In keeping with the Super Bowl theme, I dug one from the archives. Enjoy!
What’s in a dream? Do dreams have meaning that might be applied to everyday life, or do they represent pure fantasy? Can dreams serve to indicate specific problems in life, or, perhaps, be utilized to predict things to come?
Being a writer, some of my slumbering escapades have posed opportunities to obtain “novel ideas” that, during my wakeful hours, have resulted in three potential plotlines for works of fiction. But, to be honest, the majority of my dreams are just plain crazy––hopefully not an edict for the future. Take, for example, the doozy that occurred the night before Super Bowl XXXVII.
Saturday morning I performed several hours of manual labor––cutting logs. That afternoon I attended a fellow author’s book signing. All in all, Saturday had been a busy, productive day. When bedtime rolled around, I was ready to sleep––and dream. Settling in to the REM stage, my initial nighttime vision involved the need for physical pleasure. Or, to be more direct, I was horny.
The adventure opened with my wife and me living in an apartment building––something we’d never done. I remained focused on the urge for passion, but, to my disdain, my wife insisted we go downstairs to the apartment complex’s recreation room and watch the Super Bowl, with the other residents––hundreds of them. Though thoroughly disgruntled, I followed, carrying my frustration from lack of intimacy with me. Shortly afterward, I awoke from this annoyance, still in the mood, but my wife slept soundly. Not wishing to disturb her slumber, I rolled over…perhaps to dream once more.
Act two in my sleepy visions detoured from sexual fantasies and paired me with Mel Gibson, chasing Commy spies. Mel and I had the covert operators pinned down in an industrial area, behind a chain link fence, surrounding a parking lot. Mel blasted away with his 9mm weapon, while I unleashed mine––a red, cordless drill machine gun, complete with an Apex bit chucked up.
After inflicting painful wounds on the enemy agents, one of them managed a shot that caught Mel in the shoulder and knocked him to the ground. I jumped to his aid, creating a pause in the action that allowed the covert criminals to limp to their aircraft–– a metallic-green monster, big as a city block–– at least!
Flames roiled from the jet’s afterburners as it rose over Mel and me. The bastards were getting away! But fear not. Mel revealed a portable rocket launcher–– apparently from his back pocket. Because he was injured, I offered to sight the device. In true Hollywood fashion, however, Mel grinned and said, “I got this. I owe ‘em one.”
PHOOMPH! The missile quickly zeroed in on the escaping plane’s tailpipe. KABOOOM! Chunks of crooks and olive colored sheet metal rained around us, so my partner and I ran for cover. With our foe’s remains heaped in a smoldering pile of rubble, Mel poked his cell phone to call HQ. Using the same deadpanned expression and one-liner delivery he’d expressed in the Lethal Weapon series, Mel quipped, “We got the bad guys. You can pick ‘em up.” We both laughed, then headed toward our vehicles.
Side by side Mel and I strolled through a maze of dark alleys, filled with an assortment of flashing lights, huge projection TV’s, and Psychedelic music blaring in the background. We arrived at my steed first, a motorcycle that looked as strange as this dream––chrome plated from stem to stern, with an excess of gleaming pipes and fins jutting from places unknown. I stared in disbelief and pondered how I was supposed to straddle the thing. The notion of straddling coaxed the lusty urge to reemerge. I turned toward Mel. “Gotta get home.” He winked, offered his trademark grin, and shuffled away.
Still accompanied by the theme of desire, I awoke once more, wondering, What the hell was that about?
The following morning I reviewed my mental escapades from the previous night, certain there were no profound answers to be found for questions regarding the relevance of dreams. From my perspective, the only thing I provided was more fodder for me to illustrate with words. On the other hand, I’ve since developed a newfound respect for cordless drills. From now on, I’ll always make sure the chuck is pointing away from me before squeezing the trigger. ‘Cause ya never know…