Day of Orange

For whatever reason, I have been going to Amsterdam during holidays. The reason I go is to work. That it is always a holiday is simply a coincidence. I was there during Christmas because it was a Christmas show. I was there during Valentine's Day, but I did not go for Valentine's Day. In fact, I spent most of the day at the airport and was only in Amsterdam for the last few hours of the fake holiday. Easter is a major holiday in the Netherlands, but that had nothing to do with my trip. I did not even know it was Koningsdag until after I got here. I will only be here on Liberation Day because I extended my trip to have some free time in the country. My next trip will be during Fourth of July, but that holiday means absolutely nothing in Amsterdam.

Koningsdag is King's Day, Willem-Alexander's birthday. It used to be called Queen's Day, until Beatrix abdicated and her son took over. It is a national holiday that the people take more seriously than I would expect in a country where the king has no real power. Then again, a lot of Brits, and even Americans, care more about the British royal family than I understand.

When I first heard about the holiday, I assumed it was always King's Day when there was a king and Queen's Day when there was a queen. But the current king is the first one to have a King's Day. The holiday started with Beatrix's grandmother, Wilhelmina. Willem-Alexander is the first king since his grandmother's grandfather and will be the last for the foreseeable future since he only has daughters. The Netherlands knew nothing but queens in the 20th century. Maybe that is why it is such an enlightened country.

Since the holiday celebrates someone's birthday, the exact date changes every generation. The first Queen's Days were in summer and spring. Beatrix was born in January, but kept her mother's birthday since April is a better time for flowers and parades. Coincidentally, Willem-Alexander's birthday is almost the same as his grandmother's. His oldest daughter was born in December, so we will have to wait and see what happens when she becomes queen. Not that it matters, but his youngest daughter was also born in April.

Markets are a big thing on King's Day since anyone can sell anything without permits and anyone can buy without having to pay taxes. There are always markets around the city, but on King's Day, people sell their used crap in parks, on the streets and in front of their houses. For one day, Amsterdam is a giant yard sale.

The main activity on King's Day is to wear orange, since the royal family is the House of Orange. There are free concerts, parties and the streets downtown are closed to cars, which is a strange sight. But what stood out more than anything else was how much orange everyone was wearing. Almost every single person wore an orange shirt. Most had orange pants/skirts and many wore orange hats or wigs. More than a few people even dyed their hair orange. There were orange drinks, orange food, orange balloons, orange flags and plenty of orange confetti for someone to clean up later. It went far beyond all the green on St Patrick's Day.

The entire city became one giant block party for the day. What really impressed me was how adult the party was. In my country, any party this big is going to have a lot of drunk and/or stoned people ruining it for everyone else as much as they can. There will probably be some looting and fires thrown in for good measure. In Amsterdam, it was all respectful. This was a day to celebrate their country, and the royal family. I cannot guarantee that everyone was on their best behavior, but I never saw anyone acting like an idiot. It was more like Fourth of July than St Patrick's Day. Even though there was orange alcohol, most of the people seemed more happy and proud than sloppy and drunk. I saw no orange vomit that day. If you are ever anywhere near Amsterdam on Koningsdag, I recommend it wholeheartedly.

I don't post pictures of people without their permission,
so I found a public domain shot on Google.
This is pretty much what it was like.

Easter In Amsterdam

Easter in the Netherlands is pretty much the same as the United States. They have painted eggs, chocolate eggs, Easter egg hunts and Easter baskets, all courtesy of a giant egg-laying rabbit, Passhass. The biggest difference I noticed was how official everything is. Easter in the United States is not a public holiday, mostly because it always falls on a Sunday, when banks and government buildings are closed anyway. In the Netherlands, both Easter Sunday and Monday are national holidays.

I was warned that the big tourist sights would be too crowded during Easter. I have already been to most of them. This trip is about exploring new things. There was a special performance of Bach's St Matthew Passion at the Concertgebouw, but both shows were sold out before I knew about it.

I spent the day at the Rijksmuseum. That is nothing new, but the current exhibit is. Since 2019 is the “Year of Rembrandt”, the Rijksmuseum has a special exhibition of every Rembrandt piece in their collection, which is supposed to be the largest in the world. They usually only have a fraction of his work on display. Since Rembrandt is my favorite artist, this was a wonderful surprise. I have seen the museum's limited exhibits on previous visits, and the etchings at the Rembrandthuis, but this was more than 400 of his best paintings, drawings and prints.

When the exhibition is over, the museum will restore The Night Watch, but keep it on display at the same time. The plan is to surround the work area with a large glass cage so the public can watch the restoration in progress. I'm glad they are restoring the painting, but I am even happier that I got to see it without a glass cage. I don't know how long it will take to restore, but I am more than willing to come back when everything is done.

Rijksmuseum from Museumplein

Militia Company of District II under the Command of Captain Frans Banninck Cocq
pre-restoration

Behind Bars of Soap

The following dream is intended for mature audiences and may contain situations that some might find uncomfortable. Reader discretion is advised.

~~~

I got a small part in a prison movie. My first day on set was the big shower scene. Every movie about women in prison has a shower scene. That's the law. Group showers are probably the least ridiculous option for gratuitous nudity. In prison movies, you have actresses and models, so naturally the studios want them to be as naked as possible. In a real prison, I doubt the women all look their best all the time. They also might not have as much access to the best makeup artists, hairstylists and the most flattering lighting.

High school movies used to always have a locker room scene. Since most of the actors were in their 20s and 30s, they could get as naked as the producers and studios wanted. They don't do that as much anymore. High school actors are still in their 20s and 30s, but the public is not as comfortable watching high school characters get naked. Prison inmates are still allowed since most of the characters should be over 18.

Before we started shooting the big shower scene, all of the actresses were in a large dressing room with a team of makeup artists to make sure we were all as hairless as possible. About a dozen young women were standing around completely naked while older women in smocks shaved, plucked and tweezed everybody. Prison inmates, after all, are nothing if not young, in shape, and immaculately groomed at all times. One of the inmates asked why we all had to be so smooth and the lead makeup artist told us that the director wanted it that way. For some reason, we all showed up to work thinking this was going to be a serious drama. It became mostly obvious that the director wanted to make another women in prison movie.

We all walked onto the shower set wearing robes. This was a union production, so everyone followed union rules. No matter how naked any performer is in front of the camera, they are always covered between takes. That always struck me as funny. In Re-Animator, Barbara Crampton lies naked on an autopsy table while a severed head goes down on her. Obviously, the sex was simulated, and no actor's heads were actually removed from their bodies, but the scene required full frontal nudity while one actor fondled her breasts and another actor put his head between her legs. And yet, in between takes, Barbara Crampton was most likely fully covered for modesty.

The director told every actress to take off the robes before he looked each one of us up and down through his viewfinder. Sitting in a swivel chair, he had one girl turn around and bend over. He dollied himself in for a closeup and practically shoved the viewfinder up her butt. One of the actresses complained that this was all very unprofessional. The director immediately fired her and she rushed off the set, crying. Someone on the crew reminded him that she was the star of the movie. He looked at all of the naked actresses standing in front of him, without the viewfinder, and pointed to another girl, declaring her the new lead.

Eventually, we started to shoot the scene. The director had the camera move in close to each actress, mostly around waist and chest level. There was minimal dialogue in the scene, to be shot later. Today, the director was only interested in T&A coverage. The camera lingered on one girl's breasts for so long while she was lathering up that she started to cry. The director told her not to worry about washing the rest of her body. She should just concentrate on her breasts. That was when she stormed off the set.

When the new star of the movie complained about how the scene was being shot, the director fired her. Rather than cry and storm off, she said a few colorful things about the director and left in anger. He then randomly picked a new star, quite possibly based not on her talent as a thespian, but on the shape of her ass.

The director got wide shots of everyone soaping up and closeups of hands caressing wet, young bodies. Without any dialogue, it felt like we were shooting a soap commercial for HBO. The director put more emphasis on the star, as it should be, but none of them were very comfortable with the extra attention. Each lead actress left the set, one at a time. Some gave up the role voluntarily. Some were fired in anger by the director. Eventually, I was the only one left.

The director told me to soap up my crotch while the camera came in for a closeup. It all seemed pretty seedy to me, but it also dawned on me that I was now the star of this movie, if only by default. I told myself that even though the shower scene was nothing more than softcore porn, the rest of the movie could have some substance. After all, this was only one scene. It could easily be the least remembered scene once award season was over.

The director soon decided that the scene needed to change. No one could disagree with him since what was supposed to be a group shower scene full of inmates was now only one character. Several people behind the camera suggested calling it a day and coming back after hiring more actresses. The director had other ideas. He wanted one of the prison guards to come into the shower and have his way with the inmate, which in this case was me. I never agreed to any scenes like that, but that was when I had a minor role. As the star of the movie, I was going to have to be more open to playing a more difficult part.

None of the actors who played the prison guards were on set that day because we were only scheduled to film the group shower scene. Since no one else was there, the director decided that he would play the guard himself. He had some acting experience, and he was one of the producers, so all of the people who thought it might be a bad idea remained silent. The director took off all of his clothes right there in front of his crew and walked into frame. Someone from makeup wanted to prep him for the shot, but he held his dick and announced that he had everything he needed.

The director immediately had the camera move in to him and he took a lingering closeup of his dick. He ran back and forth from the monitor to check the shot to his mark in front of the camera. It was a simple enough shot. He just stood there with the camera a foot away from his crotch. But he had to check it after each take. He wanted his dick to look just right. I could see that the rest of the crew was more than a little disturbed by his behavior.

When the director was finally ready to move on, he ordered a closeup of his hand grabbing my breast. The director of photography suggested that maybe we should shoot something other than just closeups. That was when the director angrily fired the DP. Someone on the crew asked who was going to work the camera and the director announced that he would do it himself. A director working the camera is not unheard of, but it is rare. A director working the camera while also acting in the scene would be pretty much impossible.

The crew was growing more and more restless and the director gradually fired almost everyone. Soon it was just me, the director and the boom operator. Without any dialogue, the boom operator was the least useful person on set. They could foley in the sound of the shower later. The director decided that he needed another prison guard in the scene. Since there were no other actors available at no notice, and there was no one else on set, he had the boom operator get naked.

In the new shot, I was sandwiched between two naked men, neither of whom were good actors. The director had turned out to be nothing like any of us expected, but at least he knew how to shoot the scene he wanted. His actions were unprofessional, but his attitude was all business. When he was pressed up against the front of my body, I felt that he was more concerned with getting the shot than anything else. The boom operator was a different story. When he pressed up against the back of my body, I only felt his dick getting hard.

When the director checked the monitor, he noticed the boom operator's erection. The director was angry and wanted to fire the boom operator, but there was no one to take his place. He explained that they could get away with limited shots of a flaccid penis, but a hard cock would keep his movie out of any legitimate theater. Despite his unconventional working methods, the director was genuinely interested in making a movie that people might actually see some day.

For the next take, he blocked the shot with my body between the camera and boom operator. I was still between two naked men, but the camera mostly saw the director and me. The boom operator's cock was still throbbing against my butt like there was no tomorrow, but that was hidden from the camera. The director's dick was in full view against my leg, but it was too small and too limp to threaten anyone.

The director wanted a shot of me bending forward with one of the men taking me from behind and the other in front of me getting a simulated blowjob, but he was unsure how to shoot it. If the boom operator was in front of me, it would be difficult to hide his raging erection. Pretending to eat a tootsie roll is a lot easier than pretending to eat a toblerone. To block the shot, the director had the boom operator wait off camera while he stood behind me, holding my hips and making thrusting moves. When he checked the monitor, it looked convincing enough. The director then stood in front of me while I held my fist to my mouth, as if his tiny penis was in it. Either option worked for him.

Blocking the boom operator was both easier and harder. The director could look through the camera, saving time, but neither position worked. When the boom operator stood in front of me, none of us could figure out any way to hide his erection. Hiding it with my hair would only work if it were smaller. Actually holding it would be far too graphic, and probably break more than a few union rules. When the director had the boom operator stand behind me, that only made it harder. If the boom operator stood too far behind me, not only would his erection be in full view, but it would be obvious that it was not touching me. If the boom operator stood too close, his erection would have to rub against me in ways they never warn you about in drama school.

The director made a decision. I would have to bite the bullet and deal with the boom operator's erection, one way or another. The director left it up to me, since the shot worked either way. I could either give the boom operator an unsimulated blowjob on camera while the director pretended to do me from behind or I could give the director a simulated blowjob while the boom operator actually penetrated me from behind. The director, thinking he was being helpful, pointed out that we had plenty of soap on set if I need any artificial lubricants.

Neither option worked for me. In fact, I was now the star of this movie. If the director fired me, he would have to make himself the star, or the boom operator. Since this was a movie about women in prison, that would look absurd. I decided that the shower scene should go back to a simple shower scene as intended, with no male cast, albeit no longer a group shower scene. I could tell that the director really wanted to fire me, but he knew that he could not. He tried to convince me to do the scene with only one prison guard, played by himself, but I held onto my new power. It was my way or a delay for recasting, which would put the production over budget.

That was when a studio executive walked on the set. He was confused, alarmed and more than angry. He screamed at the director even more than the director had screamed at all of the cast and crew he fired. The studio executive told me to put my robe back on and wait in the dressing room. For some reason, all of the fired actresses were there, waiting in their robes. Pretty soon, a fired production assistant came into the dressing room and had us all go out onto the set. The entire crew was back and there was a new director.

The mood was noticeably different and we could all tell that this was a serious movie again. We were still doing the naked shower scene, but it was not nearly as gratuitous, and the new director was not trying to make softcore porn. He took medium shots and kept us mostly with our backs to the camera for most of the wide shots.

Suddenly, the new director cut the take and everyone was a little nervous about what might happen next. He grabbed one of our bars of soap and asked the prop department why we all had brand new soap. He explained that they do not hand out fresh soap to every single prison inmate every single day and he started breaking the bars into smaller pieces. The new director's attention to detail impressed all of us and we knew that this movie was going to be a lot better from now on. My very brief tenure as star of the movie was over, but I was relieved. A small part in a theatrical release is better than the lead in a midnight cable TV production.

Several months later, we were all in Paris for the premiere of the movie. When it was over, the cast went up on stage and the audience started booing and throwing bars of soap at us. One person in the audience stood up to publicly praise the film and everyone else wrapped their soap in towels and beat the hell out of that guy, Full Metal Jacket style. The theater manager told us to sneak out the back exit. When the audience realized that we were trying to escape, they started chasing us.

Outside, we were in black and white and at a train station. We were running away from the mob, except there were more than four of us and we were wearing towels. The old director appeared from around a corner and motioned for us to follow him to safety. All of the other actresses ignored him and continued running away. I was the only one to go with the old director. Safe from the angry mob, I was in an abandoned warehouse. The old director took me to the only well lit corner of the warehouse, where I immediately noticed a shower room set, lights and a camera. The boom operator was there, naked and as hard as ever. The director told me we were finally going to get the shot right. Instead of a having a choice, he wanted to shoot both versions. My only option, the old director told me, was whether I wanted the boom operator in front of me first or behind me first. The old director wanted to shoot the blowjob first to get it out of the way because he was convinced the boom operator would ejaculate on camera, and coming inside me would be less messy than coming on my face.

I looked around the dark warehouse, but there was no new director. There were no studio executives. There was not even a hint of the angry mob outside. We were alone.

The director called action.

The Low Countries

I am going back to Amsterdam next week for a month. This will be my third trip to the city for work. Up until now, I have flown in, fulfilled my contractual obligations, and flown out. This trip will be a little different. I am going to stay longer than necessary and see more than the neighborhood around Vondelpark. Not that there is anything wrong with Vondelpark. It is a wonderful place for a leisurely stroll or a quick run, and I love the surrounding neighborhood. But if I have the opportunity to spend some extra time in a country with an excellent transportation system, and I don't even have to pay for a hotel, I'm taking it. Christmas would have been a great time to explore, but I had too much going on at home. Easter will have to do.

There is still much of Amsterdam to see, but my goal is to leave the city. I will have limited time on future trips, so this is my big chance to see other parts of Holland, or even the rest of the Netherlands. It is a tiny country, but when you just go to Amsterdam and then leave, you never get to see much of anything.

When most people go to Amsterdam, they stick around the Centrum borough. That is like going to New York and staying in Manhattan the entire time. Some will say that is all you need, but in both cities, there is so much more. Since my apartment is near Vondelpark, I am automatically in an outer borough. I am essentially in Brooklyn. They have all the big tourist sights, but we have the best parks.

There are plenty of things to see and do around the country, but sometimes it is a matter of timing. Leiden has a big fair in October that I can look into later this year. There is a carnival in Maastricht, but only for a weekend in November. I might never see that. There are all kinds of music festivals throughout the summer, but I'm coming back home in May. Maybe next time. Spring is a big time for flowers, so I'm sure I will find something flower related. Holland has a few tulips lying around.

If I had several years, I would take it slow and explore the country province by province. But I have absolutely no idea how long I will be working in Amsterdam. When I worked in Tel Aviv, I assumed I could make it last at least ten years. Circumstances beyond my control cut it down to one. Ten years is still not enough time to really get to know a place like Israel, but it is enough time to go to pretty much every district. Tel Aviv and Jerusalem are both wonderful in their own ways, but no country is only two cities. It would be a shame if I only saw Amsterdam during whatever amount of time I have left.

My current goals are to see some of the bigger cities – Rotterdam, the Hague, Delft – but also get out of town. I would love to go down to Kinderdijk and check out the windmills. There are surprisingly few in Amsterdam. Ideally, I would go when the river is frozen enough to skate.

I have always wanted to go to Alkmaar during the cheese festival, but everyone tells me it is nothing like it used to be. What was once a great festival is now a show for the tourists, apparently. Either way, not far from Alkmaar is Edam, the capital of cheese and the old style villages of Zaanstreek-Waterland.

Across the sea from Amsterdam is Noordoostpolder, which is supposed to be the best place in the world to ride a bicycle. I will be the judge of that.

Just south of Amsterdam, I can see some ancient ruins in Utrecht, which is relatively close to Hoge Veluwe National Park and even closer to Gouda, the second capital of cheese.

Maastricht is about as far south as you can get, and also supposed to be a good looking city. From there, it should be easy to pop into Belgium and/or Germany as long as I'm in the neighborhood.

Most people don't think about islands and the Netherlands together, but the entire northern tip of the country is capped by an archipelago. The West Frisian Islands are supposed to be culturally unique, which often happens on islands.

How long will it take to see all of these places? I probably never will. Experience has shown that even if I make a list of places to go, something will come up that takes me somewhere else. Whether the detours are better than the route remains to be seen.

I Go Swimming

The following dream may contain agoraphobic, aquaphobic and/or chromophobic situations that some might find disturbing. Reader discretion is advised.

~~~

I am in a small steel bathtub in a white tile room. Seven nurses in white uniforms sit and kneel around me, each washing a different body part. I notice a white door leading out of the bathroom and jump out of the bath. On the other side of the door is a large blue swimming pool surrounded by wet gray concrete and tall green and brown palm trees. The vibrant colors outside of the bathroom almost blind me, but I can see just enough to dive into the pool, where I sit on the bottom. Everything around me is blue, but at least the water dulls the colors.

From under the water, I can see eleven nurses in white uniforms standing around the swimming pool. They cannot swim, so none of them dare come after me. But they can breathe, so they have a clear advantage. I can hold my breath for a minute, maybe two. They can easily stand there all day. Or at least until their shift ends.

I look around the swimming pool for a vent, but they are all too small. Just before I am forced to the surface for air, I see a small white door on the floor of the blue pool. I know that I should stay away from white, especially when there are so many bright colors around, but that door is my only escape. Opening it is easy, but I can barely squeeze through. My head fits, and I can move and twist my shoulders in a dozen directions, but for the first time in my life, my breasts are simply too big. Fortunately, they are mostly fat and lobules. Unlike a boy I knew in high school, I realize that they are not rigid domes and can be moved and manipulated. One thing I do not know is if I can make it through in time. And even if I can, I do not know what might be on the other side. If it is more water, I will surely drown.

The only alternative to the door is coming to the surface and the nurses in white uniforms. I am slowly expelling air out of my mouth. Pretty soon, there will be none left and I will be forced to inhale the water. That is not the best option, so I force my way through the small white door.

I spill out onto a sandy beach with more than enough air to fill my lungs all the day long. I am soaking wet, but firmly planted on dry land. The beach sand sticks to every nook and cranny in my skin, but at least I am free from the nurses in white uniforms. Even if they could swim, none of them could fit through the small swimming pool door. Most of them have hips that far outweigh their breasts, and which are not nearly as malleable. Some of them are wider in the middle than up top.

Feeling safe and free, I take a walk along the sandy beach. I close my eyes to the wind and enjoy the goosebumps, especially after being cooped up with the nurses in white uniforms for so long. I am naked from top to tail, but the sand sticking to my wet skin forms a thin barrier against the wind. The sandy beach is completely deserted. What I am wearing matters not.

I turn around a corner of the sandy beach to see fifteen nurses in white uniforms waiting for me with soap and sponges. They have brought in reinforcements. Maybe I can outrun them, but maybe not. My only way out is the ocean. If they were too afraid of a swimming pool, they would never take to the sea. I wade into the waves as the nurses in white uniforms run frantically toward me. As expected, none of them go beyond getting their white shoes wet.

I swim out as far as I can, but I have my limits. The ocean is endless, and I could never reach the other side. Floating on my back, I see the nurses in white uniforms on the sandy beach getting into a wooden boat. I know I cannot outswim a wooden boat, but I can dive. Fortunately, they do not have a submarine.

I dive under the surface and wait. I can see the wooden boat floating above me. They must know where I am, but they cannot reach me without going into the water. Once again, they have the advantage of free flowing nitrogen and oxygen.

There is a brightly colored coral reef nearby, so I swim toward it. Maybe the shapes and colors of the coral will camouflage me from the wooden boat. As I swim to the reef, I can see the wooden boat above me. They know where I am going, but they do not know how to stop me.

At the brightly colored coral reef, I look for a place to hide. There are plenty of tiny caves and alcoves for fish, but nothing big enough for me. Swimming along, my foot gets caught in the reef. I cannot pull it out and I have no tools or heavy objects on me to break free. My strongest tools are my knees, but as flexible as I am, they cannot reach my foot. The more I pull on my foot, the more the brightly colored coral tears into my flesh. But even if I could tear all the skin and muscle away, I would still be stuck to the bone.

I grab a yellow fish with black stripes as it swims past. My intention is to use the yellow fish with black stripes as a hammer and break my shackles, but the yellow fish with black stripes stares at me with a sad look in his eyes. He knows that he will die if I slam him against the brightly colored coral. I do not want to kill him, but if I cannot break free, I will die. That is the law of the sea.

A moray eel jumps out from a tiny cave and startles me just enough to let go of the yellow fish with black stripes, who swims away faster than any wooden boat. The eel solved my moral dilemma, but pretty much doomed me. Using the eel as a hammer sounds like justice, but he is far too slippery to catch. With nothing to break the brightly colored coral and all but no air left in my lungs, I fight to hold my breath. I can feel the veins in my face flooding and throbbing. I pull at my foot as hard as I can, but all that does is cut me up even more. My bright red blood in the water might attract sharks, but they cannot make much of a difference at this point.

I am fighting to hold my breath with every inch of strength I have, but every centimeter of my body forces me to inhale. The metric system is simply too strong for imperial measurements. When I take in a deep breath of sea water, everything goes black.

Ms Roboto

The following dream may contain medical procedures that some readers might find uncomfortable. Reader discretion is advised.

~~~

I woke up strapped to a dentist's chair. The first thing I noticed was that I could not move my legs, arms or head as they were too tightly secured. I could blink me eyes, perhaps. I assumed that I was blinking them, but I could not be certain. I could open my mouth, but no sound came out, scream as I might.

The second thing I noticed was the white sheet draped over my body, from the bottom of my chin to the tops of my ankles. It was not even a comfortable sheet. My initial impression was that it may have been purchased from Target for $1.99.

The room was too dark to tell how big or small it might be. I could barely see a few feet in front of me. I did not notice the person behind me until I heard the piercing shrill of the drill. It was louder and deeper than a dentist's drill. And it went nowhere near my teeth, as far as I could tell.

When I felt the drill pierce my scalp, I wanted to scream out. The most I could do was open my mouth. The sound would have to wait until later. When I felt the drill bore into my skull, I tightened every muscle in my body and fought against the restraints with every ounce of power I had. But it was not enough. Whatever held me down was stronger than I could ever hope to be.

I could feel the drill tear into my brain, which was both terrifying and a little suspicious. I knew not nearly enough about the human brain, but I knew that it could not feel pain. You could literally cut out pieces of someone's brain while they were fully conscious and they would feel nothing, after the part about cutting through everything that protects the brain. That's where it really hurts.

I could see nothing happening on top of my head, since there were no reflective surfaces anywhere nearby, but I could feel wires getting pushed into me. After the wires, it felt like I was being prodded with excessively long needles. Metal clamps held everything in place.

“Just one more adjustment,” a voice said from somewhere behind me.

“What's happening?” I asked the shadows.

“Good,” the voice replied. “You can talk.”

“Who are you?” I tried to move my head to look at the voice, but it would have been easier to move an active volcano.

“My name is Dr Shrinker,” the voice answered.

“Dr Shrinker?” I asked. “He's a madman with an evil mind.”

“Dr Shrinker,” he repeated.

“Dr Shrinker,” I said. “He's as crazy as you'll ever find.”

“You are too young to know that show,” Dr Shrinker told me.

“Nonsense,” I replied. “I've seen The Wizard of Oz a thousand times and that came out before my parents were born.”

“How do you feel about The Twilight Zone?” Dr Shrinker asked me.

“One of my favorite TV shows ever,” I answered.

“Good,” Dr Shrinker replied. “Submitted for your approval, you are about to take a trip to docility and acquiescence, whose boundaries are that of my imagination.”

“I don't approve,” I said.

“That is just a catch phrase,” Dr Shrinker told me. “Submitted for your approval. You do not have a choice.”

“But he only said it in three episodes,” I told him.

“Is that true?” Dr Shrinker asked.

“You tell me,” I answered. “You're the one in my brain.”

“First, we have to test the connection.” He walked around the dentist's chair and stood in front of me.

“You don't look like Dr Shrinker,” I said.

“I am Dr Wei now,” he replied.

“Wei?” I repeated before laughing. “喂, 幹嘛?”

“Wiggle your toes,” he instructed while looking at the remote control in his hand. When I wiggled my toes, he smiled. “Excellent.”

Dr Wei unstrapped one of my legs and told me to raise and lower it, which I did. We repeated the process with the other leg, then each arm. Though I was fully aware of following his commands, I felt that I had no control over my actions. Once my limbs were free from their shackles, I wanted to grab the remote control out of his hand and run out of the room, but my body would not let me.

It was only after he removed the Target sheet that I noticed I was not wearing any clothes.

“Why am I naked?” I asked Dr Wei.

“I just performed major surgery,” he answered. “Have you ever had brain surgery with clothes on?”

“Not that I know of,” I answered.

“I have clothes for you.” He used the remote control to make me stand up from the dentist's chair and walk toward a table on the opposite side of the room. “Put those on.”

I picked up the gray UCLA sweatshirt and put it on without a bra. Next was the plaid skirt without panties and, still standing, I put on the sneakers without socks.

“Do you have an issue with underwear?” I asked Dr Wei.

“Now I think we are ready to go outside,” he did not answer.

“Am I supposed to be a student or something?” I asked. “This is a terrible look.”

When we walked out of the Hollywood United Methodist Church on Franklin and Highland, the bright daylight hurt my eyes.

“How long was I in there?” I asked Dr Wei.

“Surgery takes time,” he answered.

We walked down Franklin Avenue. It was mere minutes before I noticed the Magic Castle.

“Let me guess, you want to saw me in half,” I said.

“I had not considered going here,” Dr Wei replied. “But that is not a bad idea.”

Inside the Magic Castle, a magician was performing. We slipped quietly into the audience. When the magician asked for volunteers, Dr Wei volunteered me. Rather than saw me in half, the magician wanted me to levitate. The trick was simple enough, and since Dr Wei controlled my actions, absolutely nothing was required of me.

When the magician asked me to lie down on a small table, Dr Wei had me lie down. When the magician removed the table and I appeared to float, I thought less about how the effect was achieved and more about the fact that I was not wearing any underwear. While my body was levitating, thanks to the real table that the audience could not see, the back of my skirt fell freely. The audience was to my left, but anyone standing at my feet would see more than a magic show.

“I was hoping they would put you in a water tank,” Dr Wei said as we walked away from the Magic Castle.

“Someone from the audience can't do that,” I told him. “You have to know how the trick is done.”

We walked down one of the small streets that headed south. At a nondescript apartment building, Dr Wei had us walk through the front door.

“How did you open that?” I asked him.

“Magic,” he answered.

“It must not have been locked,” I said.

Once in the building, we walked into an apartment.

“Who lives here?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” he answered. “This is a random sampling.”

In the bedroom, Dr Wei had me rummage through the dressers and drawers.

“That will do,” he said as he had me pick up a bottle of nail polish remover.

“I'm not wearing nail polish,” I said.

“It is not for you,” he replied.

Dr Wei had me pour the bottle on the bed. Once it was empty, we went into the kitchen. Tearing through the cupboards, he had me pick up a bag of flour and box of matches. Back in the bedroom, I poured the flour around the edges of the bed.

“That is perfect,” he said.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Manipulating your movement is a basic process,” he answered. “I want to see if I can make you do something you find morally objectionable.”

When I took a match out of the box, I knew exactly what he wanted me to do.

“This is crazy,” I said.

“Good,” he replied. “The experiment would be tainted if you were a pyromaniac.”

I lit the match and dropped it onto the bed. When the fumes from the nail polish remover caught on fire, we both took a few steps back. When the flour started to explode, we left the bedroom.

“You didn't have to do that,” I told Dr Wei.

“But now we know,” he replied.

When we turned onto Hollywood Boulevard, I was relieved that it was still daytime. With the sun out, I looked like a student with no fashion sense. At night on Hollywood Boulevard, people might get the wrong idea.

When a double decker sightseeing bus drove toward us, Dr Wei had me lift the sweatshirt up to my neck.

“What are you doing?” I asked him.

“Giving them something better to look at than liquor stores and souvenir shops.” He put my sweatshirt back down and we continued walking.

While I did not look forward to dozens of pictures on Facebook of me flashing a tour bus, he had a point. Hollywood Boulevard was not the most photogenic street in the world.

“Why do tourists even come here?” Dr Wei asked.

“The same reason they go to Times Square,” I answered. “It's not what they've always imagined it would be, but they don't know that.”

Like Times Square, today's Hollywood Boulevard was more tourist shopping than what I remembered from a visit years ago. Larger companies probably made more money from this version, but any charm that might have seeped through the old surface was long gone.

At Grauman's Chinese Theatre, Dr Wei started looking at the stars on the sidewalk. In front of the Dolby Theatre, he had some instructions for me.

“I am telling you what I will have you do because I do not want any undue reaction,” he said. “There is no need to draw attention to yourself.”

“I just flashed a tour bus,” I pointed out.

“This will be different,” he replied. “You are going to urinate on one of these Hollywood stars.”

“You're crazy,” I said.

“This is a good test,” he told me. “I can have you move your extremities, but can I manipulated your internal organs?”

Dr Wei had me stop and I looked down to see Julie Andrews' star.

“Not her,” I protested. “She's a national treasure.”

“Very well.” He looked at the sidewalk. “How about this one? I think he would like it.”

Dr Wei had me stand over Bill Cosby's star and squat down. I looked around, but only a few of the tourists walking the streets even noticed my existence. Until Dr Wei pressed a button on his remote control and I started to rain down on the serial rapist's tarnished name. Faster than a click, every cell phone on the block was pointed at me. If I thought flashing my tits at a tour bus would end up on Facebook, these videos would be everywhere.

Dr Wei smiled as he watched the crowd watching me. “Very good. Is your heart beating faster?”

“Not at all,” I answered. There was nothing I could do to stop his experiment. I could not even cover my face.

“Because I can control that as well,” he told me. “You are neither nervous nor afraid because I am keeping you calm.”

“I can tell all of these people what you're doing,” I threatened him.

“And who would believe you?” he asked me.

“They can see you have the remote control,” I pointed out.

“It resembles their own cell phones,” he replied. “What I am doing, from their point of view, is not different from what they are doing. No one is suspicious of someone who is doing the same thing.”

When there was nothing left inside me to cause further embarrassment, Dr Wei had me stand up and bow to the crowd. Mostly confused, some of them applauded. All of them went back to sightseeing as soon as they realized the show was over.

“But you make a valid point,” Dr Wei said. “I should have plugged in your mouth as well. Controlling your movements is not enough.”

When we turned onto Highland Avenue, I immediately recognized the church where all of this began.

“Back to the laboratory,” Dr Wei said.

Broken Brain Dreams

On the morning of Thursday, September 14, 2017, I was in a traffic accident that changed my life in ways I am still trying to understand. The collision between my car, a scooter and a truck affected the lives of everyone involved. The scooter driver's family lost a father/husband/son. The passenger in my car broke four bones in three limbs. I don't know what happened to the truck driver.

I walked away with a subdural hematoma. Surgery fixed my brain, but cutting open the body always comes with secondary trauma. Some of the possible side effects they warned me about included memory loss, difficulty concentrating, disinhibition, hypersexuality, inappropriate humor and lack of empathy.

I never had any memory loss after the hospital, as far as I know. But I started taking more notes than usual. Just in case. I do get easily distracted, but I don't know if that is an issue with concentration or simply having too many balls in the air. Everyone I know says I have always been too reticent, so maybe a little disinhibition is a good thing.

Hypersexuality is a fairly vague term. I'm not about to go out and bang as many studs as I can find. I have always been a big fan of monogamy and have no interest in one night stands. I am a nun compared to most of the people I know. I highly doubt I will ever be addicted to porn. I find most of it rather tedious. Japanese porn has more variety, but it is more bizarre than titillating, and their fascination with younger women is more than creepy. American porn is all the same, but at least their “teens” are closer to 30.

I have an active dream life, perhaps more so than before the accident. I have never kept a dream journal or anything like that, but as part of the increased note taking, I wrote down a few dreams as best as I could remember them. I never had any intention of doing anything with them, but after I let a few people read a few dreams, they suggested I turn them into a book or two. I am not going to do that, for a variety of reasons. None of them are full stories. There is nothing worse than reading a book that is a partial story and two hundred pages of filler. Also worth noting is that I do not write erotica. That would be as alien to me as writing science fiction. But at least I have read some science fiction. I am familiar with Piers Anthony, Larry Niven, Anne McCaffrey, Herbert Wells, Philip K Dick, Robert Heinlein, Isaac Asimov, Arthur C Clarke. I cannot name a single erotic author.

Then I thought, why not post some of the dreams on this blog? The choices are either here or filed away some place where no one will see them. I can't think of a down side. I have already put too much personal information on this thing, what harm can a few dreams do? At worst, someone psychoanalyses them and alerts the authorities. I think that might be unlikely.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should point out that some of the dreams will be embellished. Actual dreams often make little sense after you wake. Fractured free association memories can be difficult to read and write. These dreams will be edited for content. Not to cut out the naughty bits, but for coherence.