Hot Dog Hannibal Lecter

Sunday night, I heard an NPR broadcast about an actor who was in Silence of the Lambs, and his story of working with Anthony Hopkins. So when I woke at 3am this morning, I was only a little surprised to find scenes from the movie replaying in my mind. I found it hard to get back to sleep, as I thought about the gruesomeness of cannibal Hannibal Lecter.

I dozed off though, and started dreaming. I “woke up” in my dream (isn’t it crazy to be dreaming about waking up in your dream?), and there, next to me, in my bed, was a hot dog cart.* I somehow knew that only the mad craftiness of Hannibal Lecter could get an entire hot dog card set up in my bed, and not wake me up. I knew that there, in the dark, behind the hot dog cart, was the cannibal Hannibal Lecter. And in my dream I thought:

“Oh no, I’m about to be eaten with ketchup and mustard!”

Then I woke up.

*Incidentally, last night I attended a Kiwanis meeting with Keith Wass, hot dog magnate of midcoast Maine. After the meeting, I was behind him in traffic. His license plate? Hot Dogs.

Dreaming About the White Ford and the Gun Range

Last night’s dream: It started out with me selling a white Ford truck to Spike Hyssong. We were in the parking lot of Wasses, and strangely the slope of the parking lot was the other direction–it went downhill to the west. Anyway, we jump in “my” old truck, which I haven’t used in six months, and try to get it started. It cranks, but won’t catch. I put the pedal to the floor to get the carburated engine more fuel. It still won’t fire. So then I pull up the choke handle, and it still won’t catch. (Side note: Though I’ve owned a white Ford truck, it was fuel injected. I owned a carburated Ford truck, but it was blue. I’ve never owned any vehicle with a manual choke handle.) Thankfully, due to the slope of the parking lot, we start rolling away from Wasses. I pop the clutch just before we fall into a quarry (where’d that come from!), and we start driving.

Next thing I remember, we’re driving on Old County Road. It’s there I realize that this isn’t my truck at all, but it belongs to Harley Colwell. Spike asks me if there’s anything wrong with the truck, and I tell him “It needs a battery.”

Next up. I’m at a house owned by Barbara Koster Pratt Stewart. It’s a small Victorian style New England farmhouse, and James Thompson is trying to sell it for her. Barbara isn’t living there, so she’s let Jim and his family stay in the main house.

Outside the main house is a big old barn. Inside the barn is a shooting range. a bunch of people are in there shooting, but I don’t remember who other than Blaine Curtis and Spruce Head lobsterman Jim Tripp. I’m there with my M1 Garand, and I’m teaching Paula Sutton how to shoot. She claims she’s never shot before, but she loads the Garand, drops into the prone position, and fires of a string of shots all in the black with a great grouping except for one flyer. I’m impressed.

We’re sitting around talking when Jim Tripp walks up to me, points a loaded revolver at my head, and starts laughing. I push it away from me and say “That’s not an ok thing do.” He insists he would never shoot me. And while I believe him, I’m very shook up. I say something to “Look, this wasn’t some quick ‘I accidentally passed the muzzle in front of you while I was drawing from a shoulder holster” moment. You deliberately pointed that gun at me!” I walked off the range.

I went into the main house, which was small, but immaculate. I found the living room, and Jim Thompson had the complete Monty Python collection of DVDs. Every movie, every TV show, every sketch, on 40 DVDs. I decided I needed to find one particular bit, but I couldn’t remember the name of it. I was going to fast forward through 40 DVDs until I found it. Then I heard Susan in the other room.

I went up to her, and she was telling me about her bad day. I cut her off and said “Jim Tripp held a gun to my head and thought it was funny.” Then I started crying. I couldn’t stop. I wasn’t really afraid, but just emotionally spent. Susan, sensing that, didn’t say anything. She just held me and rubbed my head. Then I woke up.

North Drum Dreams

In last night’s dream, I was playing some club in Bangor. I walked into the restaurant, and Blind Albert was sitting at a table with his wife Lee. I went and sat down. I was looking at the stage. I remembered (isn’t it funny how dreams have a memory–like a past tense–even though you didn’t dream that part?) that I had to arrive early to set up. My drums were already on stage. The Blind Albert bass player, Glenn, was on stage playing guitar. Apparently he had a solo set booked before our main show. In addition to Glenn, some guy was on stage playing MY drums. I was a little miffed someone would play my drums without permission, and I hoped someone wasn’t playing me for a fool, having me come set up early so this other guy wouldn’t have to bring his own drums. But, I figured ‘No sense in getting bent outta shape about it. Might as well relax, and talk about it after the gig.’

I decided that I’d take a walk over to some music store. It was just a building or two over. It was raining, so I did a quick jog to the store, and went inside. It was a big music store. I noticed what appeared to be some snare drums in a room just off the main room, so I walked over to investigate. Outside the main drum room was some used stuff against the wall. There was a Tama Granstar bass drum in Cherry Rose with a tag that said “Make Offer.” I thought “Man, it’s hard to move a single bass drum, let alone one that’s pink.” I also saw an old North kit. Asking price? $1200. Not an unfair price, but too rich for my blood. I entered the drum room, and looked around. Nice stuff, but nothing stood out at me, and there were no good deals. I exited the room, and was just about to leave when I saw a salesman approaching.

“Can I help you find something?”
“No, I’m just looking, really. I like that ol’ North set you have.”
“Yeah, that’s a cool kit. I’m surprised I haven’t sold it yet. I don’t have that much into it.”
“I’d give you $800,” I said, feeling like he’d never jump at that price.
“OK, I’ll take it,” he said, very fast. I was now thinking ‘Um, how did I just end up buying a North set, when I have more sets than I need, and this one certainly isn’t going to be played at gigs any time soon.’
So I said to him “Before I take it, I need to check a few things. First, I need to make sure the rubber bumper edge is still on the kick drum.”
He said “Yup, it’s still there.”
“And,” I said “I need the rack.”
“Not only do you get the rack, but you get TWO racks. There’s ALL KINDS of hardware that goes with it.”

So we started pulling out the stuff. The guy was right. There were two racks. Plus, there were North cymbal stands, snare stand, and hi hat stand. You almost never see those. I started to put one of the racks together. It was a nightmare! It was so complicated, I was thinking ‘Who would ever use one of these racks? It takes forever to set up!’ Then I looked over at the salesman. He had his rack all together. He could see I was befuddled. “Last time I put this together, I took notes,” he said. “That’s how I can set it up so fast. Once you’ve done it a few times, you get the hang of it.”

Then I woke up.

Six Guns, Motorcycles, and a Haunted House

I had this dream last night. I was in a bar next to the Rockland McDonald’s. (Locals, do you remember “Spanky’s”? Interestingly, someone brought that place up at the office yesterday.) They were having a fundraiser for some charity, and raffling of a motorcycle. Tickets were $2000 each! It was some Harley motorcycle, and the posters said you had really great odds of winning. I don’t know what possessed me to do it… I don’t have a motorcycle endorsement on my license. My motorcycle riding is limited, and I probably shouldn’t start out learning to ride a Harley. And I certainly don’t have the money. But I bought a ticket! I put the $2000 on my credit card! The lady behind the bar asked me to have a seat, and someone would be over to talk to me about my purchase.

I sat at this table with some umbrella over it. A little odd, since we were inside. As I was sitting there, a waitress delivered some complimentary hot wings. (I guess if you drop two grand on a raffle ticket you get free wings!) The bar manager came over, and gave me some other stuff. Apparently, just by buying the ticket, I was entitled to some stuff for free. I got a beer mug, a hat, and some plastic six guns and holsters.  (Apparently there was some theme Western theme to the contest.) He then asked me to follow him behind the bar.

I went through some swinging doors, and I was behind the bar in what I could only describe as a haunted house. The bar manager explained to me that the contest was thus: I would have to make my way through this walk through,  haunted house style carnival attraction. He assured me that everything was fake, and I wouldn’t be hurt by anything in the attraction in any way. But he told me it WAS very scary, and I could suffer a heart attack or some other issue. I could ask to be let out of the ride at any time. If I did, I would loose the contest. If I made it to the end, I would be asked to shoot (with my handy new six guns) one of four bottles off a shelf. If that bottle had a picture of a motorcycle taped to the bottom, I would win the prize. So if I survived the haunted house, I would have a one in four chance of winning the Harley.

Then I woke up.

Mexican Weddings

This dream was from a couple of nights ago. I was in this town just outside of Mexico. Not Mexico, Maine, but Mexico Mexico. It was to be a little bit before Jim’s wedding, so I decided I’d walk over this little bridge into Mexico,  and go have a taco–just so I could say I had a taco in Mexico. Half-way across the bridge was the boarder patrol booth.

“Where are you going,” asked the boarder agent.
“I’d like to go into Mexico,” I replied.
“What’s the purpose of your trip?”
“I’d like to have a taco.”
He looked and me quizzically. “That’s the only reason?” I explained I was from Maine, only had a few hours, that I was there for a wedding, and that I’d like to be able to tell people I’d eaten tacos in Mexico. “Well, it’s really busy in town right now. Why don’t you come back after the wedding, and we’ll put you right through.” I agreed that would be fine.

So I walked to the town hall/high school where the wedding was to take place. It was a very large, very angular, brick building. A local historian was there, and he told me all about the building.  He said:

“The high school auditorium holds 24,000 people. And, we can fill it up, especially around town meeting time.”
I said “How many people live in town?”
“About 40,000,” he replied.

The building was big, but I thought “They can’t fit 24,000 people in here, no way.” I decided to scope things out. I wandered around the building, and found the stage entrance to the auditorium. I entered. It was big, but not that big. I figured the guy misspoke. The place held 2,400, maybe, but not 24,000. And, the hall was pretty beat up. I could tell from the percussion instruments on stage they looked like your typical high-school band instruments. Beat up, unloved, and un-cared-for. Things like sousaphones were being stored up in the balcony. Many of the seats were patched with duct tape. I thought “Why would Jim get married in a place like this?”

I was trying to figure out where I was supposed to go to get ready for this shindig. Someone pointed me to the orchestra pit, on stage left. I headed down there. There, behind a curtain, was Jim and his bride. Interestingly, Jim was getting married to Jeanine (his actual wife), but to Heather Schmidt (Jeanine’s maid of honor in Jim and Jeanine’s real wedding). She was lacing up her boots, when the music started blaring. Incidentally, the music Jim and Heater marched in to was the same song (“So Nice“) Jim and Jeanine actually marched out to! And they didn’t really march. No, it was almost a Broadway musical meets parade meets Sesame Street thing. About 100 people did a song and dance routine onto the stage, along with Jim and Heather. I apparently wasn’t at the rehearsal for this masterpiece, as people were dancing and singing with choreography and the whole bit. I was running around, trying to figure out where I was. I looked out into the audience just in time to see some curtains rising from the balcony, and see about 24,000 people that had been hidden behind some curtains. I thought “Dang, this place is huge!

I finally saw Jim and Heather standing in front of the officiant. As the best man, I figured I should stand up there by them somewhere. I found the bride’s mother, and she motioned me to come stand by her. The officiant was looking at us. She was dressed in a monk’s robe, and wore it hood down. I could see white medical tape across her neck, as well as a gauze pad, and a large scar. Apparently, she was recovering from a tracheotomy. She spoke in a very raspy voice. As she was speaking the opening lines, Heather’s mom tugged on my arm, and said something to me. I don’t remember what it was, but she stopped just in time for me to hear the preacher woman say “…will now lead us in prayer.” So I bowed. And waited. And waited. And waited. And then I thought, “Oh my heck, what if the preacher just said something like “And now the best man will lead us in prayer, and I couldn’t hear it because the bride’s mom was talking!” I looked around, anxious to see if someone was going to give me a cue or something. No one was looking. Every one was head down, eyes closed. But no one was speaking. I didn’t know what to do. Are they all waiting for me to lead the prayer?

Then I woke up.

Dreaming of Laserdiscs

I had a dream last night that I was in a music shop. In the shop, they also had quite a few used laserdiscs. As a guy who still has a LD player, and as a guy who likes a bargain, I was checking tem out. Most of them were “slasher” movies: scantilly clad women running away from some gruesome killer. (One of them had the tagline “Like sex and murder? This is the movie for you!”) Not being into those kinds of movies, I kept looking. There wasn’t anything really good. I did find a copy of “Splash.” It was pretty beat up. At first, I thought “No, it wasn’t THAT good a movie.” Then I thought “Well, it DOES have Tom Hanks.” I pulled the beat-up jacket out of the bin, and the price tag read “$11.00, Rare.”

I looked at the clerk, my facial expressions reading “$11, are you kidding?” She understood my look, and said “According to the guidebook, that’s what it’s worth.” I thought to myself “Good luck selling that at ‘book value'” and put it back in the bin.

The clerk then held up a very large LD box. “Here’s the Jayne Mansfield box set: 80 laserdiscs, every movie she ever made. Interested?” I wasn’t.

That’s all I remember. Well, there was a part about me buying a restored candy green Jeep, but I don’t remember how that tied in.

Dreaming of Linc and Desirae

I can’t remember all of last night’s dream. I remember that I was going to art school, that I had some large project due, and mine wasn’t done. I remember I was going to try and pass off some quicky creation made of cotton balls, and call it “art.” I remember seeing Desirae Page sitting on a fainting couch in a courtyard area of the college. We chatted. I complimented her on her chiseled back (she was wearing some backless halter blouse), and said something to the effect of “You probably get that from roller derby.” (Desirae actually did used to skate in roller derby. She’s now retired due to injury and is training the new peeps.) She squeezed my flabby bicep and said “What’s your back like?” I said “White, spongy, and hairy!” She laughed in that “that’s TMI and gross” kinda way. As we were chatting, Lincoln McRae walked by. We asked how he was doing. He mentioned he was trying to earn some extra cash to buy his grandfather a really nice gravestone. “He’s 100 years old,” Linc said, “and I want to make sure he’s got a nice stone to be remembered by.” (Side note: I believe Linc’s grandfather is still alive, but I don’t think he’s near 100 yet.) He showed us some samples, and why there just happened to be three gravestones nearby is beyond me. (Like the rest of this dream makes any sense anyway! Why not have three sample gravestones in a common area of an art school!)

That’s all I remember.