11 Dream Journal 11

Is there a such thing as a boot iron? It's like a cloths iron with a rubber sole, that vibrates slowly. I used one in a dream a few minutes ago and it helped me get all the paint and blood off my new boots. The dirt came right off. It also came in handy when the zombies made their way onto the train.

I'm assuming that it's fake because in the dream, my boots were just a red rubber skin wrapped around a woven cotton nest, kinda like the inside of a baseball.

Thanks to dream-Greg for lending me the boot iron, even though I put the moves on dream-Liz after you were eaten.

There were other dreams last night:

I was back in high school, but the classroom was set up like a grade school with the chairs that were permanently attatched to desks and motivational posters all over. George W Bush was our teacher and I hated him the same way I hate the real one, but I was able to antagonize him the way I did my real teachers. He used a word that I didn't understand, "roarman" or something and I asked what it was.

Fed up, he threw a chair at me. It went over my head and into this kid Aaron Einhorn who threw it back at me.

"What the fuck? I really have never heard of that word before."

"You know what, Eric? You're a really annoying motherfucker."

I looked around, Aaron had the consensus. Some people nodded the agreement, and it just showed in the others' eyes. I put my head down, and decided to not talk so much.....

I invited a few friends to help me carry equipment to a private dj gig. A cold building downtown, a dusty old freight elevator with a rusty grey switch, a nondescript hallway decked out with minimal pictures of flowers. An attractive black woman in her mid thirties opened the door, which led to a sunlit penthouse loft. She was getting completely made over, hair cuts, acid skin peels, and all sorts of other shit I don't understand in her apartment. She hired me to play music that would add to the ambience that included catering and vials of scents strategically placed around the apartment. Things started going wrong before I set up. My friends invited friends. No one expected everyone to show up but they did. Soon the entire Rat Patrol was there. People I didn't know were showing up and getting drunk. The client laughed it off:

I'm sure all these attractive young people will make my skin fight harder.

Then she saw the guy passed out on a table by the door, resting his head in a tray of brownies. Then she fired me......

I was in a dark, crowded bar when I eyed some sort of punk rock sexual goddess. A short Mexican girl, with no hair, a Monroe piercing, and a perma smile in a spotted dress, eyeing me from across the room.

I walked up to her, or perhaps I stood there in space as the room receded. We were face to face, seperated by a thin wooden table, and then we were fucking, over the table, in front of everyone. I looked back and saw that Brandon could see us. Luckily, his girlfriend Kelsey wasn't paying attention. I was drunk but pangs of conscience were creeping in.

I spent the weekend around Brandon and Kelsey, afraid that one of them would tell Sarah, guilty, and ashamed that no one did......

It was the middle of the night, in a storefront theater off the interstate. We were sharing the space with a local youth theater group, setting up as they were shutting down. I was trying to figure out what my actual pay was, before I wa in too deep. The old lady who acted as our corporate liazon was effusive, at least if that word means what I think it does. She was trying not to tell me but when I gave her an ultimatum, she produced a chart.

$6.75/hr.

"That's less than half of what the ad said in Craigslist!"

"That's because you didn't get your Bachelor's in education."

"That's bullshit!"

"It's more than minimum wage."

"Fuck minimum wage, I can't live off that."

Hillary and I planned our escape, we were in the middle of nowhere. We would have to hitch, and we would have to wait til after the old girl had fallen asleep. Ronny had a more direct approach, more in line with his personality:

"Yo bitch, I wanna talk about some of this."

They went into a small room and I could hear him tear into her. Go Ronny! Then the yelling stopped. At least the yelling of words, and we started to get an idea of what was happening there. About a half hour later the door creaked open and Ronny comes out in just a shirt. I catch a look at his cock, which looks red and worn nd bigger than I would have expected for someone his height.

"Look guys, I'm gonna keep fuckin this bitch and then come home tomorrow. Yall should probly go."

Then he walked back into the room and I saw her. Her stern, pointy face and grim stare, like a real-life Cruella DeVille in a pink nightfrown with her legs together at the knee. It was disgusting, but I was surprised to catch a hint of jealousy from somewhere deep down.

Hillary and I walked out, into the cold clear night and stuck out our thumbs.

currently listening to 1990s hip hop: Gza, Fugees, the Pharcyde, all that good shit; currently reading "Zero Girl: Full Circle"]