Sunday, January 04, 2009
I'm crouching on a stage as the fanboy crush begins. One guy wearing glasses, someone I knew from Athens (who still looked rather similar to his 20-year-old self), handed me a small square. On the outside, a skin formed from the carefully pressed page of an old zine. Inside, a box with a spring (or similar mechanism) inside. "When shaken, it makes a very interesting sound..." (It did.) Another guy walked up and remarked that he'd "wanted to write something about me for our new book -- you're listed under Ten Most Pretentious Saxophone Players." (I laughed at my dream within the dream.) "I think that most appropriate," I replied, "as I've never played any reed or brass instrument in my life." The book was rolled into a tight tube, more suitable for swatting horseflies than reading. When I opened the page he'd bookmarked for me, I found images of and anecdotes attributed to Bob Marley, Elvin Jones... Each increasingly ideal for such a list.
I also noticed an ad for the perfect Velvet Monkees collector freak compilation, listing songs I'd never heard of, much less listened to at Don's mid-80s DC digs. Of course, the info was partially blurred, as was the heading for my actual listing in this strange tube-like tome: "Most (blurred) Frontmen." Most Single-Mindedly Heuristic"? Most Likely to Pack Three Sets of Cuff Links for a Weekend Mini-Tour"? This dream offered a very odd sort of titillation.
Next, someone placed a confection beside me, a tawny homemade rectangle that looked delicious from my unconscious vantage. As I spoke to the book bloke, another guy waiting to chat asked if he could have a bite of the sweet, and proceeded to eat all of it. I remarked that it was very presumptuous of him to devour the gift, and then I punched Nick Cave, crouching in the shadows to the right of the chocolate thief, in the eye. I awoke, chuckling at the inanity of it all...
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