Waking up from afternoon naps is weirder during times of mounting catastrophic societal failure. We established this earlier, in the scientifically accurate Pogo Dancing In My Sleep, as detailed here.
Today, I once again participated in the Weird Dream Olympics after lunch, with a fairly nostalgic and realistic episode. I was discussing an upcoming UpTones performance (this is not a thing) with a promoter and someone who was our actual manager during some of the actual times, and we needed to pick another band to play on the bill. Someone asked if we should ask Translator and I said sure, even though I didn’t know if they were still active, in my dream, or in waking life. Then there was a thing, in this dream, where we started rehearsing our set, and at a point, I realized I had written a set list earlier and forgot to make copies, and then, things turned odd as dreams do. Giraffes complained the bass wasn’t loud enough and requested peppermint. It seemed reasonable to me, and then, waking up, to daylight, as happens in naps, I had the odd “what time is it” and “what’s the deal” and “oh there isn’t a gig and giraffes plus Translator” moment.
OK.
And was reminded again of my very recent uproarious outbelt (I just made that up – outburst + belting = outbelt, carry on), I Promise Not To Drunk Text Bobby About Getting The Band Back Together. A missive so verbose and riotous that even the title was too long for part of BMI’s song registration interface. Success.
Artwork for this is in progress, and in meantime, the photo of me observing a flagrant violation of any drink James Bond would have, will hold the post valiantly.
We hope your day is grand, and if you attend the Weird Dream Olympics, you win medals.
