Meatball Express

If this keeps up, the MTA will never let me ride the subways again.

It’s Valentine’s Day and what better way to celebrate this day of love then by sharing highlights from my latest screaming mimi nightmare?

Well, actually, there are probably dozens of better ways to commemorate this chocolate-scarfing, bouquet-huffing holiday, but first I want to relate the details of this three-act nighttime assault on my psyche by my psyche.

This internal affair started off by revisiting a painfully familiar theme that first cropped up in December where I am riding a speeding subway train stark-ass naked.

Again, with this?

Hey, if I’m going to be tortured by my subconscious, the least my mind can do on behalf of the riding public is come up with some new material.

I guess my dark side wanted to stick with something that works, so there I was rattling down the tracks without a stitch.

A few women were giggling at me, I was certain it was going to get worse, and I was desperately hoping my stop would come up so I could go the hell home.

So naturally I fell asleep and woke up at the end of the line in a train station that looked like a medieval dungeon with turnstiles.

A woman I had dated briefly just before the pandemic started arrived to help me out and give me some much-needed guidance.

By this time, I was wearing a brown jump suit, so, apparently, I had mugged a UPS driver somewhere along the way.

The scene changes and now I’m standing outside a broken down antique van at Fourth Avenue and Pacific Street in Downtown Brooklyn.

I’m fully clothed, thank God, and I had to get to some artistic function—a premier, or gallery opening—it’s a little vague.

The name of writer-director Ed Burns came up, but I suspect that’s only because I had recently seen him interviewed on TV.

Where’s the Beef?

I was freaking out, once again, because I was running late and my only mode of transportation was a motor scooter that I could barely operate.

Off I go and I’m flying down some spooky dark street with one weak streetlamp off in the distant and tons of debris blocking my way.

I started losing control of the scooter and I’m praying to God, please don’t let me get killed now. I’ve got more naked subway riding to do.

The Good Lord answered my prayers, and now, the final act of this nutzo-drama finds our hero in a neighborhood butcher shop.

This was one of these old local outfits that had been rediscovered by the cool kids and the place was filled with young people buying gourmet meats.

I wanted to join in and be cool and funky, too, but I reached into my pocket and found I am carrying a package filled with meat.

So, in other words, I had no business being in this cool place.

I woke up perplexed to hell and back over this latest mental mirage, but I think now I know what it all means.

As I’ve said before, the lack of clothing is indicative off a fear of losing control, or a sign of vulnerability. Losing control was also behind the scary scooter ride. I was frightened because I didn’t have confidence in my driving abilities.

The ex-girlfriend? Clearly this was sign of loneliness, as I’ve been avoiding the dating scene due to the pandemic—or at least I’m using the outbreak as an excuse.

In any case, I needed somebody’s help and that figure came in her form.

I confess the butcher shop did have me going for a while, but I think I’ve finally decoded this image.

I felt like an outsider in the place with all those young people, and I made matters worse by showing up with my own food supply.

It was self-sabotage wrapped in butcher’s paper and tied up tight with a string of paranoia.

I’m glad I was able to decipher these various signs because I can work on problems more effectively if I know what they are.

Now if I could only keep my pants on…