Wow, it seems like every time I go a day or two between entries, and I’m planning what to write about next, I always have a super-weird dream that fills in the gaps nicely.

Last night’s dream I don’t remember linearly enough to tell it all, but what I do remember needs to be captured, so here you go.

I’m on tour with a band, and we’ve just played a show in Denver, on our way to Salt Lake City.  We each drove separately, for some reason, and I’m out in SLC, looking for a place to eat dinner.  I park at a restaurant, walk inside, and see a glass of DewFromMountains on the table, and to me that means only one thing:  Ozzy Osbourne must be here, somewhere.

Sure enough, he walks around the corner just then, and I introduce myself.  “Hi, I’m Todd.  I’m a guitarist. . .YOUR guitarist!. . .(pause). . .Kidding!  Zakk Wylde is totally your guy.”

“Zakk doesn’t play with me anymore.  I found a new kid who’s fourteen years old, and he’s amazing.”

We end up hanging out, eating dinner together, and then he sort of comes along with me while I check into my hotel room and everything.  I start to unpack my clothes and guitars and amps and stuff, and I call one of my bandmates.  “Hey.  You’ll never guess who I’m hanging out with right now. . .Ozzy!  Osbourne!. . .I know, it’s crazy.  Hey, what time’s our show tonight?”

“It’s already over.  You missed it.”

“Get OUTTA here.  It is not.  Over.  It’s only 5:30; what kind of show is over by 5:30?”

“This one.  So we’re packing our stuff up right now.”

“That’s so lame!  Well, sorry about that.  I guess you guys can just split the money between you, and leave me out of the pay for this one.”  I hang up and tell Ozzy that I missed the show.  I tell him that my mom lives here in Salt Lake City (which she doesn’t, really) and that we can go eat and do laundry at her place.  The dream changes, and we’re at my mom’s place.  No one else is home, and I start to pile up my dirty laundry.  Her tiny little kitten (which she doesn’t really have) starts to run through the room and claw at our clothes and guitars.  I tell Ozzy, “We need to keep that kitten out of here.  He sprays, and he’ll destroy all our stuff.”  I grab the kitten and put him next to the back door.

I walk back into the other room, and find a T-shirt that one of my bandmates has made, for us only, to commemorate the tour.  It’s white, with a bunch of colored boxes with comic-style writing that tells inside jokes and rhymes.

“B_ _ _ _ _ fails!”

“7 + 5/2 – (the ‘square root of’)12 = Rawk!”

“And B_ _ _ _ _ is not a dork!”

I start to tell Ozzy that I can’t remember where I left my rental car, and that I’m worried about how I’m going to meet up with the rest of the band.  He laughs and tells me that I’m welcome to crash at his hotel room if I need to.  “Thanks,” I say, “but that won’t really solve the problem.”

That’s all I remember.  You can tell this was a dream because I was actually looking around for a place to eat while I was in Salt Lake City, whereas if I was awake I’d be heading to the Sego Lily Cafe over in Bountiful, which is my favorite cafe ever.

I need to start taking drugs, so that I can have an excuse for all these weird dreams.

OneYearAgo