Sunday, July 1, 2007

We owned this huge Victorian mansion somewhere and everything but us within it was "period", except for the implied use of electricity. I am standing in the upstairs hallway with an electric typewriter at my knees, attempting to rip the keys out with my nails. Getting nowhere, I took from the closet a chisel and hammer and began striking in between the keys in this manner. Despite the sparks and shards of a stone-like material, the typewriter remained in tact.

Running down the hall way, I am into a room with a desk and windows, one of which I open, and then grabbing it by the cord, dangle the typewriter outside of it. My wife is on the floor, begging and pleading with me not to throw it out as I simultaneously accuse everyone for making me drop it to a mangled pyre below. At the last minute, however, I break down, and crying, pull the typewriter back in and hold it in my arms, a baby. "I can't do it!" I scream.

Next, I am downstairs in the parlor (or what I assume now to be a parlor) where there is a carousel with a thick black cord running to a statue, her hands poised above a stone organ. Then, the statue began playing, but it wasn't just the organ: a whole band came out in the simple chords on the organ, all playing Sister Ray by the Velvet Underground. The carousel lights up and begins to whirr to the strains.

Leaning into the statue, my wife asked, "Doesn't she look like Laura Ingalls Wilder?"

"No! Of course she doesn't!" I responded. Then, as I leaned in for a better look, Laura Ingalls Wilder's face turned into a screaming ghost, like at the beginning of Ghostbusters.

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