Vacuums & Vertigo!

Recently my vacuum cleaner OD’d on cat hair.
I was almost done the area rug when the thing seized right up, puffing out a thin wisp of smoke as it quickly choked and then screamed itself to death. I shut it off and flipped the burning part of it over for a look-see. The little rotisserie-thing was just clogged with purebreed Ragdoll-hair.
After an aborted attempt at repair, during which time I repeatedly cursed this black rubber band that would not go back on to the rolling-pin dealie it obviously came off of, I just hauled the whole smoldering mess down to the big red garbage bin downstairs and heaved it in there!
I am currently vacuum-less.
Then last night, at about 1:15 a.m., I suddenly awoke from a vivid dream I was having.

Both of these things just described (a vacuum cleaner killing itself, and me waking from a dream) are both very rare and unusual events, and so I began to wonder if there was any sort of cause-and-effect relationship between them. I admit, I nearly blew a gasket thinking about it, but my efforts paid off. At work today, I think I deciphered the subliminal connection.
See, the vaccum-suicide involved the brand name Hoover. This particular upright model I had owned was definitely the lower-end of anything Hoover produces.... I forget the model name but it was probably like Junior Rug-Sucker 100... something like that.
And.... my dream. Ready for this?
My dream was about Hoover Dam.

The dream was so real I was experiencing vertigo in it! And that is probably why I woke up, because heights really scare me. I nearly fell off the bed. Thing is, when I was a kid, our family visited Hoover Dam on our way to Disneyland. And for years afterward, as a kid, Hoover still occupied a greater portion of my mind than Splash Mountain and Mickey Mouse combined.
Part of this is because when we were at the Dam, my Dad sort of dangled me over the edge of it.
There was (and probably still is) a walkway where you can observe the Dam’s 726 feet of vertical concrete massiveness, but the wall and railing is (understandably) fairly formidable for a curious-as-hell 6-year-old. And I wanted to see what all the grown-ups were seeing. So Dad lifted me up and set me sideways on the ledge so that I could look over. I know that he was holding my ankles tightly, but I can still recall the distinct feeling that welled up in me. If he would have suddenly let go, I may have well become famous as That Kid That Slid Down Hoover in 1970.
It was an awesome thing. Awesome to me.

Now I know that my Dad did not intend to kill me and/or cause lifelong psychological trauma, but regardless, he did indeed accomplish the latter thing.
Ever since that vacation, I assure you, I have had a profound fear of falling down dams.
And yes, along with this, a general acrophobia of sorts.... Fear of Death by Falling Way Too Far.
But I am not bitter about it whatsoever. Rather, I think that overall it is sort of a healthy fear, like the Fear of Uncontrolled Flames or... Fear of Loaded Guns Pointed At You. These are good fears, if you think of the possibilities inherent in their non-existence.

My own personal Fear of Death by Falling Way Too Far was brought home to me rather clearly, about 13 years ago, when everyone I worked with, without exception, decided to go skydiving together. Parachuting. Basically take the course, strap some folded-up plastic bag to yourself, and then purposely jump out of an airplane.
At first, I was right in there... “For sure! Count me in!”
We all signed up. We were a road construction crew.... macho as all hell. Some other words come to mind.... we had moxy! We were youthful. Insane! Drunk lots! [And whatever the word is for “having breathed too many asphalt fumes!”] We were all these things.
But as the day approached... well, apprehensive is a bit too light of a word to describe how I was feeling. I was 7 again, and seriously dangling over the edge of Hoover Dam! And macho be damned.... I backed out!
When I told them all, they surrounded me...... “Why? Why are you backing out, you wimp?”
So I explained by saying, “See guys, I’ve been noticing that every time we talk about it, I urinate a bit, and I’m a little afraid of what else might happen if there is ever any actual sort of jump-out-of-airplane descent taking place!”
They all went and they all survived, and they all laughed at me afterwards. But I don’t care. Parachuting is insane. The fact that you wear a helmut proves that it is insane. Because, as Jerry Seinfeld says, as soon as that parachute fails to open, that helmut is wearing YOU for protection! Later on, in some bar with all the other helmuts, yours will be boasting “It’s a good thing I had a human being strapped underneath me, or I would have hit the ground directly!”
See what I mean?

So my vacuum cleaner OD’s. And then I have this dream last night.
I don’t need Sigmund Freud or Carl Gustav Jung to tell me what’s going on here. I figured it all out at work today.
It’s clear to me that I need a Hoover-Healing Weekend. Not to get rid of my fears. But to re-affirm them. To dedicate myself afresh to the lifelong pursuit of Not Falling From Things.
So, Friday, I am getting in Big Blue (my car) and I am going to drive to Las Vegas. Anyone who wants to join me you are more than welcome. We should all meet somewhere first, and then drive the 30 miles southeast together, in a convoy. Since I pretty much live in mega-bookstores (I am in one right now even) I say we meet at the Barnes & Noble Bookstore located at 3860 Maryland Parkway in the City of Lights. Say..... noonish, Saturday, the 21st.
How will you recognize me?
I’ll be wearing a black shirt that says on it, in big white letters: I Drove All The Way To Hoover, And All I Got Was This “Dam” T-Shirt.

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