11.18.09

In my dream, i am flying somewhere. I think it's somewhere in the Southwest; Las Vegas maybe, or possibly Hollywood. I decide that my girlfriend should meet me at the Milwaukee Airport, which is whence my connecting flight departs, and we should have a nice dinner, and then fly there together. Awfully big of me, i know ((actually, now that i think of it, my real girlfriend and i did eat at some semi-fancy [[for an airport]] Italian place at Mitchell Field once, and i believe that was indeed on the way to Las Vegas. Go figure)). She meets me at the airport and tells me how swell i am for taking her out to dinner at the airport. I look at the menu, which is black text on a white background. Everything is really expensive. Incidentally, my girlfriend in the dream looks nothing like my girlfriend in real life. The dream girlfriend is tallish, heavyish, and not particularly attractive-ish. She has short brown hair. As i look at the menu, i begin to wonder what the fuck i was thinking suggesting we eat at some fancy airport restaurant -- i'm not that hungry, nothing looks that good, and it's all ridiculously expensive. I could have just packed a sandwich or something, not called the girlfriend, and saved seventy bucks! What the hell was i thinking? We have our meal. At least we are having a kind of good time. I can't remember much about the flight, but i do remember that when i got back home, i took my girlfriend's dog ((whom, unlike his master, looked very much based on real world spec)) out of his crate, but the crate was on my bed, and he immediately crawled up on his crate and shit out a torrent of this sort of semi-liquid Cocoa Puffs-looking fecal matter, which went all over the roof of his crate, down the sides, and into huge pools on my blankets. It was a tinge to the gross side.

Then i woke up.

11.16.09

In my dream, i am on the ground floor of the building on Broadway ((deceased)) at which i used to reside, although i lived on the second floor and not the ground floor. In the dream, the glass storefront windows wrap around a bit on the sides of the building, and i, along with my young pal Alex, are looking up and out at the sky through the plate glass on the building's north side. In the sky, i see this crazy black helicopter-like contraption passing over the house, which jerks to a crazy stop in the middle of the sky, bouncing with its back end flying up as if it had hit something. It then backs up, and careens to another zany stop, this time behaving as though it had just backed into something, shock absorbers all a-twitter. It lurches forward, comes to yet another reckless stop, lurches backward to another bouncy jackrabbit stop, and cranks forward yet again. I decide that whomever is piloting that craft is like the worst pilot ever, but that said pilot is probably Spider-Man's enemy The Vulture, so we'd better stay out of sight. We decide to go down to the basement and wait til the Vulture is done jerking his craft around outside. Somehow, the south side of the building is actually my dad's house, with the basement door in the southeast corner. We start descending the stairs, but, as i am halfway down the stairs, my dad tells me there's somebody at the door to see me. I'm like "who?" and my dad opens the door to the garage ((which is right by the door to the basement)), jerking his thumb out to a guy standing in the back doorway to the garage. "The Vulture," i guess. The Vulture stands in the doorway, grinning crazily sinisterly, looking like a cross between himself and that new Flamingo guy from Batman & Robin. I'm like DAD, WHAT THE FUCK, THAT'S THE GODDAMN VULTURE, HE'S A VICIOUS KILLER!!! My dad has already walked back into the kitchen and cannot hear my urgent and profanity-laced tirade. Telling Alex to get down into the basement and hide, i pull out a handgun and shoot a volley of shots thru the three open doors ((basement, kitchen-to-garage, and rear garage)) into the Vulture, who had remained standing in the rear doorway of the garage, and therefore could be hit from a properly-angled shot from the basement stairs. I don't really see him die as i run down the stairs, but i figure that i shot about four bullets into the guy and if he ain't dead yet i really don't have much else to work with so the hell with it.

Then i woke up.

11.12.09

In my dream, i am riding around in a car somewhere with my mom. We get out of the car, apparently at a car lot of some kind. We take a seat at a conveniently-placed picnic table. A few feet away from us sits one of the coolest cars i've ever seen in my life -- a hot pink station wagon. It seems like a customized 70's Brady Bunch job, or maybe a Ford LTD wagon ((or maybe just retro styled)), but the whole damn thing is flaming fluorescent pink, even the windows! In lieu of fake wood paneling, accents are effected via black Zip-a-Tone dots. It is one of the most beautiful things i've ever seen, a total Nørb-Buggy. All the same, though, one must wonder how the hell you can drive with the windows painted pink. The lot also has what appears to be a chartreuse Ford Fairmont or something, but that one don't move me as much. We leave the car lot, and i wind up on Baird street, somewhere around Eliza-Porlier-Lawe-Cass Streets, i'm not sure. The street is closed to traffic, and there are rows of long dark woodgrain folding banquet tables set up end-to-end all the way down the street, as at a wedding reception or something. There are also shelves or scaffolds or booths or seats or something set up on either curb -- they're kind of like the wooden structures in elementary school hallways where you hang up your jacket, etc., but you can kind of crawl on top of them and sit down, etc. I sit with my chin in my hand, idly watching the people at the tables. I guess i'm kinda bored. Drunkin Donut of the Fox Cityz Foxz walks over and says "do you wanna talk about it?" I tell her that i am not bummed out in any way, i'm just tired, because i have to take this blood pressure medication that makes me sleepy around 8 or 9 PM these days ((which is actually true)). We talk for a while.

Then i woke up.

11.10.09

In my dream, i am with my girlfriend and her son, Sam, in Ashwaubenon -- sort of around Hooters and HuHot and what-not. We have parked in a super-tall parking ramp and exit onto the rooftops of one of the many skyscrapers which dot the landscape there ((uh, in the dream, that is)) ((of course, being Green Bay and all, when i say "skyscraper" i'm talking about ten or fifteen stories or something. It's all relative, yo)). We are taking Sam somewhere or another, like a football or soccer game or some god damn thing. We don't know exactly where we're going as we walk from rooftop to rooftop, which are, somehow, connected ((as well as being sort of grey and concretey)). We are all looking off the rooftops in hopes of spotting Sam's sporting venue, which we think we do, but aren't sure. I ask if we can get the hell off the rooftops now, and go down to street level. Sera says she isn't sure, because she's not sure if the sports field we can see from the rooftop is the correct one. I'm like fuck it, can we PLEASE get off these rootops? Sera isn't sure. I say that i'm kind of scared of heights, and lie on my back on a skyscraper rooftop, spreading my arms out and grabbing the east and west sides of the skyscraper for added stability ((apparently they are tall but not particularly girthsome structures)). I ask again: Can we PLEASE get down from here? Sera isn't sure. I'm like, fuck this shit, and go off by myself til i find a stairwell, leaving Sera and Sam to figure out what the hell they're doing by themselves. I walk west on whatever street that is ((Vanderperren Way?)), which, in the dream, is sort of an outdoor mall. I glance to my right and see a bunch of people milling around, looks like somebody's collecting money for something, and it also looks like a few people are browsing thru some boxes of comic books. I pop in to see what's up, and enter the open-to-the-street space, which is sort of like a movie theatre lobby. Apparently there's some sort of rummage sale going on in the lobby, and my friend Time Bomb Tom is also collecting money for a show that is going on inside the theatre. I don't know if i really need to go to a show on a Saturday afternoon ((which is, i believe, the time and day)), but i do rifle thru the comic books. Ron and Jamie from the Tantrums are hanging out on a flat vinyl sofa/bench in the lobby, so i assume the Tantrums are one of the bands on the bill. I engage in idle chit-chat with them as i flip thru the comics. For some reason, i call them by the ridiculous nicknames of "Shims" and "Kisps." I decide i really sound like a pompous ass doing so.

Then i woke up.

11.08.09

In my dream, i am detailing the bass playing lineage of Boris The Sprinkler to some inquiring neophyte. I tell him it went Erik #1, Eric #2, Ric Six, Tim Double Zero, then some guy just named "Timmy," then back to Erik #1. As i explain this and that to the inquirer, it strikes me that i really don't remember a damn thing about Timmy. I rack my brain, but Timmy's data stays just out of reach. I feel perplexed and forgetful.

Then i woke up.

NOTE: Of course, there was no "Timmy," it went from Tim Double Zero back to Erik #1 without intercession of any such person. And, if there WERE a Timmy, we would have made him be called "Tim #2" or "Tim Single Zero" or whatever numbering scheme we thought was amusing that day.

11.08.09

In my dream, i am watching a roller derby bout involving the Fox Cityz Foxz. I believe it is being held at the Resch Center in Green Bay. Instead of the normal estrogen-fueled mayhem, however, the derby setup is more like that of a hockey or soccer game: The jammers are actually goalies, all the other players skate around the middle of the floor, and, somehow, there is sort of a puck that the teams attempt to knock into their opponent's goal, except the puck is kinda like a tennis ball, but otherwise puck-like in most regards. The goals and nets are sort of like crosses between hockey goals, soccer goals, and veal pens -- they are rectangular cages, with mesh/netting on all sides. The goalie/jammer sort of kneels or squats inside the cage ((the cages aren't tall enough to stand up in)), sort of like a baseball catcher, and pokes their hand out thru the netting to swat the puck/ball away)). The Foxz defend the jammer cage on the north side of the floor. Woman O' War is first up in the jammer box for the Foxz, and she repels a few shots on goal before one gets thru, yielding a 1-0 advantage for our opponents. After being scored upon, the team cycle in a new jammer; in this case, Cherry Grenade. She gamely holds the fort, but is also scored upon. 2-0 for the visitors. I denounce the game as a cause lost, and take my leave.

Then i woke up.

11.06.09

In my dream, i am at work. Our office is sort of like the now-vacant office space behind our real-life offices ((where my desk used to be before we contracted and moved back into the little cramped rooms where we all get sick from breathing each other's snot)), except it's clean and well-lit, with clean new beige carpet ((minus the black stains and two decades worth of crud that the existing carpet has)) and polished wood trim on the doors. My boss has given me this huge, maybe four-feet-square Roxy Music oil painting, which is sort of a double canvas and is painted front and back. It appears to be a painting of an album cover. Unfortunately, it is not the album cover with the girls in panties holding their boobs. It is some whitey-minty-greeny background with "Roxy Music" painted in Franklin Gothic Heavy a little right and below of center, and then some painterly greenish-whitish brush strokes and some other text and some lines scattered here and there across the front. Kinda minimalist. I forget what's on the back, but i think it was a bunch of song titles. I decide that i am gonna make this painting into a Rev. Nørb painting instead, so i sit on the floor with a bunch of paper and some tape and markers and things and begin to cover up all the Roxy Music stuff. I run thick strips of shiny green tape across an angled line of Roxy Music text, obscuring it completely, and giving the painting the feel of the whole "God Save The Queen" Sex Pistols thing, where the queen's eyes and mouth get censored by the overlying text, or something. It is almost noon, and i realize that i've been working on this non-related project for almost two hours, so i better get to work, but maybe only after lunch.

Then i woke up.

11.05.09

In my dream, i am at some manner of convenience store or small supermarket. There is a row of publications underneath the front of the checkout counter ((which is located at the back wall of the room and faces the door)), stocked with a few tawdry tabloids. I get into a discussion with a few of the people in the store about one of the tabloid's cover girl, whom they are apparently erroneously referring to as "Lisa Loring." I tell them that i went to high school with that girl, and it's Lisa LORRIG, not LORING. They are not sure whether or not i can be believed, but i am authoritative and insist on my correctness ((NOTE: I did indeed go to high school with a girl named Lisa Lorrig -- i think -- but face on the cover of the tabloid actually belonged to someone else from my high school, whom i believe was a senior when i was a sophomore, named Melissa Littig, i think)). I feel slightly cool over the matter.

Then i woke up.

11.03.09

In my dream, i am in Australia, or Newfoundland, or similarly distant locale. I'm at some sort of a bar, restaurant, or other commercial space with my boss, i think. We are laying around watching a TV in the corner, because the Packers are in the Super Bowl, vs. the Oakland Raiders. The Packers are wearing these zany retro uniforms based around this football helmet i used to have when i was two or three -- it was more or less Packer colored, but it was just a sort of generic, non-licensed helmet. It was dark yellow with two green stripes on the top, and then two smallish green stars towards the front of each side. The Packers are wearing this very helmet design, and then some kind of retro uniforms based on said helmet -- lots of weird sock stripes and this sort of thing. I don't know what the Raiders were wearing. Fuck them anyway. Anyway, some dude comes into this pizza parlor or whatever it was, and is from Wisconsin, so we're all like AAAAAYYYYY!!! PACKERS IN THE SUPER BOWL BRO!!!!!!! but he is totally not into it and is an asshole to us. He is about 5'10", slightly stocky, with sort of a longish light-brown brush haircut and a nose that looks like it mighta gotten broken once before. We trade insults for a while, then the guy gets his food and goes. I figure it's probably about time for me to leave as well, so i get on my cycle ((bi- or motor-, i'm not sure)) and turn left out of the parking lot. Although the street has the outward appearance of a nice, lush, suburban business/residential boulevard -- lined with trees and with a nice green median strip in the center -- the street actually drops down at a MASSIVE incline, almost like you're driving down the side of a mountain. I proceed with caution as i zoom down the hill, with the trees and sidewalks whizzing past me, but then i spot the dude from the restaurant, who has wiped out on his skateboard and fucked himself up fairly severely. I stop my cycle, hop off, and ask him if he needs help. I tell him i'm going to get him to a doctor, and also tell him that i hope he didn't take lasting offense to what was said at the restaurant. He tells me nah, it's cool, don't worry about it.

Then i woke up.

11.02.09

In my dream, i am at some manner of outdoor party with many guests. It is night time, so everything is kind of groovy and moonlit. The courtyard has a stone floor, with a few clusters of trees here and there. I take a seat at one of many round tables out in the courtyard, and someone sits down at the vacant seat next to my left. Holy shit! It's Mick Jagger! Mick is wearing some kind of light-colored suit, and a button-down shirt that's open at the neck. No tie. I'm not sure what to do. I don't want to be all gush-ish, but, then again, i don't want to appear rude or unfriendly, either. It appears that Mick's ((ex?)) wife Jerry Hall is seated to my right. Crazy. I resist the urge to text all my friends and tell them that i'm sitting next to Mick fricking Jagger at a party. Mick is drinking champagne or something out of a wine glass. I'm drinking beer out of a clear bottle ((must have been Miller High Life)). Somebody who looks kinda like Bill Wyman ((though i'm not sure)) has the attention of a number of people at the table, so i scoot my chair around a little and look at him as he stands next to a nearby tree. He is demonstrating some kind of gizmo. I'm not really sure what the gizmo is, but everyone is paying attention to this guy, so i figure i better, too. The gizmo, in the moonlight, looks like a spatula or something, with some sort of metal puck connected to the end. I make a wisecrack about how it looks like he's flipping hamburgers, which gets a bit of a chuckle from the people sitting around me, including Mick. Remembering that there was once a Saturday Night Live sketch where the Stones ((or at least Ron Wood)) had non-speaking roles as customers at i think the Samurai Delicatessenm then say loudly, but to no one in particular, that it would make for a funny SNL sketch if this guy had a spatula with a real hamburger connected to it like that, and he was trying to flip burgers, and he couldn't, because the patty was connected to the spatula. Everyone around me laughs ((not sure why)), and Mick agrees that it would be funny. I MADE MICK JAGGER LAUGH!!! Far the fuck out. We turn back to the table and continue our drinks, occasionally making small talk of the "can you pass me the ashtray, mate?" variety.

Then i woke up.