Title of book of bad jokes I found in last night's dream: "Read in Peace as Others Commit Suicide."

Recently read a portion of an interview with Ian MacKaye where he talks about creating this vast digital archive. Now I like the Fugazi enough (in an abstract sense these days; I ain't goin home to listen to Red Medicine tonight), but what is with the need to archive every m-fing thing? And this is not just a MacKaye thing, but seems like the inclination of many if not the majority of artists. The most extreme onanism imaginable, a life lived in a reconstructed past. Think of how tenuous the electrical grid is--imagine now that it was knocked out by a Sandy or something more comprehensively long term. Whither your digital archives then? I imagine a legion of artists on bicycles, pedaling away, charging batteries--'Yo, get ready to listen to this shit...'

People will look back on this as an age of wonder.

They will wonder what the hell people thought they were doing, exactly. All the real "work" of the West is done by machines, machines powered by fossil fuels, mostly. People are free to fart around and multiply and pretend they are busy.

Strip away any abstract attachments you may have to your job. For many people, a "job" means getting into a fossil fuel-powered vehicle, driving to a compartment, and pressing various buttons. None of this is essential--not in the way providing food and shelter and protection (and sanitation) is essential, at least. Yet I would venture that the majority of people behave like this is how the world ought to be, even those ostensibly concerned with environmental degradation and the like. On some level, it is nice: sitting in a compartment pressing buttons is less hazardous and taxing, for example, than tilling fields or mining coal. But it is still not essential. It is not work, really.

You gotta wonder...

I dreamed they made a Michael Jackson biopic. Starring George Clooney.

*

I dreamed they de-extincted the Tyrannosaurus Rex, but made them rather small, like the size of Chihuahuas. Still, they were ruthless and ended up eating all the sparrows, etc.

Had some weird dreams I only dimly remember.

I dreamed I was on some '70s-era game show in a deep, darkish hall. The game show host was like a walrus, a fat guy with oily whiskers with a fake smile a laugh. I was in the finals against some old grandma. I think you won, like a bucket of clothes. The kids and Jenofur were there clapping.

Then I had a dream (different night altogether, maybe a week apart) where it was like the '30s or '40s and I was on this creaking ship with the kids and some other folks. We were accompanying this block-headed guy to his home; he looked like a side of beef. I knew he was some kind of molester/torturer, and as soon as we got inside I took out a revolver and shot him in the head, but he kept living; he was some kind of tough guy. He beat me to a pulp and I died, but the kids and other unidentified folks escaped. But yo, my ghost was still there, my spirit, and it picked up the revolver and shot the guy a bunch more times until he finally died. Then my ghost faded away, and that was that.