The Skillz Report

 

Someone MAY Have Taken Offense (April 30, 2015)

 

I'm in an elite neighborhood doing deliveries. For some reason I'm contemplating leaving a crude, homemade "Fat Cow" playset on somebody's yard, but in the end lack the nerve.

 

 

Does That Mean Betty Can Attend Her Own Memorial? (April 29, 2015)

 

It starts with high school crap and a dorky classmate looking strikingly beautiful...without her 24/7 glasses. 

It follows with Betty White finally biting it, and the other three Golden Girls coming back from the dead for her memorial.

 

It ends with me waking and unable to shake the new image of the ex-dork...great.

 

 

Luckily, The Floor Wasn't Arguing, Too (April 28, 2015)

 

Chicken's "cousin" and other ex-high school mates are gathered in a store to celebrate...something. Chicken is in a three-seat chair (?) and the proximity leads to strife outside. My friend Danelle tells me to check on him...but when I do, all I can focus on is her giving my other friend Daryl AWFUL customer service. Not wanting either to know I'm friends with the other, I have to all but belly-crawl out of the store.

 

Tying things up nicely, Alex—who is 35—is hunting Easter Eggs with her parents as I look on curiously.

 

 

Jerks (April 26, 2015)

 

Hooping with four others in a five-on-five game, but another teammate and myself are demoted to "outside" positions after struggling to score. We're basically referees with no whistles, or authority to make calls.

 

 

If Only Employment Were That Easy (April 25, 2015)

 

David Lee texts me; he sees me stopped at a red light and then bumps into me and my crew at Target. When no staffer appears to help, i decide to work there.

In the parking lot, my buddy Nate appears; we sing Third Eye Blind together. Somehow, I skip to The Cosby Show and Theo picking a college with a "Men's Club", meaning a college with hot girls. Funny lingo.

 

 

OK, We're Out Of The Dugout. Now What? (April 24, 2015)

 

I admit: this one bothered me. 

A 14-year-old kid pitches to me; I go easy on him by batting lefty (still getting hits). He then gets into it at 1B with Giants infielder Matt Duffy; he knocks Duffy down and genuinely tries to rip his eyes out. He socks a grounded Duffy again before finally being shoved off. The benches cleared but no one beelined for the kid assailant—even with Duffy already on the ground! (Hunter Pence, especially, wandered around in a daze).

 

This kid was nuts. 

 

 

Here's Some Kleenex...And Some Awkwardnex (April 23, 2015)

 

I'm watching a radio show (?), and during an off-air moment, a producer accidentally sneezes right in the host's face. Though he laughs it off, Luke Spencer of General Hospital feels compelled to take the blame from the horrified girl. Initially pleased to meet him, Luke's long ramblings about being molested as a child and killing his father in retalliation turn a nice moment rather uncomfortable.

 

(By the way, how the hell can you not tell who sneezed in your face? How bad is your eyesight that you can't tell a tall, 67-year-old man from a short 36-year-old girl?

 

 

What A Terrible Week (April 17-22, 2015)

 

This has been a rotten week for vision reporting. If you regularly visit this page, you know I recollect very well—and most of what I recollect is entertaining. Why this week has royally sucked in both departments is a mystery. I've changed zero in my routine, diet or sleep habits. 

 

The little I've been able to scrape together includes hiding from a clingy 4th-grader at a sports card shop, a hideous cashier walking in circles in front of me, a cop going from directing traffic to spouting off nonsense, and driving around Vallejo and seeing re-painted shopping centers. Real gold.

 

The closest thing I have to a real entry came 4/18. I was very late to class, but the teacher was fooled by my fake note and I was allowed to stay—not that it mattered, since I was too wide to fit between the rows of desks.

 

My. Bad. 30 times over.

 

 

 

Hey! Get Back In That Photograph! (April 16, 2015)

 

I'm waiting patiently for the train, but a maintence bus almost hits me in the back lot. Why I'm waiting in the back lot is not explained.

 

Frazzled, I go out to my parked car—so much for my trip—where I read of my own divorce in the paper. I wonder what else the media knows about me that I don't.

 

Cut to Leandro Barbosa (of the Golden State Warriors) and I cutting class and ending up separated at Rite-Aid. My objective was to mail letters—which I failed to bring. D'oh! Not wanting to waste the trip, I try to trade 10 pennies for a dime but keep failing to get the count right. Maybe because the sarcastic cashier was a giant hand. Those tend to be distracting.

 

I return home and view prom pix of girls I barely know, and a class pic that included two cats. The cats suddenly run out of the picture and down the hall as I'm viewing it. Maybe a human farted; who knows.

 

 

 

Must've Been Cold Out (April 14, 2015)

 

My police team and I off a suspect—and not to protect anyone; he's just a dirtbag. Immediately, a la Training Day, the team dreams up a good, believable cover story. I am the only member uncomfortable with lying and initially refuse to do it, but when our commanding officer—a Hunter lookalike who "gets that all the time"—questions me, I recite our concocted tale.

 

Stupid choice, because apparently I was being set up all along. I'm quickly arrested and put on the cover of a book about dirty cops. That was pretty fast.

 

After a segment featuring me as a bus passenger asked to retrieve other bus passengers from buildings (?), it's time for my annual Taco Bell Quit-And-Strip dream. Once a year I dream of returning to my old fast-food job from a lifetime ago, being overwhelmed by all the menu changes, and storming out of the place—but not before stripping out of my uniform and underwear. 

 

At the outset, this dream is like all the others—I'm initially hanging in, but when the orders keep coming and the items get more and more unfamiliar, I grow super-frustrated. But I don't storm out naked this time. I don't even quit at all! Have I matured so much IRL that it's carried over to my subconscious? I hope not, at least not in this regard—I love the Quit-And-Strip dreams! Oh, well.

 

 

Knocked Some Cents Into Her (April 12, 2015)

 

I'm a participant in some scripted murder-mystery whodunit game with several others. It starts in an abandoned basement that repeatedly drops several feet at a time. The next step is helping a "stranded" woman on the side of some road. After that, we return to the building—which is no longer abandoned; a female manager chastises us for using it previously and refuses to allow us in again.

 

How do we get around that? Easy—we fire nickels at her head from afar until she bleeds to death (which I hope was all part of the act). Back inside the basement...nothing happens, and I wake up.

 

 

Home Plate Coach? (April 11, 2015)

 

IRL, Josie lost her first tooth late on April 10th; naturally, my dream consists of me freaking out over hiding her Tooth Fairy money without being caught. I mean, paranoia. 

 

After Mike Krukow has me coach home plate (?) at some baseball camp, Josie is at a community center playing while I'm on the phone sucking up to Harrison Barnes of the Warriors. He is replaced by my grandma, who is questioning the "young Eminem vacancy". The call ends when Josie wets herself. Well, all right then.

 

 

Well, They ARE The Lakers (April 10, 2015)

 

I've been recruited to photograph NBA stars for their basketball cards; for unknown reasons each Los Angeles Laker separately demands to have their image shot in a pool. Eventually, everyone present hops in what I think are locker room showers, but when I exit I'm at Chicken's place—everyone else is gone except his girl and two former classmates from high school.

 

I'm staying the night, but neither classmate knows that; one of them, Mike, goes nuts when I won't leave and attacks my San Francisco Giants before calmly shaking my hand and departing. I show Chicken's girl my basketball cards...which end up hand-drawn. She likes them.

 

 

What A Cat-astrophe (April 9, 2015)

 

I find myself in some town square, eventually entering a Chinese restaurant where I become fixated with a beautiful blonde in a green dress and perfect legs. I follow her out but have trouble with my open take-out and return inside for a closable box—being sure not to lose sight of Green Dress Girl. 

 

Or so I thought; she is not where I thought she went, so the search is on. (Yes, she's that beautiful.) GDG is not in the next building, but a former high school classmate I've seen once in 17 years is, and I promptly smooch her for no reason. She's grossed out—not by the kiss but by the taste of the food I just ate. 

 

After passing an 8-foot tall man on the way out, I enter an adjacent shop and finally find GDG...with a guy. Damnit.

 

Dream #2 does a complete 180—I'm in bed with a dude and actually LIKING it. (IRL, not in a million years). A fire breaks out under a nearby car (was the car inside or the bed outside?) and we try to attack it with the extinguisher. Not only does it run out of foam rather quickly, but a dumb cat refuses to move out of harm's way, slowing us down and forcing us to waste precious foam on it. No resolution to the fire or the idiot cat before I wake up.

 

 

STRIKE! (April 8, 2015)

 

I'm watching a (fictional) classic Law & Order episode with a cross-dresser being interrogated while ex-NY mayor Ed Koch eats dinner with the detectives. Suddenly the cross-dresser's eye and mouth melt off. End interrogation, I suppose.

 

Next thing I know, I'm in the 7-11 parking lot pushing a shopping cart to my ride. I push the cart back in the vicinity of the store...but it rolls about 90 full feet into the store—on flat ground—knocking a display down. Oops.

 

Lastly, three cousins show up at the 1250...at 6am. One cousin, Gaelan, splits on foot and another cousin sends me to give him a dollar. (?) Can't find him after a few and stop caring. Sorry, cuz.

 

 

Re-sign Draymond. Help Him Drop His Second Job (April 7, 2015)

 

I am working for my old bus company...but I've forgotten my ID badge and need the  Warriors' Draymond Green, of all people, to authorize me. I wait in a room with several other badgeless lost souls. Eventually, I decide to pass the time by standing on the freeway by a parked bus and playing a game of one-on-one with pal Brett. However, this game ends when the ball rolls too far away and I quit rather than chase it.

 

Back at the 1250, I'm waiting to find out if Draymond will show up there or not; apparently if he does I cannot have my Twix bar A car pulls up—I don't know if it's him or my mom. Whoever it is takes too long to exit the car so I throw caution to the wind and down the Twix! (Turns out to be Mom.)

 

The dream ends with me forcing Mark Cuban into a discussion about the 2011 NBA Finals. How I could force a billionare to do anything with no weapon isn't explained.

 

 

Ass-Kicking...Or Ass-Licking? (April 5, 2015)

 

I am golfing, terribly. Partially because Josie is loose on the course, partially because kids are playing soccer on the fairway. When the staff finally boots them, I remark "Soccer on a golf course?! Dumbasses!" A dad—larger than me—tries to act tough, but all his smacktalk sounds like come-ons ("Yeah, I'd like to rock you solid for a whole week", etc.) I don't care, uttering "This is boring" until he suddenly goes Bruce Banner and actually scares me momentarily. 

 

I'm saved—or not—by a skip to the 1250 driveway. I identify myself to an old classmate from junior high (never close to a friend). Her response: "?"

 

Skip again to "weight class". My fellow fatties and I are asked to run down a corridor and back. Despite being in a shirt and tie, I do this easily—only to be mocked by my out-of-shape classmates.

 

 

"Yo Yo Yo, Who Had Two Tortas To Go?" (April 4, 2015)

 

I push a hand truck thru a courtyard, passing a woman. Though I'm nowhere by her, I'm hit with a "BE CAREFUL!" So I verbally abuse the whore. Next, I am chopping it up with a British chick about The Container Store—she refuses to shop there because of some foreign conflict. We get in an elevator and I decide to make out with her.

 

Sudden skip to a garage, where a pale-footed ex-colleague of mine (Kristy)  is showing me how to work a scale. (?) Finally, I'm trying to order from a taco truck, but the line is too rowdy and a DJ is taking orders by shouting and pointing at random "What  you want?" I split.

 

 

 

It WASN'T From Me April 2, 2015)

 

In my car wash tips, I find a love letter addressed to Paul Pierce and give it to him. (Apparently, the future NBA Hall-of-Famer has nothing better to do besides hang out at carwashes.) Back home, my phone blows up 10 times about...nothing. There's literally no messages. A Mavericks/Warriors game comes on, and Dirk Nowitski is about to become the league's 2nd all-time leading scorer with 185,000 points. (For you non-NBA fans, this is equal to Willie Mays creeping up the all-time home run record of 4,212.

 

The announcer refers to Rajon Rondo as a "Hall-of-Fame point guard", which—again for non-NBA fans—is not unlike describing AJ Pierzynski as a Hall-of-Fame catcher. I'm flummoxed.

 

 

It Had To Be A Little Tykes Car (April 1, 2015)

 

The setting: a sports bar. I can't hear the game over the bar's radio, prompting me to holler to the barkeep "Turn that radio down!" One customer takes particular offense to this and demands a fight. I refuse...and refuse...and refuse, until he follows me home and my roommate spears him. Way to go, Eddie.

 

Next thing I know, Alex and several others are in a basement singing "Let's Get It Started" by the Black Eyed Peas. (I can't make this stuff up, people.) But when the chorus rolls around, I'm the only one participating. Repeated pleas for the others to join in go unanswered, so I finally walk out in frustration.

Alex is hysterical, reacting as if she'd been dumped on her wedding day (IRL, this is 100% out of character). She's in pursuit, so beside herself with emotion that I actually become afraid, and beat it out of that house before she can catch up to me.

 

Finally, I'm driving to our local grocery when I pass a young woman conked out on a bus stop bench. I figure she's passed out drunk and think nothing of it. Yet when I circle back around, a concerned policewoman is checking her out—things don't seem all right.

Somehow, while driving past, I brush against the girl—how this is possible with me driving past and her seated on a bench is unexplained—she is cold, and likely not alive. (Which is too bad cuz her hair felt nice.) I don't know WTH these dreams come from.

 

 

 

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