New York state of mind.

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.
Mission Five: Re-take the SATs.
Mission Five: Become a PUA (Pick Up Artist) and wing Cali to 5 F-closes.

I can’t believe I’m quoting a Billy Joel song. Seriously, I couldn’t be more ashamed of myself. But I gotta give it to the pudgy Piano man, the guy knows my mood. I’m an L.A. guy in a NY state of mind. I need to snap out of it.

I convinced myself that maybe it wasn’t New York I was missing. That is, until my subconscious kicked in last night. Maybe it was me that I missed. That feeling of freedom and subtle loneliness that became a magnificent elixer two weeks ago. The ability to shamelessly blend in among the pack and be as existent or existential as was my choosing. In L.A., I have too many branches for that to happen. I’m in a mental trap with the top down.

Add to that my lack of a sexual release (bye Heather) and Rob is not a guy you want to be around. “Are you ok?” people keep asking me. Those words have become associative over the years. As much of an annoyance they are to hear, I do realize that when they are spoken, the hurricaine inside my head is apparent outside as well.

Anyway, so last night I go to my Monday night basketball league. It’s raining, and driving to Sherman Oaks is a pain in the ass. I’m still nursing my cracked rib, but as I have been getting back into my workout and have stopped babying my side, it seems to be getting better. Yes, completely illogical, but I say these things to remind myself that I am a guy.

I got home, checked a bit of TV and sailed to dreamland. Now, you need to realize I survive on an energy bar for dinner on Monday nights. I don’t like having a full stomach and running for two hours. And nobody likes to eat at 11pm unless you're drunk and in college. I was/am neither.

The Luna bars give me some vivid dreams, I guess that’s why I keep starving myself with them. It’s kind of like a dulce de leche narcotic. And Monday night, that drug came in the form of something truly magical. Because last night, for the first and only time in my life, I ran game on Winona Ryder, the magical love of my life.

So here’s the scene: I am at a dirty New York bar in the afternoon. Around me are a few friends, but they're basically background noise in Modern Amusement sweaters. There was only one focal point, and it was Winona. I was in my “I don’t give a fuck” NY mindset, so I did something I would never do in LA, even with Jim as my wing. I approached her.

Now saddling up to Winona was a much bigger step in my dream than doing it to Jessica Biehl in real life. Jessica never held the same spot in my heart as Winona. WR was my Shaun Cassidy. My Nick Lachey. My dream girl.

My approach was great. My game was outstanding. There was only one problem. My fashion. Seems, reality and my dreamworld were starting to blend, much like in Sharkboy and Lava girl. Anyway, in the dream I had just gotten back from basketball and although I was not a pile of sweat as usual, I was wearing my “uniform” of converse high-tops, a black knee brace, gray compression shorts, gray athletic shorts, a gray t-shirt and headband. I am not pimpin’ by even midwest standards, but those articles do perform a function.

But at the bar I am missing one key piece of clothing, compression shorts. They go to my knees and are about 6 inches longer than my other shorts. Without them, I look like a 1970’s kid in runner-up shorts. It’s pretty ridiculous. Luckily, Winona seems to find my Euro-wear “refreshing” by her feedback. We talk the whole time we are there. And of course, I am funny, fascinating and captivate her like JD used to. Ah, dreams.

When she was leaving, I decided to go for it again, and find out what her plans were for the evening. I would have regretted it for life if I hadn’t. She had some actor-type plans that "her people" set up and she sped away in a cab. I believed her.

But the look in her eyes seemed to be one of regret. That’s the great part of dreams, you can project whatever you want. And although I didn’t fit her profile for actor/model/musician, she was still interested. Just not interested enough to date me.

And I woke up, feeling sad that I was rejected by Winona in my dream. But happy I got the chance to fail in the first place. I was proud of myself for trying.Y ea, that sounds like too neat of a wrapper, much like an after school special bullshit ending, but seriously it was the jumpstart I needed. And lucky for me, reality is sometimes better than dreams. Which leads me to the story I’ve been avoiding for a few weeks, mostly out of sheer laziness--Jessica.

But now I am alive and refreshed, and New York is neatly compartmentalized into my dreams. And I can sleep it whenever I want.

Good night.