Dreaming of Buddy Rich & Eggs

I somehow was notified that I was requested to be a Buddy Rich’s* funeral. They needed a flag bearer, and they wanted not only a drummer, but somebody who was “religious.” My job was to stand on the side of the church/hall/synagogue (whatever it was), and hold the flag for the brotherhood of drummers. (There is no official brotherhood of drummers, and there really is no official flag, but apparently in this dream there was.)

I stood on the side. Nancy Pelosi stood behind me. It’d been a long time since I’d been a Boy Scout, so my flag etiquette was a little rusty. The American Flag led the procession. When it passed, I dipped the flag of the Brotherhood of Drummers. Next came the officiant. Next was Buddy’s coffin. As it passed, Nancy poked me and told me to dip the drummer flag in honor of Buddy. I didn’t think I was supposed to, but I did in difference to her.

After the procession was over, Nancy pulled me aside. She said “Why didn’t you make that sign of the cross thing, you know, like priests do? ” I said “Well, I’m not a priest. In fact, I’m not even Catholic! And, since Buddy was Jewish, I don’t think the arch diocese will mind that I didn’t make the sign of the cross.” And she said:

“The arch diocese is Catholic?”

Then I woke up. But then there was more! I fell back asleep, and was rewarded with this little number.

I was walking from my grandmother’s house to my mother’s house (they are next door to each other in real life). I was carrying three flats of eggs. These eggs had been in my grandmother’s fridge for many weeks, and no one was eating them.** I was taking them over to my mother’s house to eat them.

While crossing the lawn, I met Ron (one of my employees) and his wife Heather. Ron said “You’re not going to eat those eggs, are you?” I responded “I think they’ll be ok.” Then I said “Heather, you’re a farm girl; are these eggs ok?” (In real life, Heather’s family owns a farm.)

I pulled the top off the eggs. Each egg was in a little crocheted pouch. One was cracked. “That’s probably not one we should judge,” I said. “Let’s crack one open right here. You can look at it and smell it, and tell me if it’s ok.” Heather said she’d really rather not smell what might be a rotten egg.

The end.

*Buddy Rich was discussed at the office the last two days.
**We also have some eggs at the office. A customer brought them by for us. No one has touched them. They’ve been there for some time.

More Devil Dreams

It’s not the first time I’ve dreamed of the Devil. Heck, it’s only been a few weeks since my last one! I don’t remember all the details. Susan and I were moving (or helping someone move) out of a very old mansion. The house was possessed by, you guessed it, Satan.  My job was to keep him at bay until we could move out. I remember I had two very old pulpit Bibles I carried around with me everywhere. Satan wanted them for some particular reason. I remember a scene in the courtyard where the Devil was giving a “pep talk” to some of the locals. As he was talking, he was slowly turning from a human form into his more natural “devil” look. And, I remember having him trapped at one point in a room. He turned into a frog and escaped down a hole used for a heating pipe. I went one floor below, and found a Haitian looking woman packing. I asked who she was, and she replied she was a servant helping us pack. I said “Or perhaps you’re the devil in human form!” She said she wasn’t, but that she had noticed the smell of brimstone in the room a few moments before. I went into the next room, and found the Devil over there.  That’s all I remember.

The Macquarium

For those of you who haven’t checked out the other parts of my site, you might not know that I’ve built a bunch of Macquariums. Most I’ve either given away or sold, but I’ve kept one in the office for many years. My kids have been asking me to build another one, so they can have one here at home. The fish at work died a couple of weeks ago. Today, I decided I’d bring the Macquarium home the office, and set it up at home. (The kids are at camp; I was hoping to surprise them when they got home.) I was washing the tank in the sink, getting it nice and clean, when I spied a small crack in the side. It was not there when it was at the office. Then SNAP, the crack got huge, and water began pouring out. I broke the tank. I have the glass downstairs to build another tank, but not the aquarium sealant. And, it takes a total of three days to build a tank–not enough time before the kids get home. Shucks!

Pizza Delivery Dreams

In the dream, I was in the parking lot of the Rockland AutoZone. For some reason, they were advertising some family pizza special from Snappy’s. I called Susan, and asked if she wanted me to pick up some pizza. She said she did, and that she was at my sister’s. She asked that, if Lisa wanted something, would I be willing to pick it up. I said “Sure.” I left it for her to call them and place the order.

Fifteen minutes or so elapse. I’m cleaning the trash out of my car. The Snappy’s guy shows up with the order. He hands me a bag with about four 2-liter bottles of soda in it. I figured “Wow, Lisa really did want something!” I’m putting the sodas in the back of my station wagon, and the guy pulls the pizza out of the car. I can see the guy eyeing my car visually measuring the width of my doors. He’s holding three or four huge pizzas. He’s handing them to me, and they’re super heavy! “I hope you’ve got a way to get these in your car. And I hope you have a way to pay for all this.”

“How much is the tab?” I ask.

“About $70,” he said.

“I don’t have that kind of cash on me,” I said.

“Well, I think I’ll need to take those back then,”

“You want to re-load those back into your car?” I asked. “Look, I bank at the credit union, and that’s right down the road. Why don’t you follow me there, and I’ll get some cash out of the ATM?”

He agreed. Then I woke up.

More Drumming Dreams

Yet another drumming dream. I’m starting to see a pattern!

Paddy accepted this gig. We were the opening band for a soul and funk festival. I was out back hanging out with all these bands. I’d never heard of any of them, but they were supposedly big acts. There were about four bands that went on after us, but before the headliner. Who was the headliner? James Brown! So backstage, I’m talking gear with all the cats. One guy has this incredible looking drumset. It was a violet to silver sparkle fade, similar to this. The drums themselves were made out of titanium! It was slick.

It was time for me to get to the stage. I went to grab some stuff, and Jason Wilcox stopped me. He reached into my empty drum bags, and pulled a snare bag out, with a snare still inside. He asked “Do you want to leave this back here?” I opened the bag, and found my 1925 Leedy Black Elite inside. Now way did I want to leave that backstage with a bunch of strangers. But, I didn’t want to use it as my primary snare onstage. So I just decided to bring it onstage with me. I got to the stage, and Allison Murray, who was the band’s singer, was complaining about the set list. “Patrick has picked all these songs we don’t even know,” she said. I asked her if she questioned him about it. She said “He said ‘It’s just music. We can fake it.'” I agreed that opening for James Brown probably wasn’t the place to be figuring out songs onstage.

I then noticed that my drums weren’t set up! We had 15 minutes until we were supposed to start, and my drums were just lying about on the stage. I started to freak out. The festival was outside, and there was no curtain on the stage. I had to set up in front of the audience. They were getting uneasy; they new I’d be hard pressed to get set-up and ready in 15 minutes. Paddy came onstage, saw my delema, and said something along the lines of “What the heck is going on! How come the drums aren’t set up?” I said I didn’t know, but I was working as fast I could.

I took my bass drum, set it upright, and started adjusting the legs that keep the drum from moving. I adjusted stage right first. When I went to the stage left side, I noticed the drum leg bracket was all apart! Now, I had to reassemble this thing, under pressure, in front of screaming fans. And there were about 10 pieces to the bracket, and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out how it was supposed to go back together. Then I woke up.

What’s this all mean? Three times in what, a week or so, I’ve had strange dreams about music. Two of them have involved being stressed for time, and two have included something broked that I needed to fix. What’s the deal?

Another Crazy Music Dream

Last night’s dream went something like this:

Blind Albert had secured a gig as the soundman for a Stewart Copeland gig in Boston. (For those of you who didn’t click the link in the previous post, Stewart Copeland was the drummer for The Police, and one of my favorite drummers.) Blind Albert said he’dd like me to come along and help, but there were two catches: I’d need to fly to MA, and I’d have to buy a ticket. For the chance to be so close, and work with, such an amazing talent, I said yes.

I got to the concert. Stewart was already set up. He hit his snare drum. (Stewart’s snare has a signature sound: high pitched, with lots of air and crack. Incidentally, in real life I own one of his signature snares!) It sounded awful! He came up to me, and admitted he wasn’t great at tuning drums. I sorta pride myself on being a good drum tuner. I listened to his snare, and realized his bottom head was way too loose. I cranked it up for him, and then that signature sound was back. He played his first song. I don’t remember what it was. After it was done, he got up, and went to the bar that was set up behind his drum kit, and started to mix himself some cocktails. He also poured himself about five shots of Sambuca. He proceeded to drink them all. He was talking to the audience the whole time, and you could here in his voice he was getting intoxicated. He then wandered off “stage” (which was in the round–you sat all around his drums, which were set up on the floor of the club). Everyone started talking, trying to figure out what was going on. After a few minutes, on the side of the club opposite where Stewart exited, a video began to play on a big screen. The screen was covered by a translucent curtain; you couldn’t tell what was playing on the screen, but you knew something was. The curtain pulled away, and then you could see it was the video for Roxanne. “Ah,” I thought “this is all part of the show.” Sure enough, Stewart came back on stage from behind the screen–meaning he entered from the opposite way he left. I remember thinking “How’d he get over there without anyone seeing him?” The next thing I know, he’s dancing with some girl in front of the screen. They’re just slow dancing like two drunks, holding on to each other, shuffling around in a circle, each one almost trying to hold the other up. It seemed rather odd they would slow dance to a song with the intensity of Roxanne, but that’s what they did.

When the song was over, Stewart announced the concert was over, and he went and mixed himself some more drinks. I went up to him and said “Do you realize all these people came down to hear you play, and you only played one song!” He said (in a Brittish accent–which is odd because he’s an American who was raised in the Middle East–and he doens’t speak with a bit of English accent) “Aw man, I though I played two songs!” And I replied “No, you didn’t. And not only did I buy a ticket to see you, but I bought a plane ticket to be here!” At that point I said to Blind Albert, “C’mon, let’s get on the stage and play some Police songs for these people.” (And, of course in real life, Blind Albert and I don’t play any Police songs. OK, once in a while we drag out Message in a Bottle.) So we proceed to play Spirits in a Material World. Stewart blasts on stage, screaming drunk. I’m really upset. “Hey man, I look up to you. See…” I said pointing between my legs “…here’s my Stewart Copeland signature snare! I went out and bought this because I like your sound so much!” He said something like “If you keep playing my songs, I’m going to stick these drumsticks in your ear!” And I said “I’d like to see you try.” So he does this drunken lunge towards me. He’s so out of it, I easily twist him around, and have him on the floor. I’ve got him sitting on the ground, and I’ve got his arm twisted behind him. The bartenders are on the phone to the cops, and they’re asking them to come out and drag Stewart off! I then tell him something like “Now I’m going back behind those drums, to play music–your music–to these people who came out to see you, not me! And now I’ve got to play for them ’cause you’re too much of a drunk to care!” And as I started to head for the drums, the crowd started cheering, and Stewart, still sitting on the floor, hung his head in shame and embarassment.

Crazy Dream, Two Guitar Players

I had this strange dream last night. Paddy and I were going to play this gig with Three Button Deluxe. We got to the gig, which was in this old Odd Fellows Hall turned bar with an outside bandstand ala Union Fair kinda thing. (Sorry for those of you who’ve never seen the Union Fair bandstand. Picture a covered porch.) I’m setting up the drums. I pull my snare stand out of the hardware bag. In my dream, it’s a snare stand made by the North drum company. The only problem is that this snare stand is incredibly complicated. And, mine has fallen apart. In my dream I’m thinking “There are only two people in the world who can fix this: me and Stewart Copeland.” In my dream, it’s almost time for us to get started, so I don’t have time to fix this intricate snare stand. (Incidentally, North Drums didn’t make any wicked fancy, complicated snare stands. It’s just some silly thing my brain made up for me in my dream.) I decide not to bother to fix it. It’s about 15 minutes before we start to play. Chris Poulin, the back-up guitar player we sometimes use when Quick can’t make a gig has arrived, and he’s brought Quick’s PA system. Quick is supposed to be playing this gig, but hasn’t arrived yet. Paddy is running around, trying to get the PA set up before we start to play. I start to pull a floor tom out of one of my drum bags, and I notice the bag is all wet. I can see through the clear drum heads that water has soaked into the wooden drum, and the bearing edge is thick with soaked-up water. The drum appears to be made out of OSB, and the drum has just soaked up all kinds of water, and basically fallen apart.

The end.