Mal Noche...

...or why I shouldn't eat a cheeseburger after eight PM.

If you look at the time of this post, you'll see, yep, it's 3:26 AM. I just woke up from the most horrible dream of my life, courtesy of that homemade delicacy I mentioned above. But, now, before the dream fades completely, let me welcome you to my nightmare...

It started out dreamlike enough - I was running, maybe flying, along, low, over a desert landscape. (The America tune "Horse with No Name" instantly comes to mind). On this first part of the journey, I'm really enjoying myself, the warmth of the sun on my face, looking around at all the plants and rocks and things (dang - there comes America again!), and I spot a semi truck with the logo of Brewed Awakenings, my favorite coffee spot. Well, I flew down to the truck, and found myself riding atop the semi, holding on for dear life to this air-conditioning unit atop the cab. Well, I'm taking this all in stride, as one often does in a dream, and then, the nightmare began.

I spotted the Highway Patrol vehicle coming the other way. It was your standard Ford Crown Vic, painted white and desert brown, with the standard light bar across the top. As the cop passed, I knew I was busted, so I began to bang on the sides of the truck's cab, to get the driver's attention. This seemed to take forever, and by the time I did get his attention, the highway patrol car had turned around, and had his lights on and was pursuing us. Slowly, the truck reduced speed, coming to a stop in a Los Angeles-style suburban hell neighborhood - nice little houses, all with bars on the windows. I tell the driver of the truck, who, incidentally, had a nifty eighties swoop-over haircut and two guitars in the cab of the truck, that I wanted to wait for the cops to come, rather than try to run (even in my nightmares, I have this overwhelming fear and loathing of scary authority figures with guns). The cop shows up, and has backup - inexplicably, a red Ford Escort with a light bar. Anyway, this whole standoff thing goes on, in which they surround us, guns drawn, then tell the driver he can go. This bothered me, because I wanted him to vouch for me that I ended up on top of his truck because I was flying in a dream. He opted to take off, though, though not before telling me that he was "32 years old, even though everyone thought he was 42." I tried to tell him he didn't look very old, but, by then, he was in his truck with the guitars in the cab, and leaving.
A nice lady cop then came forward and arrested me. She turned me around, and told me to walk between two vehicles (one black) to the street. There, a large vehicle with a big window on the back backed up to us, and a gaggle of kids were inside, and began laughing and pointing at me, saying that they knew me. The lady cop leaned me up against this vehicle and handcuffed me, and then had me sit on a Disneyland tram-sort of vehicle with a bunch of other arrestees. The next thing I knew, it was morning, and I was still being transported through some large Southwestern city - Phoenix? All I can say is, what I viewed out the windows of the Disneyland tram was truly Hell. I watched two separate sets of black kids stabbing each other with knives. I passed a school of some sort, or maybe a bus stop, and spied two middle school age girls among a whole group of students. As my ride passed, these two girls kissed each other, then turned and looked at me mockingly.
At some point, it seemed that my friend David Terrell had bailed me out. I was in some residence - at times it seemed like an apartment, at times it seemed like a mobile home - and I kept on asking him if he thought I'd end up in jail, and he seemed to think that I would. This filled me with the blackest despair - after watching the knifings and debauchery in this city, I could only imagine what horrid fate would await me inside one of its prisons.
Dave loaned me his phone, and I called Katrina, who was a time zone behind me, to tell her what was going on. She wasn't at home - oh, right - she had to work this morning! So, I left her a message - "Honey, it's me. I've been arrested for riding on the back of a semi truck, and Dave thinks I'm going to go to jail. No one believes me that I was just dreaming! Oh, honey, if I could only hear your voice..."
I hung up, knowing that, as soon as she heard my message, she'd be flying (presumably by airplane) down to see me.
The dream then disintegrated into various vague sensations of discomfort, fear, and, well, Hunter S. Thompsonesque loathing.
I awoke from this, twenty minutes ago, in my own bed, and quite nearly wept, Ebeneezer Scrooge style, as I realized it was all just gravy and not grave, and held Katrina's hand as she slept. Her wife radar must've gone off (or maybe I squeezed her hand too hard), because she woke up, and, very concerned, asked me what was wrong, and I proceeded to tell her the whole dream I just related here.
I think she was asleep by the time the highway patrolman was making his u-turn.
So, you, my blog audience, get to hear my dream. I sit here, in my fleece-lined moccasins, in my safe, warm house, and am thankful beyond words that I'm here and not there. The images of the kids stabbing each other - dear God, how horrible. In one case, a police officer was in the process of arresting one or the other of these kids, and had his back turned, and they were slicing and dicing each other. It makes me shudder remembering it, even as sleep calls me back to bed.

Scott Rainey, you truly had a wonderful life.

Y'know, if I were George Bailey, I would be a lot nicer to Clarence, especially considering the horrible stuff he has to put George through.