Apparently I dream about Jonathan Coulton now

I sometimes shy away from posts like this, because if you’re not a Jonathan Coulton fan, nothing in it will make any sense to you.  And I don’t want to alienate people.  This site is a whore like that – it’s for all to enjoy.

But then I think, wait a minute – not a Jonathan Coulton fan?  What does that mean?  Exactly what kind of person are you?  Do you have no sense at all?  I’m not pandering to your kind.  Read the story and go get educated on what’s good in this world, you ugly bag of mostly water!

So a few nights ago when my wife fell asleep on the couch at 8PM watching Elf, which I couldn’t fall asleep during or turn off because Zooey Deschanel transfixes me like a confundus charm to the face, I was listening to Jonathan Coulton and Photoshopping a mashup of the picture Anne Wheaton sent me of a creepy doll from her garage and my grandfather’s scary painting of my great grandfather that I found in my attic.  A few weeks ago I had my dream about going to Wil Wheaton’s house to discover he has a torture chamber inside a convenience store in his backyard that doubles as a Denny’s, so now it made perfect sense that I had a dream about hanging out with Coulton.  It’s all-too depressing when I wake up in the middle of the night and realize not only that neither of these things ever happen, but that my dog has jumped up onto the bed and pushed me onto a tiny sliver of the mattress where she has decided I am permitted to sleep.

This is pretty good, though. Click to erect.

This particular dream took place at Coulton’s house.  He held an invite-only party for everyone too poor or too unavailable in February to attend JoCo Cruise Crazy.  Since the former and the latter are always the case for me, I somehow bagged an invitation (that part wasn’t explained) to the festivities, which were billed as a land-based version of the maritime shindig.  He called it JoCo House Crazy.  I know, totally not as clever as he would be in reality.  There also wasn’t anyone else performing – no Paul & Storm, no MC Frontalot… in fact, Coulton didn’t even sing songs himself.  As we arrived, he had a CD of “First of May” playing from a blue boombox in his driveway.  That was the only music to be heard during the dream.

The place was a five-story townhouse, which is apparently the type of dwelling my idling mind assumes he inhabits.  I didn’t have to travel to get there so he must have moved to Pittsburgh… because you know, so many people do that.  We just have herds of famous people wanting to move to the area for its tremendous amount of air pollution and hip new Fred Rogers statue.  And because we invented the destroyer of humans, the Big Mac.

Coulton’s garage door was open revealing a shop vac, which was almost correct to his song lyrics.  He showed us his bedroom, which consisted of a full-size bed with Lady and the Tramp sheets, hundreds of those springy worm things that jump out of fake cans of peanuts hanging all over the ceiling, and a wooden desk in the corner with a laptop and two monitors.  Nothing whatsoever appeared to be from Ikea.

“See, work hard in this industry and you could have a swanky studio like this,” he said to us jokingly.  He was eating celery.

There was a Fathead-like wall sticker of a zombie chewing on the side of his bedroom door.
“That’s Bob,” he said, pointing to it.
“Glad I’m not Tom,” I replied, thinking I’d be funny.
Coulton glared.  He was wearing brown plaid shorts and a blue t-shirt.  Not fancy.

His wife was in the kitchen on the second floor with my wife.  They were humming Chiron Beta Prime and stirring bowls of brown batter, and I know for a fact my wife has never heard that song.  The kitchen was essentially a giant empty banquet hall-sized room with a half dozen cabinets, a sink and a huge GLaDOS mural on the wall.  No eating area.  Everything was red.

I was hoping to see a bottle of Steak Taste Better pills on the counter, or in the bedroom studio, or in the poo/pee room, but no such luck.

Ultimately it was a terrible party, barring the obvious quality elements.  Next time I hope his house party is a little more awesome and a little less like what I’d imagine the home life of Coulton’s code monkey to be.


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