Dream 10/21/11 AM
The dream starts out hilariously, sort of, but not, really. I’m at Kiwanis Park in Sheboygan, watching the 2011 World Series: the shittiest World Series to date. I sure as fuck don’t want the Cardinals to win. They got here solely on the failures of other teams; not on their own successes. And I’ll be butt-fucked by a beagle before I root alongside the Bush family for the fucking Tex-ass Rangers. But I do want the Cardinals to lose, so of course, in my dream they are winning.
The baseball game is over, and now there is an NFL game going on. It’s not the Packers, not that I could care any less about a football game, but a friend is telling me how awesome it is to be up front where we are, so I roll with it. I’m always up for a unique experience.
The football game ends without much excitement for me. But my friend (faceless) tells me that something special is happening: a rare post-game ritual in which everyone plays a game. The crowd splits, and someone runs down the middle. No one has tried yet, so I try to jump out & tackle him. I miss. I think to myself that I should have done what you do when you shoot a rifle at a moving target: aim for where he will be when you pull the trigger, not at him. Oh well, my shot at glory is denied, but it’s not my scene, so I don’t give a fuck. The crowd disperses & I attempt the somewhat difficult climb up the steep waves of grass (Sheboyganites know what I’m talking about here). As it turns out, I am drunk, so it is extra difficult. I think about possibly trying to get into shape going up & down these hills (in real life, I am out of shape). I think about going home to my parents’ house, which is not far away. Then I realize that not only am I drunk, but I don’t live there. So I decide to go home, which in my dreams is never my current home of over 10 years, but my beloved apt. downtown, where I spent most of my wild 20s.
Now I have a companion. A fair skinned Hispanic girl, wavy black hair, slender, in a black dress; faceless, yet beautiful. I know her, but in my dream-confusion, I don’t know how. As we make our way on a short-cut through the woods, the slope is steep & the vegetation is surreal. At the bottom of this great fictional hill, we come across a brick wall; on the other side is an urban landscape. As we go through a chain-link fenced opening, magnetism strikes & we kiss. She pulls away & does not want to explain why she is obviously denying her own desires. As we walk, a limo pulls up. It is her father, an old-school Mexican gangster. She is afraid; I am confident, but also a bit afraid.
We drive and he starts to grill me about who I am & what my intentions are. The next thing I know, I have a gun to my head. He is unhinged & distraught. Tears are in his eyes, as if he is inside himself, fighting himself, not agreeing with his actions & perhaps even more nervous than I am. I’m still confident because my intentions are pure & I am a good man. He asks me to tell him about myself, & as is often the case in dreams, I struggle to remember reality. As I tell him about my current status as a student & intern, including the many accomplishments that I have made in those roles, he is unimpressed. I remember my years at the factory, thinking that perhaps this would be more likely to impress him. I tell him that I worked hard & held a job for 15 years & he screams “YOU LIE!” “Now I know you’re lying: you are too young!” He has tears running down his cheeks. The gun is pressed harder against my temple, but I don’t think he wants to pull the trigger. Deep down, he wants to accept me. Again I scramble to remember reality, and then it occurs to me that I am indeed 40 years old, & I tell him as such.
Now I am seemingly in Mexico, but I’m not really me anymore. I am a Mexican man. The dream-mode has switched to one where I am alternately seeing the action from the view of someone & watching things as if I were watching a movie. I’m in some sort of movie theater. They brought me here to possibly kill or torture me, so I violently escape. A chase ensues. My pursuers are both Latino & white. They are your average movie flunkies. I spot a potential hiding space under a stairwell, and then behind a flimsy wooden wall of sorts. They look under there, almost leave, then one of the gringos looks again. It is your usual movie thing where it seems like he’s gonna think to look behind the wooden “wall”, but he checks somewhere else. I have escaped.
Now I am me again, in the same dream, but in a different role. I’m still in Mexico, on clandestine business. I’m watching some bizarre live show, starring Andy Samberg from SNL, but I don’t think he’s who he is in reality in my dream. After this elaborate Broadway musical-type show, he is now with me & the members of a cartel, trying to sell one of the black costumes from the show to them. It is not a good one. One of the gloves is torn & pieces of material are missing. As the gangsters point this out, he foolishly & ignorantly states that he didn’t think that it would matter to Mexicans. They strap him to a wall, & proceed to use things such as a set of needle-nose pliers to make his body conform to the flaws in the defective costume. He screams in agony. I don’t care. What an idiot. At this point, I wonder why any gringos, me included, would come down here to do business in the underworld of a foreign land.
Now I am watching things as if I were watching a movie. It is a grand celebration, a party for no reason: my favorite kind of party. I am there, but I am not there. I have a drink, as does everyone else, elaborate drinks, drinks within drinks, fruity & strong & filled with candied fruits. The leader exclaims “no wonder people escape us, we love to celebrate!” Everyone hails in agreement. Then the mood is broken. A massive bald-headed wide-eyed Negroid Zombie Eunuch makes his way through the crowd, announcing the coming of a higher authority, silencing the crowd, ending the festivities. Then my phone awakens me. My girlfriend has texted me: “Nightmare yuck”.