The Skillz Report

August 30, 2014

 

A fake baseball game is going down at my dinner table—by "fake", I mean I'm somehow controlling action figures. Torii Hunter is hit in the leg by a pitch, and J.T. Snow nearly hits a long home run to dead center field that clangs off the top of the "wall" (a tall piece of furniture). There's apparently a four-run maximum per inning, yet my squad gives up seven.

 

Next, I'm riding to a store with some brothas who put down my 80's music tastes. We arrive at this thrift shop and, to spite them, I immediately head to the records (yes, records) section and proudly hold up a Taylor Dayne album. After dissing the brothas right back—don't remember exactly how—I find myself driving a delivery truck at some school but being forced to stop three different times to allow horde after horde of children to cross right in front of me. Boy, that grinds my gears...

 

 

August 29, 2014

 

Ugh...a return to the 1250. My uncle Bubba is upset over the apparent (but unconfirmed) passing of my grandma; as we deal with that a mystery van about the size of an RV—but not an RV—appears in our driveway. When I go out to investigate, the driveway has been replaced by a large public park.

 

I walk down a path where two young (30ish or under) blondes are chatting. One is normal in appearance; the other smells rotten and gives every appearance of being homeless. Still, the two girls are sipping away on lattes without a care in the world. It's odd, but I continue on. I encounter another chick who inexplicably identifies the homeless-looking gal as the other's grandmother. I pay her little mind.

 

Making my way forward I spot an extremely sexy tattooed redhead in the distance; she immediately takes priority. Literally shredding a shoe in a successful effort to catch up to her, I throw all caution to the wind and immediately ravage the woman. She doesn't exactly mind, but she does undertake a "conversion" into a computer program moments later. (Don't ask me...)

 

The visions closes with Richard Roundtree and Esther Rolle greeting each other with a Japanese bow, and some oaf balancing a bowl of clam chowder on both their lowered heads at once (spilling some). You can't make this stuff up, and I don't.

 

 

August 27, 2014

 

Three interesting bits mixed into one. We begin at a park by Chicken's house; it is me and a couple people from way back I have no real tie to and minimal contact with. They are batting against me. I'm attempting to neutralize them with my changeup. A small herd of special needs kids arrive, and one of them wants to be taught the pitch. So there I am, in the middle of the day, teaching a special ed kid how to throw a changeup. Humanitarian Skillz.

 

The dream shifts to an episode of NewsRadio; It's the episodes with John Ritter as a shrink, Jon Lovitz as a mental patient, and Jon Lovitz as a suicidal jumper mixed into one—Ritter jumps from the building's window, and Lovitz emerges from an elevator attempting to convince security that Dave is an escaped mental patient on drugs.

 

Saving the best for last, I suddenly find myself roadside, stopped by the cops with my Latin family. "My" mom has falsely told the cops I witnessed a crime—trouble, since apparently I'm the one who called the police. Despite "my" mom urging me to confess (Jesus, she wants me locked up bad), everything is delayed by a couple of young black teen girls.

 

With the scene suddenly skipped to some lobby, the girls aren't too concerned with the charges they're facing...until I erupt. I ask one girl if she's aware she will be beaten up in prison. She cries. I yell at them for wasting their lives and not wanting to be anything more than a couple of stereotypes. At first they think it's funny, but as I find just the right combination of words to get my point across, those smiles fade—they're legitimately scared, and now begging the fuzz for mercy (it doesn't come).

 

The cops haven't forgotten about me, and once the girls are led off I'm asked about the "crime I witnessed". I quickly blurt out three random thefts of three random items at three random locations in two separate cities (unable to come up with anything else, I claim one theft took place on "Red Sox Way"). The officer takes my information and sends me away, not at all suspicious.

 

The best part: no 1250!!

 

 

August 26, 2014

 

I'm at some baseball field somewhere, and asked to take the phone. On the other end, apparently, is Giants outfielder Angel Pagan. I'm told he has a list of "demands", which is made to sound as if he has hostages or a bomb ready if those demands are not met.

 

I take the phone and disguise my voice as a middle-aged Southerner. Why I feel this is necessary is never explained.

Pagan explains everything he wants, which includes no minor league demotions and never sitting on the bench—that doesn't mean losing his starting job; he physically never wants to sit on the bench. (Guess in between at-bats he wants a recliner or a hammock.) I tell him that I'll "do my best" and that I can't promise he'll never sit on the bench. 

 

Rather than argue, he seems placated. After several one-word answers we come to an "agreement" and I hang up—enjoying my new voice so much that I continue using it with the other players.

 

 

August 25, 2014

 

No 1250 for the second straight night. Instead, I'm at Linens and Things (?), a place I've set foot in once in my whole life (attempting to patch up Josie's toy stroller.)

 

Here, I need to repair buttons on my jacket. I've got a couple of clasps and am set, but the cashier refuses to open and instead directs all customers to the self-checkout. No big deal—only three folks ahead of me. My turn comes, and I am rendered totally hapless vs. the self-checkout. Unable to figure out how to even scan anything—everything I have lacks barcodes; no attendant is present—I end up leaving in embarrassment—much to the relief of the line of 10 customers that has formed in the past 30 seconds.

 

 

August 24, 2014

 

Mostly a haze. I do recall going down to the carport at my mom's oft-visited apartment and being treated to dozens upon dozens of children milling about—one of them being the IRL daughter of one of my buds. Annoyed and refusing to be delayed, I loudly announce that I will be backing my car out in 15 seconds, whether they are in the way or not. 

 

This generates a mad dash to safety; when I do back out, the number of people in my way dwindles from about 200 to zero. I'll take that.

 

 

August 23, 2014

 

Tonight's weirdness comes from a fictional pair of elderly black roommates I've acquired. The man is feeble and uses a wheelchair; the woman is 66 inches of cultured suspicion; she doesn't even believe my hairbrush is mine. For some reason she's tending to him in my room, as a buddy and I make "black people jokes", as I call them. (In case anyone's unaware, I am black. Drop your pitchforks.) 

 

Skip to a World War II-themed park (???) Besides exchanging pleasantries with Marilynn, a long-ago classmate, not much else happens—but just the fact my mind conjured up such a land warrants mention.

 

Things close with me attempting to back next to a gas pump, only for an impatient employee to dash down the very small gap left between my SUV (?) and the pump in an effort to get somewhere behind me. I immediately stop and chastise her for her dangerous behavior. She responds with a fat crack. "Guess you showed me!" I reply, with a dripping layer of sarcasm. Moments later, the girl (who appears about 16) walks around the back of my ride, finds me, and lightly smacks my hand without a word at all. 

 

If that don't teach me, nothin' will...

 

 

August 20, 2014

 

Consecutive 1250-free slumbers! Following a brief encounter with the ex while arranging outdoor storage—long story—and a cameo by Lea Thompson on some fictional talk show hosted in a 1950's living room, I visit my former employer, Earth Baby Diaper Service. IRL, the company has relocated since I last worked there, but I'm 100% certain they did not add a laundromat or sports facility to the property, as they did here.

 

As my old boss Mark warns a customer that last wash is 1:30 (in the afternoon), I get an eyeful of the new sportsplex—soccer is being played adjacent to laundry machines. Mark sidles up to me and we watch some flick; two biracial girls end up making out. I discreetly place a towel over my...excitement...much to Mark's amusement. His hearty laughter serves as the closing scene, as I'm soon awakened by my full bladder.

 

 

August 19, 2014

 

Finally, a night w/o the 1250! My 5th grade teacher Mr. Kleine was front and center tonight, giving a lecture to his "class" in what appeared to be a bank office. No one was particularly interested in whatever he said; maybe cutting off his trademark ponytail cost Mr. Kleine respect. From there, things transitioned to an unfamiliar house where I played some fictional version of Super Mario Bros.

 

This game could be described as a hybrid between Super Mario World and Super Paper Mario. I remembered struggling thru a level with features from both games, not to mention a small army of King Koopas (Bowsers) from the original Mario NES release. Thanks largely to several serendipitous leaps and landings, I'd nearly completed the level before a heartbreaking death seconds before glory.

 

 

August 17, 2014

 

Surprise, surprise: again I'm at the 1250. Again, my grandma and uncle Bubba are alive. Again, we are all living together again—perhaps unlawfully. Again, the 1250 is being renovated by new owners and we aren't sure where we're gonna cram into when the hammer drops. I'm growing quite tired of this recurring dream. Maybe buying my own house one day will quash it forever.

 

Next, I find myself glued to a movie starring NBA star Jermaine O'Neal. Some of his boyz are giving him a hard time about being rich, until he snaps and reminds him he wasn't always rich and it took a lot of work and sacrifice to get where he got (whether or not Jermaine's story is true IRL, I'm unsure. Doesn't matter.) Then he takes off running—apparently people are after him, and he spotted their ride.

 

As O'Neal flees for his life, his enemies fire countless rounds at him. He survives, but others around him aren't so lucky. Eventually the bad guys start gunning down innocents in frustration, including one guy riding in the back of a pickup truck whose only crime was being in their proximity. The thugs eventually do corner O'Neal.

 

Despite having pumped a whole community full of bullets trying to off him, now that they have him cornered, they just wanna talk. How they planned to "talk" after executing him in the streets (as they'd tried so hard to do minutes before) is unclear.

 

 

August 16, 2014

 

Why tonight's trip to see Sandman focused around well-known Giants fan "The Dawg" is a mystery...but it did.

 

To understand this vision, you need a little of Dawg's background. He was at literally every Giants game for years out in left field, the lead bleacher bum if you will. The Giants announcers mentioned him regularly. However, The Dawg—a scruffy, middle-aged white man who looks closer to homeless than someone with Giants season tickets—had a nasty habit of reaching over fences and interfering with balls in play. He did so at least twice that I saw, and was eventually banned from AT&T Park for a while.

 

Now that you have the background, the following should make a tad more sense...

 

I am at AT&T Park in View Level (upper left field) seats. The Dawg is standing to my left about 100 feet away on a concourse. (It should be noted this AT&T Park is configured nothing like AT&T IRL) Somehow, a line drive hits him. 

 

Now, the only type of ball that could peg The Dawg where he's posted is a home run ball. Still, he fears being ejected for interference again, so he makes a break for it, jumping over the rail—a rail that is a couple dozen feet high. None of the fans are too concerned, but eventually I go down and assist with the stretcher. Sticker for me!

 

(That last part stems from an IRL park incident earlier in the day, where I rescued an unsupervised kid dangling from a playground ladder she had no business being near. That medal of freedom should arrive any day now.)

 

 

August 15, 2014

 

Keeping up the trend of Dreamland visits by dead relatives, my late uncle William graced my presence with one goal in mind: smuggling me to some island vacation.  Why I needed to be smuggled out of my own home is never made clear. Nevertheless, we divert and distract with the best of them until the path is finally clear.

 

Only when we end up driving on a freeway for hours towards Sacramento do I realize this "island vacation" may not be what I think it is—remember, GTMO is on an island. Josie wakes me up before we reach whatever actual destination my uncle had planned, however.

 

 

August 14, 2014

 

IRL, only my Uncle Bubba among my grandmother's four children has passed on. INV, he is the sole surviving child, though that distinction doesn't last long. My mom (his sister) soon emerges, and strenuously works to reach their sister (my auntie) Flo on the phone. Once we confirm our family is indeed well, we all somehow pile into a car (12 of us, including my mom's long-ago, since-deceased IRL ex-fiance) and head downtown.

 

Once there, a protest of some sort is taking place in one building, affecting potential entrants to that building as well as one across the courtyard. People attempting to enter Building A (where the protestors are) are pelted with baseball-sized beanbags. People seen moving in Building B (through the glass windows) across the way are shot with some hard foam sign through a tube.

 

My family and I park and walk toward the scene. I attempt to penetrate Building A but am forced to retreat due to beanbag assault—I now see why cops use them. As I retreat, something goes wrong with a foam sign and the glass of Building B is exploded into a zillion shards large and small. I immediately send my daughter away with other adult family while I assist my cousin Lando with a massive U-Boat he's pushing and cannot abandon for some reason (U-Boats are the tall, wheeled carts you often see grocery employees using to stock shelves late at night.)

 

For good measure, local news station KTVU is replacing its' iconic Mornings On 2 program with network news. They've deliberately brought in a new anchor who strongly resembles the previous one—Barry Bonds circa 1993. They even film a promo with the new guy taking the same sashay towards the camera, matching Barry right down to the arm swings and closing head turn. What the hell triggers this stuff?

 

 

August 13, 2014

 

Whitney Houston is alive and well, but her mom has died and Whitney has a difficult time accepting it. Left with no other choice to snap her into reality, I make out with her. (This appears to be pre-Bobby Whitney, making spit-swapping actually a little appealing.)

 

Following a skip, I learn on the news that Nats' outfielder Bryce Harper has been traded to the Athletics; the commentator states "Harper is doing his best pretending to be happy with this deal."

 

 

August 11, 2014

 

Though my late Uncle Bubba visited me in a strange segment in which he borrowed "my" car to go to work, that was not the highlight of my slumber.

 

The scene: the living room of the 1250. IRL, I had spoken with my cousin Rico about Giants' outfielder Mike Morse; here, he—or at least, some hulked-out, jerkoff version of him—is the captain of the rival football team. (What's with all the visions of playing sports inside houses?) He is a real piece, blowing me up on my kick returns and talking ornery smack.

 

One end zone is the bathroom down the hall. (Don't ask me to explain. This nonsense is the whole reason this page exists.) When I finally elude "Morse" to score, a small Chinese man is scrubbing grime in the corner with a toothbrush. I see said toothbrush. I almost gag.

 

When the game is over—mercy rule is invoked with us up 24-0—I catch "Morse" trying to make off with MY fur coats from my closet. I stop him. Minutes later he attempts to steal my fur coats again. This time, more sternly, I demand he drop the coats and beat it. "Morse" is taken aback; clearly few people have the courage to stand up to him. He drops the coats and cowers away.

 

Let that be a lesson to the rest of you in Cyberspace: don't f*** with a man's fur coats!!!

 

 

 

August 10, 2014

 

Tonight, my dad visits me in my dreams. If you know me at all, you know this is most unwelcome. He's appeared in many night visions over the 12 years since we last communicated, and they all end with me going all-out to evade him. This time, he caught me—his vehicle backed up right behind mine, there was no avoiding this confrontation. 

 

...until a most-welcome skip.

 

With zero warning, I go from freaking out over my dad to watching some Montel-esque talk show. One of those "spiritual" chicks is going on and on about not being able to buy her kids shoes. The camera pans to her home, somehow, revealing dozens of her own shoes—which for some reason all resemble candy canes. None sympathy from me.

 

Next, I'm walking Josie to school (which I'll be doing for real in just eight days). I'm confronted by someone for...something, and the only way I escape this person is name-dropping my long-deceased IRL grandfather. This allows Josie and I to...get in my car? Suddenly school's no longer a priority, but getting fuel is. I enter to find all the left-side pumps taken and began to rage—until I discover I can turn my car around and approach from the other direction!

 

BREAKTHROUGH!!!

 

 

August 6, 2014

 

I'm watching my Warriors scrimmage with some international team full of intimidation but low on talent—I worry about their ability to hang with this assortment of bullies, one of whom is tatted from head-to-ankle. Still, Golden State is ahead comfortably, and the next thing I know, Tatt-King is on my couch. He's a real douche, and I decide to trick him by pretending to be his girl behind a curtain. Shocker—he can tell the difference between his girl's voice and the voice of a guy who's never met her attempting an impersonation.

 

Eventually I find myself moderating a Q&A between NBA legends and NBA rookies. I present a question from one of the rooks: Is Steve Kerr's claim that Michael Jordan cried when he won the 1996 championship true? Michael, clearly displeased, utters a stern "I don't remember." (Alongside Jordan is Shaq, Scottie Pippen and Patrick Ewing, among others.) Next—and I SWEAR on everything this is true—a female rookie steps up, in tears, fearing she won't be allowed to use a couch in the Dunk Contest. As she does so her clothes vanish, revealing a massive, hanging...dick. 

 

The traumatized Shaq's hilarious response to her now-secondary couch issue: "I ain't sure."

 

 

August 5, 2014

 

I am at the base of a (fictional) pedestrian bridge on 5th Street in my native Vallejo. Much of my family is there—apparently this bridge was a hangout spot for my Uncle Moltar as a youth. Cruising down memory lane, he performs a series of acrobatic stunts on the bridge that would be difficult for a 23-year-old—let alone the 53-year-old he currently is! As he prepares to dismount, I warn him that due to (IRL) knee issues, I'd be of no help if he fouled up his landing. He doesn't.

 

After I accidentally and embarrassedly flick my aunt's boob, talk turns to an acquaintance of my uncle who needs a chauffeur. I offer my services at $1 per mile, but the vision ends with a cliffhanger. (Note to self: do not simply offer personal driver services to someone you've never met, lest you end up an unwitting drug mule. C'mon, you know better!)

 

 

August 3, 2014

 

I’m at an apartment. My across-the-hall neighbors are now rowdy young pant-sagging knuckleheads. And somehow I’m being ordered to hang a portrait I don’t want.

 

A chubby young woman (25ish) appears, and I’m prepared to leave all the work to her as far as creating space on my wall, hammering, etc. Pissed as I am, she is trying to be nice and just doing her job so not only do I remove the existing nails and clear space—but I also make out with her to put her at ease. She admits how awkward things were before that, and soon I have “my” portrait.

 

Outside, I run into my bud Juan. He'd loaned me a key to a padlock (who knows why) and now needs it back. Fortunately I’m wearing the same clothes from yesterday and produce it quickly. We trek to the parking lot where I’m to greet his (fictional) son, Juan Jr. There, a former friend IRL is waiting with a request for me to hold his pot for him. (The kind you smoke, not the kind for boiling water.)

 

Needless to say, I refuse. He instructs me to let my cousins know (IRL they don’t smoke either; apparently that’s not the case INV.) I do tell my cousin Rico, who follows me back inside in search of a meal. There, I go back in my room and spot two young women goofing off on a hill of sand near the beach (beach?) outside. They’re both nude, and one of them is the chick I’d just made out with.

 

Just as we all lock eyes, she loses her balance and her nude, dripping, glistening body tumbles down the sand hill out of view. Rather than avert out of embarrassment, I continue staring until the friend assures me she hasn’t broken her neck. At that time I close the blinds…and wake up.

 

 

August 2, 2014

 

I am trying hard to get a Barry Bonds interview behind a liquor store, but he just walks to his car. There is a list of the press allowed to see Barry, and I'm not on it (neither is Susan Slusser of Bay Area newspaper fame.)

 

Skip to an SVU episode; I'm watching with my mom for some reason. She suspects Olivia's (fictional) sister is her lesbian lover when they are shown adopting a child. A man attacks Liv for some reason and she—despite having reverted back to her smaller 1999 size—is forced to administer a good, solid primetime beatdown. This segment made no sense—Mariska Hargitay did not appear on my TV or come up in any discussion for weeks. At least the good guys won.

 

 

August 1, 2014

 

My uncle Bubba has returned from the dead, but he is ill and unsteady on his feet. I help him to bed where he requests, of all things, a Twix. Next thing I know, skip to a saloon; I'm tracking a "4A" major league player when I'm shot in my vest. A regular vest, not a Kevlar.

 

From this point, my night vision notes are undecipherable, although something about buying Mentos behind two kids, "scheduled sex" and a "not have stinky shoes" line took place.

 

 

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