Hopkins (40 movies! 0 intellectual property laws! Yay!). But you can't win unless you enter. So just do it. Humor us.
* * * * *
Last night I dreamt that I was playing baseball at Oak Hill, the small private school that I went to for middle and high school. Pretty much a baseball diamond like any other, but with me playing third. Of course, I never played much baseball as a kid, due to an uncanny ability to get hit in the face with the ball, but whatever. It's just a dream.
But there I am, glove in hand, ready to play. I look over to the shortstop to say something hepful like "here we go, now" or "two outs, cmon." And I notice something odd. The shortstop is a certain basketball player. A certain famous basketball player. A certain Sidney Dean.
("You either smoke or you get smoked. And you got smoked")OK. So that in itself would be weird, but fine. We talk a bit, mostly trash about the relative shortcomings of our respective races and how that might impact the ability to play baseball. A lot like the movie. It's funny, without going into too much detail because I can't remember any. And naturally, the same guy is playing all the other positions for our team. So this is getting more weird by the minute.
Then I look to the plate. And who should be coming up to bat, but another famous cinematic baseball player. I'll give you a clue: He's very fast, a little flashy and can't hit to save his life, but ultimately a good guy.
Yup, Wesley Snipes again. Willie Mays Hays vs. me and an army of Sidney Deans. After some more trash-talking from all parties, Willie hits a dinger into center field. He's rounding second as the throw comes in and gets caught in a run-down between third (me) and home (him). After a lot of fakes, throws back and forth and general chaos, Willie just beats the throw home, sliding under the glove and scoring the game winning run.
(SAFE!)Me, Wes and Wes, vs. Wes. What could it all mean?
let's see...you are in Africa, no one knows you and your many talents. Subconsciously your ego needs some recognition so it conjures up good ol' Oak Hill where you were the pearl in the oyster by your junior year,and puts you on third base, playing with the stars (black ones as a nod to your new environment) where you are the man who can put the runner out before he can score...Oops, I was just told that as fam, I am not allowed to play "therapist's chair" and am supposed to email it at any rate. Sorry....
ReplyDeleteyou have always wished you were black and you are confronted by the fact that you aren't on a daily basis... ?
ReplyDeleteWhat could be more american than baseball, middle school, and Wesley Snipes? You dudes miss home.
ReplyDelete