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  • Whenever I wake up to memories of vivid dreaming, I’m always amazed at how epic a dream can be and simultaneously how it can have some of the most bizarre continuity shifts. Last night’s mental freak show first involved some heinously long and drawn out theme of dealing with beater cars including me nearly coming to blows with a group of metal scrappers that had decided to not only take the old washers and dryers we had put on the curb but had started to tear down my truck as well.

    It stayed on the car theme and jumped to some weird situation where I owned a combination junkyard and series of shitty apartments, and I was giving disadvantaged teens junker cars and a place to stay to help get their lives back on track. Of course, all of the teens happened to be hot, young girls, and while standing in the yard having some brews, my friends David, Bob, and Jamie were accusing me of trying to worm my way into their pants while I tried to argue to the contrary. I remember saying, “None of these girls are gonna’ fuck a guy like me just because I give them a shitty car and roof over their head.” Then Bob said, “But it’s not going to stop you from trying.”

    I had to acquiesce to the fact that they were right, and when I did the dream jumped to some Las Vegas, lounge act nightmare that I can only describe as being at a glitzy Denny’s where part of the floor show was a “punk” themed, Tony Clifton like act with confrontational singers who acted as demented servers that literally ran around singing their songs into people’s faces, chasing and tormenting a bunch of senior citizens who were trying to quietly eat their meals. Imagine Patty Smith in black leather screaming her songs to people at their tables and suddenly going G.G. Allen on anybody who got up from the table and chasing them to the bathroom or cash register.

    I made the mistake of trying to get up to go to the bathroom and had this crazed leather chick come at me. When I turned to confront her, she kept singing then began digging through a nearby trashcan throwing the trash everywhere. In the pile of trash that she had heaped on a nearby table was a handgun covered in half eaten food. I took out my pen like a detective and started to pick it up by the trigger guard. Some old man went to touch it with his hands, and I said, “Are you fucking crazy. You don’t touch a throwaway gun in Vegas unless you want to wind up in a murder investigation.” We both had a laugh, and as the lounge singer came back our way screaming some incoherent song that sounded like Janus Joplin with stage four throat cancer, I considered using the gun on her as I woke up.
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