100th Post

Have you ever had that dream where you were on a futuristic basketball court similar to the sports arena in Starship Troopers and pressured into playing a one-on-one pickup game in front of a worldwide audience? You keep trying to explain that you haven't played basketball since high school and don't remember the rules. Warming up, you discover that your arms are so weak you can barely push the ball into the air above your head without doubling over and dry-heaving. When you're forced to sit down to change into your sneakers, the soles of your feet swell and suddenly explode outwards.

There's no pain, and the remaining flesh hangs off in bulbous round clumps, like skin tags the size of large bits of gravel. Inside the hollows of your feet, aliens akin to Veggie Tales characters are gestating. You easily remove the purple one from one foot and place it in a bin that looks as if it was stolen from an airport security checkpoint. Instead of shoes, there are several other alien creatures in the bin. They talk incessantly to each other and look around the stadium with eyes of full of wonder.

You reach into your other foot and squeeze your hands around the second parasite. It is a wet, twisting intestine made of sand. You know instinctively that it has not yet come to term, and that it may be hours or days before it can be removed. Nearly insane, you pull it out. It squeals and writhes in your palm, and torrents of blood pour from holes in your umbilical foot. Pain shoots from your toes to your groin. And then you wake up.

I went to see Dead Man's Party on Saturday, the only Oingo Boingo tribute band with the official endorsement of Richard Elfman. Their keyboardist has his own swing band, Lee Press-On and the Nails. I'm not normally into that sort of thing, but who am I to resist a swing cover of "Mexican Radio"?