A stunning revelation.

All right, my subconscious and I usually get along pretty well. I trust him, and he's honest with me. We don't talk much, but we know the other's routine well enough to compensate for it. We're like roommates that communicate only through notes on the fridge:

"Aqua: Really appreciated that impulse purchase yesterday. It's a great shirt. Thanks! -Denton"

"Dent: Glad you liked it! I'll be out hunting story ideas for a day or two -- let me know what you thought of "Stardust" when I get back. -Aquadeo"

(So what if I named my subconscious after my Internet handle? I had to name it something, and "LukeDuke76" was taken.)

Anyway, I think I might have to have a man-to-superman discussion with Aquadeo tonight. And it's not because he keeps eating my breakfast cereal. You see, my November novel is about the adventures of some wayward ghosts, lost in their city. With no residence, and no possessions, all they can do is wander the streets, trying to focus on a small area that they can become familiar with, so that at least they've got a semblance of home. They're told by another ghost of a great being, "The Caretaker", which will come for them, and take them on to their intended destination in the afterlife.

However, when the Caretaker does appear... well, this is where I wanted to put in a Godzilla attack. Of course, a giant radioactive lizard might violate some copyrights, so I designed my own monster. I call him Nodrog. Nodrog is what you'd get if an 19th century foundry became possessed, and started absorbing all the mud and brick and asphalt around it to grow arms and legs. It picks up a layer of pavement with every step. It has smokestacks jutting out of its back like spines, acting as exhaust pipes. On its face, under two glowing yellow eyes, is a nigh-immobile weld of rebar and plate, frozen in a toothy grin. Its real mouth, however, is in the center of its chest, huge, gaping, and all-consuming.

Now, it may be a monster, but it's still the Caretaker. Therefore, it absorbs ghosts into itself when they come too close, and those ghosts forever lose their individuality, sucked up into the Caretaker's collectiveness.

Now, I was having a fun time writing my novel up until today... but now, I've got the Caretaker lose in the city, chasing these ghosts through the city streets, eating and destroying everything it passes along the way.

Have you noticed the problem yet?

I'M WRITING A PAC-MAN FANFICTION.

What have I done? How did this happen? And how long had Aquadeo known, and simply decided not to tell me? Believe you me, I would have preferred finding this out before I'd written 40,000 words. Ugh.

Now, don't get me wrong -- I still like the novel, I'm still having fun, and I'm still going to finish it. On the other hand, this is going to take a lot more editing than I initially thought.

Got me a movie, I want you to know.

Friends...

Have you ever been at a loss for conversation with your optometrist? You're not alone. Thousands of people visit optometrists every day, but there are only ten thousand jokes one can make about eyes, vision, and sight. This means that after five years of practice, your optometrist will have heard every last one. What can be done to escape this predicament?

Fortunately, we have Un Chien Andalou. The link goes to the entire film -- all 16 minutes of it. Why should you watch it? Simply for the morbid curiousity of seeing what happens when Salvador Cubing Dali decides to make a film. It's barely watchable, totally original, somewhat repulsive, completely unforgettable, and the perfect movie to watch before an eye exam. If your optometrist has never heard of it, you can recommend it. If he's seen it, you can argue about it. If he's seen and enjoyed it, however, feel free to run from the room screaming.

And, as an added bonus, while the two people next to you in the waiting room are impressing each other with stories about the fights they had last night at the bar, you and your friend can discuss exactly what Dali was thinking during the scene with the man dragging a pair of grand pianos, each with a dead donkey inside. It might not make any sense, but it's certainly satisfying to hear the mouth-breathers next to you get a little bit creeped out.

All in all, a very good day... even if my pupils were dilated like Astro Boy's for the rest of the afternoon. With this sort of vision, how that kid could even fly in a straight line is beyond me.