
What you've all been waiting for...dreamboy!, October 1994.
 
Before I say anything stupid, I'd like to welcome all of dreamboy!'s new
subscribers. Last episode, I was melancholic at the down-turn in dreamboy!'s
subscribers. I had dipped, and feared dreamboy! was already becoming passe.
Tired. Run o' the mill. When that happens, you can be sure it'll be the last you
see of dreamboy! As I told my lovable Peggy >SHANKSP@qucdn.queensu.ca<, if less
than 50 people are requesting dreamboy!, I'm going to quit.
 
Maybe I'm being too extreme?
 
But such is not the case! A lot of people seem to have been checking out John's
e-zine list >johnl@ora.com<, and for that I'm thankful. There's nothing better
than outside, free assistance. Or almost nothing. Check out his list if you
haven't already. Maybe you'll find something else worth suscribing to. We all
know it won't be as good as dreamboy!, but close seconds aren't so bad.
 
I'd also like to thank everyone who sent in for a copy of DECEMBER 22. A few
more of you took the dare this month, and for that I'm eternally thankful. I'd
like your comments and criticisms, if you're up to it. Maybe I'll share them
with the rest of the mailing list. That is, if anyone's interested.
 
Before we begin, I have one last request. The same request as last issue. Tell
everyone you know about dreamboy! Heck, randomly send a copy of this issue to
someone you know and love. They're respect you more, come tomorrow. Believe me.
 
Thanks again for subscribing. Enjoy!
 
Chris
 
By the way, I sort of rushed to get this issue of dreamboy! out on time. Tell me
if you can tell. Does it seem sloppy? If so, should I wait a few extra days and
get it perfect, or is the current state of quality satisfactory?
 
dreamboy! currently has >< subscribers.
 
**********
 
October 1, 1994
 
I drive home, on my combination pick-up truck/bicycle. My family lives in a new
neighborhood, with new, beautiful plants, and a new, amazing home. The sun's
out, pine trees are giving off their refreshing odor, and the air is clear. All
is right with the world...except for Vic.
 
Vic is still my neighbor.
 
I look across the short canyon, into Vic's back yard. The females in his family
are on the porch. Running around, making noise, the usual. I've learned to
cope.
 
I park my bicycle in the driveway. A young boy shines the house spotlight in my
direction, catching my attention. I walk over and say hello to the small thing.
Passing around the corner, I witness the huge dinner taking place. My father's
brother is telling him he's a genius. I laugh, and throw a smile at Jon.
 
Suddenly, I'm reminded of the bicycle. I should bring it in, away from alien
eyes.
 
I remember something about Germans.
 
I go to the bicycle, carrying a gun. I'm supposed to play hockey today, but I
don't think so. Not today. I'm not feeling well.
 
A man drives by, slowly, eyeing the bicycle--my bicycle--the entire way. Is he
planning on thievery? He's lucky there's a fence between us, that's all I can
say.
 
I start talking to relatives--not paying attention to anything. The
man--Mexican, I'd guess--somehow comes up my driveway and steals the bicycle.
But like I said, I'm not paying attention. I just notice it's gone and yell bad
words.
 
A car zooms down the road, so I grab my gun. I don't think I'll be able to catch
him. I can't. I jump into a bright green Stingray and speed after. No luck. I
pull over at the bottom of Cardinal and jump out. I run up the hill, but
everything suddenly goes black, like I'm entering the void.
 
Neal Borowsky rides by on his bicycle. And I know it's his, because I check very
closely. Damn. I'm scared and Mockingbird Lane is gated off.
 
I'm going to shoot the next thing that moves.
 
October 2, 1994
 
Yeah. Go-Go dancers are on stage, shaking it. Each one is bigger and more
energetic than the last. They're being scaled up. Increased size. Their shit's
flopping about like nobody's business.
 
I'm sitting in the front row, gazing upward. Larger and larger, she just keeps
getting bigger. Any minute now, she'll expand past the event horizon and I'll be
happily consumed.
 
*          *          *
 
Something terrible is happening.
 
Make it stop! Make it stop!
 
It won't stop.
 
*          *          *
 
Linda and I are looking at furniture. I'm playing "good boyfriend," doing my
best not to complain. But no matter how hard I try to be good, all I can think
about is going home. I want to leave and the world needs to know.
 
We're in the lot, filling my car up with goodies. Time to go. I pay the parking
fee and I'm ready to zoom home, but everything is terribly crowded. There's a
truck and other obscure objects in my path.
 
I only pay a dollar.
 
I guess Linda is driving, because she can't seem to get out. She's pulling back
and forth, trying to maneuver in and out, but it's not working. It just doesn't
work. She's bumping into things, ruining other people's furniture.
 
I get up, remove my shirt, and pick up various objects. Boxes, cars, small
machinery. I move them all. My muscles bulge, you see, because I'm very macho.
 
Watch out.
 
Henri Yonet works here and he's a useless bastard. He just watches, of course,
sitting there and looking stupid.
 
I make room for our car and we leave.
 
*          *          *
 
Linda and I are rollerblading. Skating around, among a large group of people. I
speed up and pass them all--zoom. I skate down to the corner, but I can't cut
it. I over-shoot the sidewalk and skate into the street. True, I don't mean to
be in the street, but I'm in complete control. I still have total confidence.
But that's just the kind of guy I am.
 
I get back on the sidewalk and exercise a higher degree of self-control. Up the
road, I see two guys on bikes. Do I know them?
 
One is Matt Finochio. The other is Bill Watson. Wow, I haven't seen either of
them in quite some time.
 
"Hey Bill," I say, "you moved and I don't have your new number." I ask them if
they still play hockey. Or if they still want to.
 
At the last minute, I introduce Linda to the two of them. That's not very good
of me, to wait so long.
 
October 4, 1994
 
Oh, it's dark and forboding. I'm driving to Linda's, at night. I turn the corner
and find two large vehicles--trucks--blocking my path. One is an Isuzu Trooper
and the other is a moving van. No. It's an full-on, eighteen wheeler.
 
Both turn down her street.
 
One side of the block is completely clear. What's going on? Why aren't cars
parked everywhere? Why? Linda's car should be parked here, somewhere. She called
to say she saved me a spot.
 
A huge moving van--like a hundred feet long--is parked up on the sidewalk. It's
dark and scary, like a demon truck. It is a bad truck.
 
I pull a three point turn and find a spot under a large tree on the congested
side of the street. Then I notice the orange cones. City workers plan on
clipping this tree tomorrow, so they're claiming the road space in advance.
 
I fuckin' hate that.
 
There are no other spots, so I double park and rush to the parking area of
Linda's building. Linda's car isn't here. Where is it? Was it stolen? No, it was
probably towed. I run out front and notice "temporary tow-away" signs posted
everywhere. They were probably put up after-the-fact, knowing Linda. Poor girl,
she's going to be upset.
 
*          *          *
 
Part two:
 
There's a part-rock star, part-whore in Kevin's bedroom. Kevin who? Fitzgibbons,
I'd guess. She loves lounge music and has absolutely huge breasts.
 
Real ones.
 
She wants to eat garlic bread--fresh from the toaster oven--and she wants to
molest me. I'm not sure, really. Garlic bread is one thing.
 
She's wearing a hot and shiny, red velvet dress.
 
Part one:
 
Michael Becher won't talk to me. He won't, I just know it. I follow him
everywhere, but get nowhere. I call his name, but he doesn't answer. Maybe I
start calling him bad names, because he's upsetting me.
 
Steven Handler shows up. He's an asshole.
 
I follow everyone to Michael Becher's house. He ordered food from In'N'Out
Burger, with extra cheese. Or extra something.
 
Mathew Glass is super-happy to be involved. Someone's being vocal. They ask
Michael if I'd stay for a while.
 
Sure.
 
I go to tell my date. She's a woman--a real woman--in a hot and shiny, red
velvet dress.
 
She thinks it's all right if we stay.
 
We start to dance. We dance and listen to music. Strange music, which gets us
going, so we sit and start kissing. Fooling around. Who is she? Edie Brickell?
Some Bohemian-type? I really hope not.
 
I sit her down on my lap and remove her panties. She's got a dress on, remember,
so it's a relatively easy thing to do. I'm inspecting all the important parts--I
just have to--and I notice her hair is in the wrong place. Her pubic hair. That
triangular field of wiry curls is totally out of place, but that's fine. I can
live with that.
 
Eager, I position myself to go down on her, but she asks me to wait. All right.
I can do that. I try to remember the song she sings, but I can't. Her routine is
terrible and unflattering, but I don't care. I just want to do it.
 
October 5, 1994
 
I'm at work, compositing shitty images for some bad movie. David Borowsky comes
over and introduces himself, because he's the new, hired help.
 
Wow.
 
He's ready to begin business, but before we do, I stop and really say hello. I
tell him how it's great to see him again. Really.
 
Dave is a level 17 unix user. That's amazing. I tell him I miss him and all the
old times he had together. I miss playing at his parents' house, building things
from Lego.
 
Lego's great.
 
Marit shows up. She and Dave know each other, obviously. You can tell by the way
they greet each other.
 
Amazing!
 
All this time. All this time I've been trying to reach Dave via his NASA e-mail
address without any success. And then I turn around and find one of my
co-workers is a long time friend. Who would think?
 
Dave reveals his memories and pulls out some old drawings we did together.
Really old ones. Now he wants a signed Chris Romano.
 
Something CHRIS!(tm)
 
Who can blame him?
 
I think about giving him a drawing, but change my mind. David Borowsky can have
a book, instead. DECEMBER 22, Volume one.
 
He wants a free one. I could give him a free one, but should I? I shouldn't.
Maybe I won't.
 
October 11, 1994
 
What's ringing? Is that the phone ringing?
 
I want to hurt everyone.
 
October 12, 1994
 
It's the first day of school. I show up to high school, to begin the twelfth
grade. But how can that be? I just finished college--graduate school,
actually--and now I have to repeat my senior year of high school? Why?
 
It's like a new rule or something. I must re-take twelfth grade in order for my
education to be complete. I think this is a stupid rule, but I have no choice. I
did this high school thing years ago.
 
Walking down the hallway, I pass Mrs. Cohen. Or Cohn. I can't remember. She asks
me how my compositing class is going and I just nod. I'm not taking a
compositing class. I haven't taken one in years, but it's really not worth
explaining.
 
Passing students, I smile and say hello. Hello. Hello. It seems I'm more popular
this second time around. I greet everyone--cute and ugly girls alike.
 
Michael Volpi is in the hallway. He's a lot fatter, poor guy. I look and say
hello, and then fall over like a complete invalid. Mike won't say hello.
Instead, he looks down at me, lying on my back and rolled up like a pill bug,
and says, "You're a bad driver."
 
I have to agree. "I have been driving bad, lately," I say.
 
Volpi laughs and I fall. Again.
 
I think I'm being cool.
 
I pass another teacher in the hallway. She's sitting at a child's desk, looking
at me. Is that Mrs. Moore? No. Mrs. Moore was black. This lady is old and white
and over-weight. I don't remember her name. Just her face.
 
She waves and I say hello.
 
I also see Cheryl Jackson. She's got amazing, dark-chocolate-skin and a
beautiful, radiant smile. With locked eyes, we acknowledge each other and show
our teeth, gleefully. She's still really pretty. I leave, waving.
 
A student--and an ugly one by the looks of it--quickly opens a door. I catch it,
luckily, inches before my eyes. She looks at me and I throw the door back at
her.
 
The principal walks by and asks, "How's your compositing class?"
 
I take a moment to explain that I'm not currently in one. I haven't been for
years.
 
"Well," she says, "brush your teeth and go register for classes."
 
Brush my teeth? I just brushed my teeth. What is she trying to say? What's the
deal? Do I have bad breath?
 
Carole Tollefson works behind the counter in the registration office. She's
looking for my card in her folder and having a hard time doing so. I find it
first and point it out, but she's not sharp enough to complete the puzzle. Poor
old woman. I know someone, somewhere, is laughing.
 
A rude girl tries to elbow her way to the front of the counter.
 
Carole hands me the folder with my name and I read the contents. It's a class
list of some sort. Are these classes to be taken? Because I've done all these
already. The objectives say:
 
learn
 
date girls
 
be independent
 
I've done all that.
 
Right?
 
I imagine living on campus, way in the back. You know, past the bike rack, back
by the janitor's office. There's an open gate, and inside they keep all the
losers.
 
Jon will be in the ninth grade, which makes things all the more weird.
 
*          *          *
 
Linda and I are on huge sail boat, fighting. She has another boyfriend. A black
guy, and he's been cheating on her. He's asking for forgiveness and she won't
give it to him. I feel for the guy and I want her to give him a chance, but then
it hits me...
 
What about us?
 
I'm super-sad. Sadder than anyone's ever been sad before. Pulling Linda aside, I
ask her, "Do you do all the stuff with him as you do with me?"
 
This is bad.
 
This is wrong.
 
She says I'm the one she wants to be with, but I'm not so sure. I want to go on
strike and get a fat raise.
 
*          *          *
 
I'm sleeping in the blue Toyota Celica, down in our parking lot. I'm in the
front seat, sprawled out as much as space permits.
 
The obese lesbian from across the hall walks by, with a man. She sees me, in her
car, and engages the alarm.
 
Am I stuck in?
 
I'm given a 30 second window, and I use it. I sneak out when she's not looking.
 
*          *          *
 
I'm at the Unocal 76 with Robin Conover. We're at the corner of Sunset Boulevard
and the Pacific Coast Highway. It's nighttime.
 
Robin drives a black Honda Civic. I think it's a cute thing.
 
Is there a problem? Is someone calling me? The noises must stop.
 
Other people are paying for gas. It's a self-serve station, so you have to pay
the cashier before pumping. Looking out the window, I scrutinize a passing
couple. The female has no pants on. No underwear, either. And you know what? Her
pubic hair has been shaved off. I'd say completely, but it looks like it's been
growing back for a week or two. She's got short, light brown fuzz. It's not very
attractive.
 
She walks right by the passenger side window. I'm spooked. Her vagina is right
at eye level, and no matter how hard I try, I can't help but stare. Her crotch
is a magnet.
 
She's a grown woman with the compact vagina of a six-year-old.
 
October 13, 1994
 
I'm in a building. Like the elevator shaft of a large, construction warehouse.
There's a stairwell here, with a minimal amount of foot-traffic. Men wallking up
and down. There's also a girl. A young, short, homely, and pudgier version of
Toby, from Dream On. She's a horrible loser.
 
I'm watching her, as she stops each and every one of the men who climb the
stairs, petitioning each one for sex. Every man says no.
 
Except for me. I'm terribly desperate and I'll take anything. Unlike the other
men, though, she doesn't know me. I approach her and convince her to go for a
walk. To a "special place."
 
We travel down flights and flights of stairs. Down chutes and ladders, and one
steep, riveted slope. We're in an underground world. It's almost Hobbit-like.
James Earl Jones works here, making films for the masses. We must be very quiet,
to avoid attention and getting in trouble.
 
I'm looking for a place so Toby and I can get completely naked. I'm really
nervous and Toby is loud. She talking at maximum volume, ignoring my desperate
pleas for silence. I just know she's going to alert the attention of the
janitors, or the midnight crew.
 
A truck approaches from the far corner of the cavern. Headlights and a loud
grinding noise give it away. Toby and I hide, and then mingle with the large
crowd of tourists. No one notices a thing.
 
Toby and I go for a walk. We cut through multiple back yards, all the way to
Grove Avenue. Harris Targovnik and I would play frisbee here, in his back yard.
Just to my right. Toby and I are going to play, I think, when two older women
show up. Is that Irene Rossi? I'm supposed to show them all how to use my new
frisbee disc. It's special, with a razor's edge. I try to do normal frisbee
tricks, but they don't seem to carry over.
 
October 14, 1994
 
I'm trying to show David Palmer how to draw cloud pictures for animating. He's
better at it than I am, because he has more confidence with the alpha channel.
 
Plus I don't want to do it.
 
It's a very random activity.
 
*          *          *
 
I'm in the bathroom, having just washed my hair. I'm combing it the way I always
do, accomplishing the normal look. But then I decide to try something new. I
comb in all down in front of my face, giving myself that Joey Ramone touch. Hey,
I look like Jon.
 
I'm amazed at how long my hair is. Looking in the mirror, I tilt my head
forward. What's that?!? The top of my head is completely bald. "Completely,"
except for a few unhealthy, random strands. Using another mirror, I get a total
view of my head and notice blotchy, scabby skin. It's sick and I want to puke.
 
My hair is thin on the sides, too. When did this all happen? I guess I just have
so much hair around the edges, I didn't realize I was bad. I want to scream. I
want to, but I don't feel like I should.
 
Jon knocks on the door and wants me to hurry. But I'm not listening. I'm
freaking out.
 
*          *          *
 
I come home from work and notice the full mailbox. Boxes, packages, and
envelopes are pouring out. Bookcrafters, Sandy Cohen, Dave Hickey, and random
girls have all sent me things. They sent me books and photographs and other
goodies, and I'm exciting.
 
Cool.
 
October 17, 1994
 
There's a man who says he's Don Adams, but I know better. He's really the
mythical Pan, disguised in human form. He's assuming Don's place in hopes of
causing severe problems for everyone involved.
 
We're in a house. My grandmother's house. He's finding things out and messing
everything up. He's looking for books. Secret children's books which leave an
awful trail of dust along the way. Termites, I bet, got to the books and ruined
them.
 
There are large holes in the ground. Pan peeks in, and sees the real Don Adams
entombed, lying in dust. He's in an empty, wooden pool, underground.
 
Don wakes up and sees Pan looking into the hole, from above. Both scream and
howl like wild animals.
 
The chase begins.
 
*          *          *
 
I'm in a restaurant. I'm important, you see, with an entire crew. Everyone
leaves by my order, except for me and a girl. She's an actress, and she's
talking to me, checking to see if everything is all right.
 
I'm on my stomach. My hands are up her skirt, resting on her thighs. Rubbing her
legs, I say, "You're pretty."
 
"Thank you."
 
She has a strobe-dress on. It disappears every other frame, revealing her
breasts. They're small and pointy...my favorite.
 
She asks if I have a girlfriend of wife.
 
No, I say. And then I ask her out. I tell her I could get the business to pay
for our lunch.
 
No. That's a bad idea because she orders a lot of food. She's ordering hundreds
of dollars worth and she wants me to pay for it all.
 
Shit.
 
The waitress is Asian and she's pretty, too, although a little on the plastic
side. We only have one menu. I ask for a second, but the waitress tells me to
share.
 
*          *          *
 
I have a new studio. It's my first day here, I walk in, and find myself in the
middle of a critique. Liz Larner strolls in and starts commenting on the light
placement. But it's not my doing. This is my first time here and I haven't had
any time to fiddle with the lights. Or to fiddle with the room, for that
matter.
 
Red and white lights point at the ceiling, generating an obvious pinkish effect.
 
I'm annoying him with my special cans. But when I remove them, it's all just a
madhouse.
 
Where are we? Where? Where are Linda and I?
 
*          *          *
 
There's a European man walking with some children. The little boys must urinate,
I believe, so they use the neighbor's bush. They use my bush, too.
 
I jump out from my hiding spot, push the man down, and scare the fuck out of the
little kids.
 
"Stop," I command.
 
No. I get a garden hose and spray them all. The baby, Howard the European
fucker, his son, and everything else. I'm making a new studio, so I spray the
entire house and the group. I spray it in his mouth, at his groin, his face, the
whole enchilada.
 
We have a fight to the death.
 
I'm younger than he is, so he stays. He's an annoying bastard and a bit of a
problem and he won't leave. I think he's waiting to hurt my mother.
 
*          *          *
 
Entire Contents Copyright (c) 1994 by Christopher Romano. All Rights Reserved.

