Interlude: The Dick House
I’ve been discussing a silly amount of serious issues in this blog, lately. Which is odd, because I originally intended this to be a platform for a serious amount of silly shit (please pardon the alliteration, it’s a hack tool, I know).
So, Gentle Reader, I’ll give you a break from all that, and tell you the story of how I woke up in the Dick House.
I was hanging out with two of my favorite people, W and N, at their place in Berkeley. It was a pretty chill night, and it was decided that N & I would watch some Miyazaki film or other. I can’t for the life of me remember which one (you’ll find this story light on details). N asked me if I wanted to try one of his new culinary masterpieces: ginger snaps made with the finest of cannabutters. I accepted the cookie, nommed on the cookie, and settled in to watch the movie.
At some point I blinked. It was a four-hour blink.
At around 3:30am my eyes opened again. I was on a couch that may never have been intended to comfortably support the human body. I was in a position that only mummies find comfortable for longer than 20 minutes. My glasses were still on, confirming for me (à la Giles in “Tabula Rasa”) that I wore glasses, but not making any difference whatsoever in my vision. Somebody had covered me with a blanket, which was kind, but had failed to leave me a prominently displayed note informing me of where I was and how I had gotten there.
I said, “mmph.” Or, I tried to say it. I think it would be more fair to say I thought it, emphatically. And then I considered my surroundings. I had no idea where I was. Nothing looked familiar, and the dark unfamiliarity was slightly sinister. I didn’t move at all, partly out of wariness, and partly because reconnecting brain to limbs was proving enormously difficult.
And then I remembered: I was in the Dick House!
Wait, what? What the fuck does that mean? Seriously, what does it mean? What the fuck is a Dick House? What the fu—wait. I am still clothed. So…okay. Dick Dick Dick. Dick House. That’s because…I’m high. I’m fucking high. That cookie wasn’t just a little green, that motherfucker was made of green, like, with a leprechaun baked in the middle, an angry leprechaun, with gloves—okay, get a grip, Whiskeypants, you didn’t actually see a leprechaun when you bit into the cookie.
By this point I had managed to tangle myself up in the blanket and in trying to get up, was in the process of rolling off the couch. The shock of hitting the floor relieved me of my concerns regarding leprechaun-filled ginger snaps and jarred me slightly more awake. Of course. Of course, I was in the Dick house. Not the Dick House.
Specifically, I had eaten a magical leprechaun-enabled ginger snap and passed out in the Berkeley house in which Philip K. Dick had once resided (or, one of them). A major accomplishment. Maybe next time I could pass out with a bottle of whiskey in Edward Gorey’s house, or drop acid in Stratford-upon-Avon—no, terrifying idea. I’ve been to Stratford-upon-Avon.
The whole process of figuring out where I was, falling off the couch, and situating myself properly had taken only a few interminable minutes. Getting back to sleep took no time at all. The relief that came with the realization of what “Dick” meant in this context I expect will last forever.