I had the most incredible dream last night. In full disclosure, I’m not a ‘dreamer’… at least not while I’m sleeping. When I lay down at night, I’m out within 15 seconds and there’s nothing firing till the sun rises. No thoughts, no ideas, no synapses. Nothing.
Except snoring. Whole lot of snoring. But no dreams. Weird, huh?
It’s weird enough that I met with a doctor about it when I was a teenager. Came to find out that it’s not so unusual among highly gifted intellectuals who exert copious amounts of brain power during their waking hours. You know who I’m talking about…people who are solving complex theorems, discovering planetary masses, curing deadly infectious diseases, and folks like me who market waterskis on the interwebs in February.
The doctor went on to explain that for whatever reason (because ‘highly gifted intellectual‘ didn’t appear on my chart) MY brain delves into some sort of ‘safe-mode hibernation’ each night. He could only deduct that it was a self-preservation tactic employed by my body to vigorously protect the 11 remaining brain cells that miraculously survived the ‘Great Purge’ of the early to mid 90’s (ie: my East Carolina years). No need to leave a Ferrari running if nobody’s driving it, I suppose.
So suffice it to say, when I DO have a dream, it’s a pretty big deal and it’s usually a really, really good dream. Obviously we’re not talking ‘water-balloon-fights-with-Buffy-the-Vampire-Slayer-in-a-white-t-shirt’ good, but they ain’t bad. Take last night’s gem, my first in several months….
I’m sitting in my truck, parked on the beach, eating a pimento cheese and pork-belly sammich slathered in bbq sauce (which I’ve never actually had but I’m darn sure gonna try now). Picture me gazing over glistening blue water as a pod of dolphins swim by. A warm breeze is softly blowing across the sand and waves crash upon the shore as the fiddler crabs play hide and seek with the sandpipers.
To my left, miles of unspoiled pristine beach in it’s natural habitat. To my right, a massive family of pasty-white Yankees feeding a 5 pound bag of Cheetos to an ever-growing flock of seagulls from beneath an EZ-Up tent whilst they poop upon the hood of my truck (the seagulls, not the Yankees). Just a typical day on the North Carolina coast. Then it happened…
Kaboom… A quiet, soft rumble that would have been hardly noticeable had it not been for the otherwise serene surroundings. So soft that it barely drew my attention from the delicious creation I had already dubbed “Big Dan’s Swine-and-Cheese Sammich” (before you ask, I’ve already trademarked it, so back off).
Those scattered about the sand around me barely noticed…perhaps it was the distant rumble of a re-enactment cannon from Fort Macon or passing flatulence from one of the over-weight preteens competing with seagulls for wayward Cheetos beside me. As I raised an eyebrow and begin to inhale another mouthwatering bite of my sammich (man, this thing is good), a second rumble strikes…kabooooom. This one was a tad more noticeable, and tad bit stronger. The sandpipers scurried away…the dolphins disappeared. And I spilled a piece of pork belly and some pimento cheese in my lap. Crap.
Just as I wiped a small vestige of bbq sauce from my chin, a third unmistakable reverberation struck the crystal coast with a thunder-like fury… KABOOOooooom. Dozens of Cheetos fell helplessly into the sand as the seagulls abandoned the beach in search of more secure sanctuary.
The puzzled looks of the hairy-backed, orange-fingered visitors from the great white north told me that this was certainly not in my head. This was really happening. Something bad. The wind had all but stopped and the sun was beginning to glow a deep reddish orange…pimento cheese orange. And then, once again… KABOOOOOOOOM.
My truck rattled violently as the rumbles turned into what can only be described as explosions, almost atomic in force with each jarring occurrence. My dashboard hula girl was doing the whip, nae-nae, and wobble all at once. The onslaught has begun…
KABOOOOOOOM…
KABOOOOOOOOOOM…
KABOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM…
The dizzying explosions had now become rapid-fire in succession, with no discernible explanation for their existence.
The Yankees had long ditched the safety of their EZ-Up fortress and were sprinting to their Vanabego as quickly as their Crocs and knee-high black socks would take them. My truck was literally bouncing in the sand. Pimento cheese was everywhere. The dulcet tones of Steve Winwood crooned through the speakers…
“Hang on and just roll with it, baby…” (this dream is turning into a nightmare)
KABOOOOOOOM…
KABOOOOOOOOOOM…
KABOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM…
Still unable to determine the cause of this intrepid phenomenon, I looked around only to see buildings crashing to the ground,
sand dunes shifting to flat plains, and boats saying their final goodbyes as they succumbed to the the 50 foot swells enveloping the beach with each passing concussion. Prudence demanded that I dig around the floorboard in search of that final piece of pork belly, as assuredly, this would be my last meal…
KABOOOOOOOM…
KABOOOOOOOOOOM…
KABOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM…
As I gazed over the horizon with tears (and bbq sauce) in my eyes, the sky became black with smoke and the sun glowed an ominous beet red. The water appeared to be burning as the magnitude of these earthquake-like jolts exacted a measure of revenge that could have only been foretold in the book of Revelations. Without warning, the clouds began to part, the heavens opened and a bright light shined down upon my chubby little pimento cheese-covered face…
Yes, just as the world and all of it’s glory were ending, the cause and force behind this epic disaster were about to be revealed…
Aaaaaand then I woke up. All of the bedroom lights were on. I was sore. I was confused. I was dazed. And I was craving a pimento cheese and pork-belly sammich like YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE.
I looked to my left and saw my beautiful wife sitting up on the side of the bed, fully awake, drinking a glass of water. Still fuzzy on the whole dream vs reality thing, I instinctively asked, “Oh my God, are you OK!?!?”
She stares at me like I’m a delusional psychopath (and while not that unusual, she still didn’t answer the question)…could it have all been real?!
“DIDN’T YOU FEEL THOSE EARTHQUAKES AND EXPLOSIONS, WOMAN?!?!?!”
“Huh?” she replied. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. I had the hiccups.”
Maybe it’s time for one of those Tempurpedic mattresses, after all.
~ dso
faded Wrangler jeans, a cheap plaid shirt, a starched white cowboy hat, and a giant belt buckle, the likes of which I had only seen on the Nature Boy Ric Flair. His ornery attitude was equaled only by the wheezing beast he was attempting to mount.
eventually won the thing after 3 successful rides. I understand he took home $350 for the trouble. We watched from the parking lot as he flicked his cigarette at a group of kids hoping for an autograph, then climbed into a ratty old Ford F100. He sprayed dust and rocks against the other cars as he drove off nursing a Budweiser tall boy concealed in a brown paper bag.
system. Jason Derulo…at a rodeo? Um, ok. I get it…I’m in marketing. Appeal to a younger, more diverse crowd. Of course, I think the diversity discussion should probably begin with getting Pepsi & Coke in the same restaurant, but if you wanna start it with Jason Derulo at a rodeo, then Ok. Weird, but Ok.
people, I notice he’s wearing what appears to be…yes, it is… a bullet-proof, Kevlar vest. And Kevlar gloves. And Kevlar pants. And Kevlar arm pads. And a Kevlar helmet covered in energy drink stickers and a full metal cage across the front. As I’m wondering aloud how he’s gonna spit a wad of chaw through that wire mesh or reach through for a tug of his Marlboro I see the huge “NO TOBACCO PRODUCTS ALLOWED” sign plastered behind him. What in the wide world of sports? No Red Man? No Levi Garrett? No (gulp) Marlboros? Bet they’re serving tofu at the concession stand with Stella Artois on tap. Travesty. Meanwhile, this little canuck guy is petting old Freckles like a long lost Labrador retriever and whispering sweet nothings into his ear before he finally stammers out, “Okie-dokey guys, let’s turn her loosey!”
back into the gate 2.3 seconds into the ride, but I lifted it just in time to hear him opine that maybe his “glove was loose.” His Kevlar glove. His PINK Kevlar glove. The very one still lashed into the rope that Freckles was dragging past a barrel painted like a friggin Stella Artois bottle (told you). By the end, this guy finished third, thanked no less than 47 sponsors and collected a check for $5,000. Clutching a diet Coke, he walked off the stage hugging everyone along the way and signing autographs for scantily clad super models (who are inexplicably on the front row of a rodeo).
t to bed. Whether she actually liked the name or was simply exasperated with my sloth-like ability to make a decision will need to be inferred by you, the reader. Regardless, I’ve plunked down my 12 bucks, bought the name, and made at least some semblance of a commitment to bring literary entertainment to people outside my Facebook circle.
s those thoughts make it to type, and sometimes they annoy my wife on our back porch after a couple of frothy adult beverages. She pretends to listen, nods her head at all the right times, and subtly reminds me that she’s the spit and sweat that’s held this marriage together for almost 20 years (all without even uttering a word). Amazing woman.
for craft beer, smoked pork, and classical movies like Smokey & the Bandit.