LOLSCHACH's JOURNAL: May 09, 2009
Night terrors grasp at me in flight, keeping me in the land of make-believe and unknown consciousness. Will attempt to reiterate details here.
Am not LOLSCHACH. Am young, self-assured, womanizing, belligerent youth lacking father figure. Father was killed by time-travelling adversary from the future.
No, not him. That was from dream long time ago.
Yes, him. Less Dreiberg-y, more LOLSCHACH-y. Handsome. Fit. Well dressed.
Exist as wanderer of utopian American midwest. Was arrested by Robocop in my youth. Past becomes a blur of bar fights and lectures. High-ranking officer approaches me after one particular brawl and begins to lecture me about my father. Am expecting him to tell me to go to college: am expecting to punch him in the face. Instead, talks about joining Starfleet. What? What is a starfleet? New cruise line, perhaps? Cannot possibly join: am neither Filipino nor from 3rd world country in need of financial assistance and good medical benefits. Neither can I fold towel animals. No, says he, 'tis very simple. Just show up at location tomorrow, take space shuttle to space school, graduate in 3 years. Too lucrative to be sure. Would make father proud, though. I acquiesce.
3 years past. No montage necessary. Befriend medical doctor who once single-handedly survived Martian space colony after it was invaded by hell-spawn. Licentiousness overpowers me, have unnatural urge to bed green-painted alien female and nubile African roomate. Seem to think with my nether regions, my fists, then my brain. In that order. Reminds me of a previous dream, but different.
Pass Starfleet exams with no problem, though nearly thwarted by pointy eared, emotionless alien and his trickery.
Dream progresses. Am surrounded by motley comrades, crewmembers, who make the dream vastly entertaining and suspenseful. Character development, action, and storyline flow mellifluously with no second wasted on petty, inconsequential moments. Guest cameo by Galvatron, narrator of History's Mysteries, fits into plot well. Not forced, not contrived. Perfect.
Strangest aspect of this particular nightmare: felt watched by an audience of normal people. Would have expected the flavor of this reverie to appeal mostly to fat, socially ignorant, smelly outcasts living in their mothers basements, speaking fictional fantasy languages and attending overpriced conventions to feed their nostalgia and need for rampant consummerism. No, not so. Audience was comprised of random sample of the population, citizens looking for good entertainment -- excellent entertainment. Got what they bargained for.
Production values of this nightmare of the highest caliber. Awoke, invigorated by the dream of space, the final frontier. Pumped, wanting to punch the nearest alien or use a phaser to shoot pointy eared, tattooed skinheads.
Not so. All was over. But wish to visit this particular nightmare again someday. Best I have had in a long, long time.