Daydream Believer Misfit Market
I’m wondering what makes someone a misfit? I have no job, I’m at the brown coffeehouse off Hollywood where the girl who does her homework hides under her hoodie and the waitress with the varicose veins and aggressive boobies forgets my coffee needs refilling and doesn’t like my kind. In walks Glenn Danzig.
Oh, hi Glenn. I thought you were dead. You got old. Which is jarring to be reminded of because it means I got old, too. Face like a Halloween mask, like Michael Myers. Great jaw though, the kind of jaw people pay good money for. I have implants, but I won’t say where. He struts in like he’s looking to make Satan pay up for a debt.
I’ve been sitting here researching the meaning of daydreaming, and having in fact a daydream, of which all of you may only be a part. I’m trying to understand whether excessive daydreaming is a sign of creativity, a psychological disorder, or an allergic reaction to proximity with other persons.
I’ve even started a daydream journal, in which you’re soaking, exploring the meaning of dreams and imagination, the different types of daydreaming, how to kick the habit, and what the word “maladaptive” means in different cultures. California dreaming. Do misfits dream of electric ladyland?
“You there. Misfit.” Danzig is standing above me as I sit, all 5’3” of him. My body performs the “Who? Me?” non-verbal tremor.
My head is full of art of dreams I’ve been accumulating, so I’m not quite thinking in words. It takes time to formulate a response. I have a folder of daydream images, wallpaper, and aesthetic photography that’s still in the process of uploading into my understanding. In my mind there’s a grey bar filling with green and a measure of 47% with 14 minutes remaining. Strange architecture, islands of toys, memes with quotes about life, other people’s memories.
“I’ve always hoped I could ask you about the lyrics to ‘Astro Zombies.’”
“Shut up.” Hey, Dreamweaver! Dream a fever dream of me. “You’re going to need to come with me.”
Misfits are outsiders and non-conformists. Social misfits. Cultural misfits. It takes one to know one. But we’re not always on purpose. My waitress looks over, and I know now I’ll never get that refill. This daydream takes place in an era when waitresses would come to your table and pour more coffee in your empty cup. I don’t know if they do that anymore. I don’t go outside. Girl’s hoodie is awesome, it’s brown like the coffeehouse, so she looks like a Jawa curled up into roly-poly.
I look Danzig straight in the eye and say, “I like daydream art, particularly daydream surreal art, daydream fantasy art, and unusual digital art. I've been looking at daydream paintings, illustrations, visual art, and collage. Some of the artwork seems to capture the strange logic of dreams better than any photograph can.”
“That paragraph has a 100% chance of having been written by AI,” says Glenn Danzig. “Grab your shit. The house is on fire.”
“Oh, damn,” I say, because I have a love/hate relationship with things that are on fire.
I leave a pressed butterfly on the table for a tip and follow the little tough guy out the door and onto the sidewalk. Danzig is right, there’s smoke everywhere. My allergies act up, and I feel guilty. The sidewalk is filled with faceless passerby and some with one great eye.
“Follow me,” he says. “The nearest hardware store is two blocks away.”
It takes an insufferable amount of time for Glenn to find the garden hoses. First, he takes me to Appliances, which is clearly wrong, then Lumber, which, you know, is wood. Then for whatever reason, we’re browsing around in Storage, and I’m comparing prices and noticing that there are some great deals on hinged lid totes, but everything is Made in Canada, and I’m conflicted because I’m pretty sure we’re at war with them.
Danzig seems in awe of the variety of products available for purchase, as though he’s recently arrived from North Korea and is astounded that there’s more than one length of screw for sale.
“Isn’t it amazing?” he says. “It’s like an Island of Misfit Toys for adults. A place for misfit artists, creative misfits, artistic misfits, weird misfits, and unconventional people. A refuge for misfit writers, misfit photographers, misfit musicians, and people who make nonconformist art because they have no idea what else to do with themselves.”
“Now you’re doing it,” I say, daydreamingly.
I’m beginning to wonder if this is really Glenn Danzig or just some guy with hair. There’s also a non-zero chance it’s my aunt. I haven’t seen her in ages. She’s the one who turned me on to Misfits Market.
The nearest hardware store is two blocks away, but we’re already there. I turn around and Danzig has disappeared. I look frantically into the ends of each section of PVC pipe, which rattle like rain sticks, but all I see living in there are mice.
I hurry inside the hardware store, and my passing through the door draws smoke behind me and into the building. What an entrance! I need a cloak. Instead, I have a rolled length of green garden hose around each arm and over each shoulder. I feel vaguely pretentious, like I’m trying to look more muscular than I am.
"Can I help you?" It's my Ex. I look over, and she's working the register. Vest looks good on her. Hair in a bun. Immediate sensation of nausea.
I can’t remember if the restraining order specifies 50 feet or 100 feet, but I know for a fact it’s more than the 8 feet I’m currently away from her. I look around, but there are no other registers open. All the self-checkout terminals have plastic bags over the scanners to indicate there is no gasoline. There’s one register, and she’s at it. She smiles like she’s identified mate in 3.
Quick aside: it’s highly unlikely she wants to mate with me.
Towering over the tension between us is a giant 30’ yard skeleton. Halloween was weeks ago, but Halloween is every day for a Daydream Misfit. My brother has bones. I haven’t thought of him or meat-support in ages. Who are the bone models? Are they selected for the beauty and symmetry of their femurs? I used to want to be a hand model. I can dip my fingers into face cream with a certain delicate sophistication you don’t see every day. Anything to avoid the stare of an Ex. Am I right?
Next to the register is a display of collectible edible candy eggs. That makes me think about misfit characters, outsider art, and the peculiar things people collect. I wonder whether there's a place for all the strange and wonderful things that don't fit into ordinary life. How can something be both edible and collectible? I don’t want to think about the implications.
What a day for a daydream. What a day for a daydreaming boy.
"Security!” I freeze.
Four ogres confiscate the hoses and escort me, for the first time, out of the hardware store. “You don’t understand!” I plead. “I didn’t know she was your sister!” I insist.
Outside, the faces of the citizens have manifested, but now their bodies are vaporous noodles. I can see the contempt in their eyes. I feel miniscule.
"You let it burn!" somebody shouts. "Somebody should have done something!" yells another.
I look around, nostrils aching, and it’s true, two blocks away, the United States House of Representatives has burned to the ground. My failure to procure the hose has destroyed the nation.
The crowd grows thicker on the sidewalk, a grey mass blotting out the darker grey mass of the sky, covering me like soot. There’s no way to know who the innocents are and who are undercover cops. But I can feel their loathing, clogging my pores, gouging my eyes, probing every orifice. I am a historical tragedy. The American Dream is a lost legend, the Library of Alexandria, the female orgasm.
I steal the fire-engine red baseball cap off the moppy head of a young boy and snatch a hot dog from a swarthy vendor with multiple chins. My house is only two blocks away, and I’m already inside gathering my emergency backpack. I check the contents: water, food, flashlight, first-aid supplies, life potion, batteries, a small survival knife, and my daydream journal. I also grab my largest portfolio of dream and daydream images and artwork. Bears like collage. I’ve given away the game.
I’m going to live with the bears now. The hills are close, I estimate only a couple blocks away, and I’ve already hiked to the top. In the mountains, you can live a misfit lifestyle in a daydream aesthetic. Live the daydream, Daydream Believer.
Okay, they’re glute implants. Don’t judge.
The bears have accepted me as one of their own. We live on berries and salmon from the stream, and sleep and roll around and fuck when the season is that season. Don’t worry, we use protection.
When the itchies strike, we rub our backs against the bark of sturdy trees. To show superiority and signify our territorial range, we mark the trees with our claws as far up as we can. At night, we talk around the campfire, wondering whether the Misfits of Science TV show had anything to do with The Misfits the band. By day, we study the clouds and Daydream (movie), Daydream (album), Daydream (band).
Late in life, my body withered, but an endless assortment of entertainment that shares a name with my central obsession, and a family to ponder it with. The bears are fascinated by my observations and theories.
I think I've finally found my people.
***
Neil Oldman
Comments