I'm never sure what to believe when someone tells me about a dream they had. As I sit there listening to them relive horrific details of snakes, bears, lightning strikes, shipwrecks, broken parachutes, and that one ball-buster about parachuting off a lightning-struck ship into a pit filled with snakes riding polar bears. Raging ID suppressions, my ass. These are deliberate fabrications to elicit sympathy and wonder in the listener. Parachutes? Polar bears? Woe be the depths of one such shattered mind! In such an exchange, there always comes a point in the conversation when I begin to suspect one of two things: they are either carefully re-calculating, overanalyzing, filling in the blanks, and reading too much into their dreams, or the drugs I often busy myself with are not powerful enough. Sadly, if my sub-conscience ever does get its rocks together enough to drum some soupy regurgitation up, the cognitive leftovers are often too bland; filled with holes, and entirely banal to bother re-telling. Like this morning. I woke up, and faintly remembered dreaming I was in a band, there were helicopters (aircraft?), some snow...babies maybe? I can't be too certain on any of that though.
Oh wait, something's coming back! Now I remember!
My band New Found Glory and I were having beers and setting up for a show when a Blackhawk filled with crying mothers landed in the middle of the White House lawn, so we all jumped on and flew up to this active volcano where we roped down to save all these babies that were rolling over the sides of the cliffs. When it was all over, we jumped into this hot tub suspended from a gondola passing over the Swiss Alps and got hammered with the grateful mothers who all turned out to be members of the Iceland women's professional tanning team.
Shit yes. While you're busy