12.03.09, 27th anniversary of Hollywood Autopsy/NO/Suburban Mutilation show at the Wil-Mar Center in Madison; SUM's last show w/Perry

In my dream, fellow roller derby announcer Vince Hannity and i are announcing some manner of roller derby event in Milwaukee. The event is a TV taping of some kind, held in a small auditorium. There is a small stage at the front of the auditorium, with a big velvet stage curtain, and rows of theatre-like seats on the floor. At the very back of the auditorium, there is a riser which runs the entire length of the room, sort of like a bandstand, with about four or five steps which run the full length of the riser, leading up to the top riser area. The entire riser is covered in grey carpet that feels sorta like a cross bewteen kangaback and astroturf. Vince ((nattily attired in a dark suit coat and mirror shades)) and i ((costume apparently unmemorable)) will apparently be calling whatever it is we're calling from our perch at the very back of the auditorium, although we don't really know what we'll be calling because, from the looks of things, this auditorium is not set up to host a derby bout, so we really have no idea why we're there. There are various workers adjusting light trusses and hauling desks and chairs out on stage this and that, but no sign of anyone derby-related. We figure that maybe this is going to be a derby talk show, but, if that's the case, what are our roles? What part do we play with our microphones at the back of the stage? We get off the riser and go get some Diet Cokes, hoping that, by the time we get back, there will be someone there who can tell us what's going on. We get back to the riser, but there is still no one there that can tell us why we're there, or what's expected of us. We descend from the riser again, and decide to go wander around the building, and look for an office or something where we can inquire what our function might be. We finally find the office of someone who seems to be in charge. Her name is Inza, or some other four-letter name that begins with "I" and sounds suitably exotic. She looks like a lighter-skinned Grace Jones, but in a sort of Michelle Obama jacket & skirt. Very businessy, despite her square 'do. We sit down in front of her desk, and explain that we don't really understand what it is we are to do here, as we are roller derby announcers, and we don't see any evidence of roller derby going down in the auditorium. She, very coldly, informs us that she is the "Dean of the Scene," and talks, in a very cold and businesslike way, about nothing that answers our question at all. Whenever we try to direct the conversation to the point of "where's the derby?", Inza just reminds us that she is the Dean of the Scene, and yaks on about some dumb business things neither of us really understand nor thereto pay attention. I start tuning her out, slouching in my uncomfortable chair. WHERE'S THE DERBY, MAN???

Then i woke up.

12.01.09

In my dream, Boris The Sprinkler have re-formed to play some big show in Chicago. It is the SUCK lineup: Nørb, Paul #1, Paul #2, and Tim Double Zero. We are the second band on a four-band bill; the band right after us is Good Riddance, and the headliners are Guttermouth. Not sure what the hell we came out of retirement to play with Good Riddance and Guttermouth for, but, you know, roll with it. The club kind of reminds me of the old PIT Skatepark in Rockford, but, you know, not a skatepark, and not built like a garage, and smaller, and thereby not really like the PIT at all, really. As we set our gear up on stage for a sound check, the promoter comes by with a bunch of envelopes, which contain our pay. Apparently the show has already sold out, so everyone is getting paid in advance. I open our envelope. It contains a single fifty-dollar bill. Everyone gathers around me, looking at our money. That is not very much money. We shrug. Oh well. We realize that we probably wouldn'tve done the show if we had known we were only getting fifty bucks, but, then again, i guess that's what the second band on a four-band-bill is worth. I set the crisp fifty down on the stage, just to the right of the kick drum, with a set list and some tape, and go fiddle around with something or another. Some stage tech, while crawling around near the drums, adjusting microphones ((or maybe it's some dude from another band, i'm not sure)) finds the fifty. He apparently thinks someone has dropped it there ((not realizing i set it there with my setlist and my Sharpie because apparently it was barely worth sticking in my wallet 'cause i'm such a hotshot)), so he rips it in half. The theory behind this is that if he leaves half of the bill on the stage, both halves are worthless, and, once the rightful owner is found, he will give them the second half of the bill ((as opposed to putting the entire bill in his pocket, which could appear like stealing)). The guy's intentions are good, but he rips our fifty in half when i'm standing about eighteen inches away from where he's kneeling -- i watch him do it right next to me. Looking down thru Paul #2's cymbals, i go "hey, that was ours!" He apologizes, and hands me both halves of the fifty. No harm done.

Then i woke up.

11.28.09

In my dream, i am sleeping on the floor in my dad's living room. He is gone and i have the house to myself. I'm kinda cold. I get up off the floor and adjust the thermostat, which looks kinda like the round, copper-colored dealio he has in real life, but with the addition of a few funky metal doo-dads that kind of look like the pointy things from the game of jacks that girls play in elementary school. I notice that the thermostat is at 74°, which should be plenty warm, but i'm still cold. Huh. I decide not to lie on the floor and be cold any more, and, since my dad is gone, i figure i can have myself a good ol' time and smoke some pot, play some records, and beat off or something. I kind of dawdle around before acting on any of these impulses, and, wouldn't ya know it, my dad comes home and my night is ruined. Gah.

Then i woke up.

11.27.09

In my dream, i am sitting at a table in an office or something overlooking a roller rink with Bloody Mary of the Texecutioners. Down in the roller rink, the Texecutioners are skating around the track in some kind of yellow uniforms (("Yellow Roses of Texas?" I dunno, they looked more like Gotham's taxi driver team, Bronx Gridlock, minus the checkers or something)). We are planning out the gameplay strategy for Texas' next bout ((opponent unknown, but doomed [[unless said opponent is Oly]])). We map out every single movement of the game -- every play and player motion -- on a bunch of sheets of paper. When we finish, our calculations show that the final score should be 138-0. We make out for a while, still seated in our chairs, then i go put our gameplan in a filing cabinet.

Then i woke up.

11.24.09

In my dream, i am driving a moped east across the Walnut Street Bridge. The bridge is the old school Walnut Street Bridge -- the one with the huge, criss-crossing, green-painted girders and the humongous cement counterweight up top that they did away with in 1986 -- and is so low that water from the river is lapping across it in points. I turn right on Washington Street, without making a hand signal. I have forgotten that this moped doesn't have automatic turn signals. I decide i kind of miss automatic turn signals, but what the hell -- live big. I'm having a blast! Mopeds rule! I take it thru the east side and wind up in Allouez, heading south on Libal. I turn right on St. Joseph St., and start heading up the hill. It occurs to me i have no idea where the hell i'm going -- was i going to drive up to Webster Street and hook around and go see my buddy Gary on Dauphin Street, or what? As i get further up the hill, the engine of the moped is no longer powerful enough to counteract the forces of gravity, and i have to start laboriously pumping the pedals, just like when i was a kid driving my bike up the hill to go to Snyder's Drugs or something. This gets old immediately. Fuck this. Mopeds suck.

Then i woke up.

11.24.09

In my dream, i am in a big nice castle or something and there are a lot of girls there and they're all very nice and they all want to sleep with me. I select one ((who shall go nameless, because she might be on a roller derby team or something for which i announce)) and we go strolling outside onto the side of the large grassy hill on which the castle is perched. There's a road at the bottom of the hill, and, across the road is a Holiday Inn, which is, presumably, our destination. It is a splendidly sunny day, and we occasionally stop on the hill and kiss for a while. As i near the road, i get a little buyer's remorse, remembering that there was a whole castle full of girls that wanted to boogie down with me, so why am i settling for just one? I figure, ah, screw it, they'll probably still be there when we get done at the hotel, i'll just soldier on according to plan.

Then i woke up.

11.21.09

In my dream, i am announcing a soccer game with esteemed Derby News Network lynchpin Justice Feelgood Marshall. We are standing on the sidelines, arguing back and forth about some of the finer points of soccer, when i finally realize that we have no idea what the hell we're doing, we're fricking ROLLER DERBY announcers, why the hell do we think we have any clue what soccer is all about? After the match, i go to the afterparty, where JFM's cohort in crime, the esteemed Hurt Reynolds, is sitting on the stage near some congas, apparently wearing nothing but his trademark cowboy hat. On closer inspection, Hurt actually does have some clothes on, but he has got the naked, hairy body of a dead, headless caveman propped up against him in such a manner that you can just see Hurt's head sticking up out of the dead caveman's neck, so it looks like Hurt's nude, not just sitting behind a dead nude caveman corpse. Hurt is continually laughing about his zesty jape, standing up occasionally to let us all in on the joke.

Then i woke up.

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.