Sweet Dreams Are Made Of Cheese II

May 18, 2011 at 7:36 PM | Posted in Journal | Leave a comment

I was driving a big bus.  I got off of it with everyone else, and we all headed toward the entrance.
I went to this big outdoor concert/festival with a group of people, but almost immediately I was separated from them and on my own.  I wandered around and saw many people all over this fairground.  I went to the hill, kind of an Indian mound.  People were doing lots of different things, like at a fair.  There was someone doing some DJing, and people selling shirts.
But I got back to the bus—one of the guys I started hanging out with was going to pull off a major crime using the bus, so I took it before he could get his hands on it.  I drove it from behind the school—the fairground was behind the school—up to Bellefontaine Road.  By then the top came off and I was driving a convertible bus.   Then I drove back through town, through the very hilly streets and went back behind the school.  I was waiting for someone.
Mark the drummer came by and he grabbed the gun from the glove box.  I tried to talk him out of taking it, but he insisted he knew what he was doing, and he needed it to get the 53 dollars he owed me.  I relented, and tried to give him three pieces of advice as he walked away.  I told him to always make sure the gun is loaded, and throw it away if you kill someone with it.  I couldn’t remember the third thing, but he was too far away by then anyway.  He had been brandishing it, but when some cars came driving up, he stashed the weapon.
He was gone, and I walked back across the gravel parking lot to the grassy ball field where the concert was.  There were many buildings at the fairgrounds, and I went into the bar.  I didn’t work there exactly, but I was helping the owner out.  He had hired some talent to come in for the evening but he was unclear on the details.
I was on the main floor trying to locate the talent.  Carrot Top shows up (I swear I am not making this part up).  I showed him where to change, and he goes into the little bathroom under the stairs.  He is taking too long, so I knock on the door.  He lets me in and continues with what he is doing.  He is in drag and applying makeup.  When he sees my expression, he says it is part of his show, in connection with his new DVD.
I sigh and leave—I have to find the owner.  I go upstairs to the VIP room.  I see a few people I know in there.  I tell the owner that Carrot Top is here.  He says, “Just great.  We already got a replacement for him.”  He sends someone out to find the replacement act to let them know they were getting bumped.  Someone else says to the owner, “Why not have them open for Carrot Top?  It’ll make the show longer.”
Everyone agrees that this is a good idea, making the show longer.
The owner sends me out to tell Carrot Top there is an opening act, but first he asks me—apparently this is important to him—“What time did Carrot Top get here?”  I remember specifically looking at the clock when I saw him, and it was 7:45.
I went back outside to see more of the concert out there, and then I went into the lower level of this block-style building.  The lower level was all bathroom with lots of people milling around, and it was shaped like a short maze.  Each short segment of wall had two or three urinals or sex fetish stalls.  In front of me a guy in an open stall was wearing a disposable breathing mask.  He wasn’t using the urinal because it was clogged.
Just then a door behind me opened and a cute girl came out with a bowl of water.  She dumped it in the urinal, and went back and got another bowl.  While doing this she splashed the guy waiting in there, and he got mad and left.
I started to chat with her and her friend.  They decided they wanted to go back outside to the rest of the show, so I took off my shirt and followed them.
Outside in the crowd I lost them, but I found myself back on the hillside again.   My shirt was in a pile of other shirts and mixed with cords and other sound equipment.  I had my back to the stage as I looked for my shirt.
Just then a song started up, the band started and some of the crowd was singing with them.  I heard the words they were singing:  “Put on your shirt and make some tea!”
The crowd repeated the line.  The guy next to me said, “Hey, man, they’re singing about you.”
I turned around to look and I heard, “That’s right, turn around, put your shirt on, and make some tea!”  The audience repeated that line also.
Then I turned completely around, and from my vantage point on this Indian Mound, I could see the stage very far away, and yet the singer had singled me out.  The rest of the band was normal, but the drummer was a large, Jabba-the-Hut-sized fat dude.
The singer sang another line to me:  “Yeah, you, fat boy—put on your shirt and make some tea!”
From as far away as I was, I yelled back them, “No, I’m not going to make any tea!” but my voice was crackling and it seemed muffled.  How could they hear me?
They say the line again to me, adding some other insults.  I tried twice to yell back, but I couldn’t.  Finally, my voice worked, and I sang it out loud and strong:  “NO!  I won’t make you any tea!”
And I heard myself say “NO!” and I woke myself up.

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