It's 3am, and I just had one of the strangest dreams of my life. I need to take this down before I forget it.
I was in the home of DCF's own Jason and Spring, which in this dream had a garage that opened directly onto the kitchen instead of the driveway. In this garage was a grand piano, on which the two bloggers kept a framed picture of me of which they spoke endlessly ("Oh, we had dinner by the piano last night, right next to your picture!"). I mean, narcissism is one thing, but to have devotees? I felt like that nutcase from Strong City.
Anyhow, behind this grand piano was a three-wheeled motorcycle Jason was trying to sell to me. I took it out for a test drive, the whole time yelling "I still don't understand what the motor's for!" The bike was far too big for me; I had to lean all the way forward and extend my arms just to reach the handlebars. The thing handled like a riding mower, turned like a tank, and braked about as well as an ocean liner.
On the streets of Albuquerque, I was met with a crew of fixies on a Critical Mass ride, including some I know outside of the dream world. We all pulled an illegal u-turn in front of a pickup truck, and on our way back to the garage kitchen, came across none other than Don Schrader.
He was standing in the center turn lane of the street, surrounded by gigantic three-foot-tall sex toys that were wobbling all over in the wind like palm trees in a hurricane. He was accompanied by a flock of people who, in this kooky dream of mine, were an army of volunteers from Self Serve. They were all handing out gigantic bottles of lube, saying "Happy Masturbation Day!" Somehow, in the dream, I knew the date, and said, "Aren't you a little late?"
The cyclists and I pocketed the bottles and raced back to Spring and Jason's house. It should be noted that, despite having a motor under me, I was drafting off half of the riders in front of me. The whole lot of us rode our bikes right through the front door, through the kitchen, into the garage, and up behind the grand piano. It was at this point that I saw the picture of myself on the piano and woke up.
Believe it or not, I have not embellished a single detail of this story. All of this played out in my subconscious, influenced by the crazy town in which we all live. Albuquerque, what have you done to me?