Full Boar

Who let the hogs out?

I had another yet one of my carnival sideshow dreams last night and while portions of it actually made some kind of twisted sense, the sudden appearance of two randy porkers has got me rather confused—and a little worried.

Okay, so in this latest psychotic episode, I’m riding a motorcycle, which by the way, I don’t own in real life, and I’m heading to my 9:30 AM cycling class at the New York Sports Club’s 86th Street gym.

Now that part is real. I go to that class every Saturday morning and it’s great.

The instructor is a talented young woman who manages to mix warmth and humor in with a punishing workout. She insists that we sing along with her musical selections, probably to take our minds off the abuse.

She even had me gagging out “Total Eclipse of the Heart”—and I damn near had one. On top of that, she’s into astrology and, upon learning that we’re the same sign, she promptly dubbed me “Mr. Gemini.”

Now in the dream I’m looking in vain for a parking spot for the motorcycle and I’m kicking myself for not walking to the gym like I do every week.

I checked my watch and saw that the class had started and I had missed my weekly dose of cardio karaoke.

And then it got weird.

As I drove around in my vehicle, which had inexplicably morphed into a car, I looked out the window and saw two massive and very fluffy boars frolicking on the street corner.

And I when I say “frolicking” I mean they were getting incredibly cozy and were seconds away from going hog wild right there in public. Hey, get a sty, will you?

Now I’m sure most people don’t need to be told this, but I’ll say it anyway: we don’t have wild swine, fluffy or otherwise, roaming the streets of Brooklyn.

Hamming It Up

I grabbed my phone to get a picture of the lecherous duo as they crossed the street, but, as often happens in my waking life, I had trouble getting the damn thing to focus.

By the time I looked up the pigs had shape-shifted into Shetland ponies. They were a little less horny, but not by much. And we don’t have Shetland ponies in Brooklyn either, in case you were wondering.

I woke up thinking, “Gosh, that was messed up. I wonder what it meant.” Then I remembered: I had forgotten to register for my cycling class.

I ran to my computer to see if I could sign up at this late date, but I was shoat out of luck. The class was full.

Now this sucked. I was supposed to join my Meet-Up group for a Chinatown dumpling rampage on Saturday afternoon, where I planned to shamelessly pig out, you should pardon the expression.

Now what was I going to do? The Sunday cycling sessions were all full, I didn’t feel like doing any of the cardio classes, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to skip working out this weekend after gorging on all that food.

I’m Catholic, for Christ’s sake, how could I possibly enjoy myself without suffering first?

Finally I decided to take a boxing class at the NYSC facility on Mercer Street, which is a short walk from Chinatown.

I had a tremendous workout, met up with my friends, and stuffed myself with all manner of delightful dishes.

I’m wondering about that dream, though. I understand that being late for my class was my mind’s coded way of telling me I had forgotten to register for the cycling workout.

But what’s with the fluffy hog-ponies? Why were there two of them? And why the hell couldn’t they control themselves?

Perhaps the Mr. Gemini nickname caused me to think of things in twos. I suppose their lustful behavior reveals my subconscious view of carnal desires.

But maybe the animal imagery wasn’t so much dirty or pornographic, as it was natural, relaxed, and uninhibited—pretty much everything I’m not. Maybe I was telling myself to lighten up a little bit and enjoy life.

I made sure to register for this Saturday’s cycling class. I love the Mercer Street boxing workout and I intend to go back soon, and I’ll definitely be doing another dumpling run.

And I’ll keep my camera ready in case I spot any horny hogs.