Letters 4.1

TransWorld SURFFile: LettersVo. 4#1

Dream Analysis By Dr. Richard Smeltzer Ph.D.Dreams, aren’t they crazy? I swear, they’re like some crazed manifestation of your deepest psyche-a place deep down inside your brain that you never even thought existed, but when you’re under the anesthesia of deep sleep, things come to the surface. You could be the most normal person, someone who’d never do anything psychotic while walking consciously on Earth, but when you fall asleep, you could be a rubber-legged bendy man who dances at all-night raves with silver goats and blue vampire bats. As a psychiatrist, I am sometimes sought after to analyze these visions of the mental. However, in this month’s installment of the “Letters” section, I will analyze my own visions of deep sleep and share them with you.-Dr. Richard Smeltzer Ph.D.

CALLOUTS”Lying on the bathroom floor, I had squeezed a burrito-sized fecal cylinder out of my rectum while in my sleep. This meant I had a fear of bowel movements.”

“This was a clear case of a D.S.V.S. (Deep Sleep Vomit Spasm).”

“That damn cock would wake me up every morning right when things were starting to get good. Pesky cock ruined everything.”

“(A) I was a Styx fan no matter how hard I tried not to be,and (B) I had a penis the size of a light switch.”

MENTAL MOVIE MAKERI am Charles Baer. I want to make a movie. It would be me talking into the camera for an hour and a half. Talking about boring things like the history of the universe, surfing, snowboarding, global Internet government, my future presidential campaigns, freedom, etc. I would own this movie and all the rights to it.

Plan B:Your magazine (or your competition) will send me a check for “X” amount of dollars. I then fly to Los Angeles, California and stand in front of a big American flag. I talk. I stop talking, and then I go back to Oregon. Your magazine (or your competition) produces and promotes the movie. Charles Baer and your magazine (or your competition) will split the profits 50-50-right down the middle.After the movie makes over twenty-million dollars, I get all the profits. That means if my movie makes 100-million, you get ten-mil, and I get 90. If my movie makes four mil-you get two, and I get two. Your magazine (or your competition) will first send me a check for over 7,000 dollars. I go to Santa Cruz. I organize a morning shoot on the beach. When everything’s set up, we shoot. Shoot what? Well, we shoot four people standing in front of a huge American flag. Who? Me and three other people. What three people? Jim Stoecker, born and raised in Palo Alto, California-graduated from Berkeley. John Street, born and raised in Hong Kong-went to high school in Boulder, Colorado, and has a master’s from Georgetown. Mrs. X, born and raised in Santa Cruz, California-served for three years in Africa in the Peace Corps, and served three years in Sudan as a reproductive health worker. Then what? I talk for an hour and a half. Then what? Then a giant Amercan flag comes up and the Santa Cruz surf crew (Barney, Flea, Ratboy) is there with a rock band. What rock band? The Grateful Dead, Pink Floyd, Ice Cube, Soundgarden-whatever. As the band rocks out, everyone jumps in the ocean. The end. Cornball? Yes. Too cheesy? Yes. Stupid? Yes. Hey, Yes could be the band, they could play the extended live version of “And You And I” off the great album Close To The Edge. That would be perfect. We split all profits 50-50 under 80-million dollars. After 80-million dollars, I get everything. That means if my movie makes 50 mil, I get 25 and you get 25. If my movie makes three-billion dollars worldwide, you get 40 mil, and I get $2,960,000,000.00 …Dig that? I reserve the right to make as many versions of my movie as I want. I reserve the right to make this movie for as many different magazines as I want. I reserve the right to do whatever I want, whenever I want, however I want, wherever I want, if I want, and why I want. Got that? Good. am a bottom-line chap, so here is the bottom line: I am going to save this piece-of-shit planet with or without you. You are invited to help me. This is your last invitation. Make this movie now or spend the rest of your life telling people you had a chance to make Charles Baer’s movie. I really love everyone, it’s just that I simply have zero patience left. Please write me a letter and tell me if you are in or out. Thank you. Charles Bear Portland, Oregon

Charles,When I was a young child, I dreamt that I was kidnapped by a duo of scary-looking aliens. They threw me in a burlap sack and tossed me into the belly of giant spaceship. The ship was lined with a mucus-like substance that smelled of rotten broccoli and baby shit. I crawled across the wretched floor to a small, hatched door that looked like a sea anemone or a cat’s butt. I pushed my way through the opening into the bright lights of a white room that had a fountain in the corner. Around that same time, my mother shook me awake. Lying on the bathroom floor, I had squeezed a burrito-sized fecal cylinder out of my rectum while in my sleep. This meant I had a fear of bowel movements.

POETRY

30 feet high.All the locals said, “I would die.”I adjusted my fin,and gave a grin.It might take me to my grave,but I’m going to catch that wave. I went off the lip, and boy, what a trip. As I leaned, I grabbed my rail and left a trail. As he covered me up, they thought I was done.But I was just having some fun.The big foam monster blew me a kiss, and then said to me, “Next time I won’t miss.”I gave him one last glance, then I thought he’ll have his chance.I rode the remains to the shore, but I’ll be back for some more. Jeremy Watersa.k.a “Gate Keeper”Venice Beach, California

Jeremy,In my teens, I had this one recurring dream where I was laying in a bowl of vegetable soup. The bowl was half empty, and I was lying in a slippery pile of carrots, peas, and broth. I squirmed around in the soupy, oversized bowl of multi-colored chowder for what felt like two hours.My new jeans and 80s-style checkered Vans shoes were getting very slimy. My hair was wet with the thick fluid-it stuck to my face and coated my arms and hands. As I squirmed around, some of the gunk made its way up into my nose and mouth. This was a clear case of a D.S.V.S. (Deep Sleep Vomit Spasm). It turned out that my stomach was quite fickle as a teenager.

IF’N YOU SAY SOI totally agree with your Top 44 issue’s “Top Five Greatest Mags To Throw In The Shitter.” O magazine sucks royal ass. I’d put that at number one, if it weren’t for that damn-ass dog band. Instead of flushing them all, I’d rather incinerate them. This issue has a lot of funny shit in it. Keep up the good work. Pete Hicktown, U.S.A. (seriously)P.S. If you can’t read this, I understand. Sorry about the profanity, I couldn’t contain myself.

Pete,As I matured, I started feeling waves of hormones pulsing through my body. The first thing I noticed was a drastic change in my sleep patterns. I had nightly visions of nude women crawling over me, and Madonna look-alikes in full “Like A Virgin” garb stripping for me to the sounds of the late-80s Madonna smash-hit “Borderline.”I’d often wake up to the sound of a cock’s loud rooster-type cackle emanating through my bedroom window. I’d never see the complete show-that damn cock would wake me up every morning right when things were starting to get good. Pesky cock ruined everything.

BRUCEY ROCKS! FOR REAL!I just got your new Top 44 issue and can’t believe Bruce Irons is coming out with an album soon! I think his surfing rocks, but I had no idea he really rocks. I’m in a band myself, and we’re called The Guy Triplets. We play mostly heavy metal/hip-hop, and can be seen at most of the local bars here in Kill Devil Hills. Anyway, what do you think are the chances that I could get Bruce to play with our band? We totally kick ass, and our attitude is like “We don’t give a shit!” I hope Bruce sees this and gets an inclination to come out here to North Carolina to rip. Hell yeah! David Donaldson Kill Devil Hills, North CarolinaDavid,Many young people dream of becoming rock stars. Why, once I even dreamt that I was onstage during a late 70s presentation of the rock opera, Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto by the revolutionary rock act, Styx.I was Dennis DeYoung-the eclectic genius singer of Styx, and I was in mid-performance of the hit song “Mr. Roboto” when my pants fell off. The 20,000-plus crowd went silent at the sight of my manhood. Before I could say, “Thank you very mucho, Mr. Roboto,” the fans turned on me-they threw broken bottles and empty cans at me onstage. When I woke up, I realized that:(A) I was a Styx fan no matter how hard I tried not to be,and (B) I had a penis the size of a light switch.

TRYING TO BE HARDI have a complaint against a certain brown-haired, short, tenth grader at St. Mary’s Catholic High School in Orange County, California. This particular person is a Salt Creek local and he’s a total dick. I don’t want to say his name, but if he reads this, he’ll know who he is. He’s the most egotistical, snaking, wave-hogging jerk I’ve ever dealt with. I’d like the world to know that he’s a total dip, and he deserves to get snaked on every wave because that’s what he does to everyone else when he’s in the water. I go to school with the guy, and he has never once said “Hi” to me, even though we practically sit a the same table at lunch and I’ve seen him at surf team tryouts like ten times. I may not be the best surfer on the “A” team, or even the “B” team, but at least I don’t snake everyone. M. H.Orange, California

M.H., I woke up in a cold sweat just last night. I was having another fight dream where I was getting chased by four men who wanted to beat the living you know what out of me. I kept trying to run, but my rubber legs wouldn’t let me go fast at all. When I tried to turn around and fight the guys, my punches were like gelatinous blobs flinging onto soft skin. I had no power, so I just got pummeled by those masked men. I’d wake up crying-feeling the actual pain of a beating. That’s when I realized what I was afraid of in life: My own uncertainty in a sandwich-making situation. I see the men as the bread, and I am the meat. All the bread wants to do is smother me, and all I want to do is escape the evil clutches of the mad bread. I am the meat. I am the meat.Yes, sometimes we are stupid.

SHREDDERS OF CHARACTERI’ve sent about ten letters to you guys, and I’ve yet to see one published. What do I have to write about? Farts? You guys seem to pick really stupid letters sometimes, and the ones I write are about things that actually matter, like pollution, the state of surfing, and the next level of surfing. I swear, I’ve never seen you guys answer a letter with any seriousness, or even a shred of character. What does that make the reader think? It might make some readers think you guys are total idiots. It might make people think you’re stupid. Have you ever thought that there are people who like your magazine that aren’t ten years old? Seriously, you guys have a great forum for real topics and pertinent reports, so I propose you use them. Glenn RichardsPismo Beach, California

Glenn,You’re so right. As a psychiatrist, I was a little bit wary of answering TransWorld SURF’s letters section for fear of it being taken as a joke. You see, Glenn, I’m a true believer in a little thing called journalistic integrity. It means being real. That’s my job, to be real and to really be, if you know what I mean.I’m like you-I know you know that as knowledgeable people, we can both know that together. Knowing is easy, when you know what real is.Oh, back to my point-I had a dream that I was trapped in a small bag that an evil demon was breathing hot air into. His breBruce sees this and gets an inclination to come out here to North Carolina to rip. Hell yeah! David Donaldson Kill Devil Hills, North CarolinaDavid,Many young people dream of becoming rock stars. Why, once I even dreamt that I was onstage during a late 70s presentation of the rock opera, Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto by the revolutionary rock act, Styx.I was Dennis DeYoung-the eclectic genius singer of Styx, and I was in mid-performance of the hit song “Mr. Roboto” when my pants fell off. The 20,000-plus crowd went silent at the sight of my manhood. Before I could say, “Thank you very mucho, Mr. Roboto,” the fans turned on me-they threw broken bottles and empty cans at me onstage. When I woke up, I realized that:(A) I was a Styx fan no matter how hard I tried not to be,and (B) I had a penis the size of a light switch.

TRYING TO BE HARDI have a complaint against a certain brown-haired, short, tenth grader at St. Mary’s Catholic High School in Orange County, California. This particular person is a Salt Creek local and he’s a total dick. I don’t want to say his name, but if he reads this, he’ll know who he is. He’s the most egotistical, snaking, wave-hogging jerk I’ve ever dealt with. I’d like the world to know that he’s a total dip, and he deserves to get snaked on every wave because that’s what he does to everyone else when he’s in the water. I go to school with the guy, and he has never once said “Hi” to me, even though we practically sit a the same table at lunch and I’ve seen him at surf team tryouts like ten times. I may not be the best surfer on the “A” team, or even the “B” team, but at least I don’t snake everyone. M. H.Orange, California

M.H., I woke up in a cold sweat just last night. I was having another fight dream where I was getting chased by four men who wanted to beat the living you know what out of me. I kept trying to run, but my rubber legs wouldn’t let me go fast at all. When I tried to turn around and fight the guys, my punches were like gelatinous blobs flinging onto soft skin. I had no power, so I just got pummeled by those masked men. I’d wake up crying-feeling the actual pain of a beating. That’s when I realized what I was afraid of in life: My own uncertainty in a sandwich-making situation. I see the men as the bread, and I am the meat. All the bread wants to do is smother me, and all I want to do is escape the evil clutches of the mad bread. I am the meat. I am the meat.Yes, sometimes we are stupid.

SHREDDERS OF CHARACTERI’ve sent about ten letters to you guys, and I’ve yet to see one published. What do I have to write about? Farts? You guys seem to pick really stupid letters sometimes, and the ones I write are about things that actually matter, like pollution, the state of surfing, and the next level of surfing. I swear, I’ve never seen you guys answer a letter with any seriousness, or even a shred of character. What does that make the reader think? It might make some readers think you guys are total idiots. It might make people think you’re stupid. Have you ever thought that there are people who like your magazine that aren’t ten years old? Seriously, you guys have a great forum for real topics and pertinent reports, so I propose you use them. Glenn RichardsPismo Beach, California

Glenn,You’re so right. As a psychiatrist, I was a little bit wary of answering TransWorld SURF’s letters section for fear of it being taken as a joke. You see, Glenn, I’m a true believer in a little thing called journalistic integrity. It means being real. That’s my job, to be real and to really be, if you know what I mean.I’m like you-I know you know that as knowledgeable people, we can both know that together. Knowing is easy, when you know what real is.Oh, back to my point-I had a dream that I was trapped in a small bag that an evil demon was breathing hot air into. His breath smelled like a hot, dead body and a pig-farm water basin. When the foul warmth reached the innards of my brain, I jumped up only to remember the four bean burritos I had from Taco Bell for dinner. How’s that for journalistic integrity? breath smelled like a hot, dead body and a pig-farm water basin. When the foul warmth reached the innards of my brain, I jumped up only to remember the four bean burritos I had from Taco Bell for dinner. How’s that for journalistic integrity?