Some of you reading this are aware that I am a working cowboy pulling a USDA 'tick-rider' contract somewhere in the middle of BFE, or if we're talking in GPS'ese, roughly south of Lajitas, Texas. It can be a lonely sort of job, not a lot of human-to-human contact and probably too much time in saddle for my own good; but, it pays really well and like many of my Compadre I am a loner-type so the job suits me fine, . . . but it does have its drawbacks.
I have begun to carry on provocative and lengthily conversations with a 6-year-old blue roan gelding with a blind eye named Lil'Joe. Lil'Joe is a fine government horse; in fact a fine horse all around and a patient listener. Just the other day I was telling him about this dream I had the night before . . .
In the dream- (and FYI, I hardly ever have dreams) . . . any way, I am in a dark and smokey bar like the one's Kris Kristofferson used to write songs about. It’s a biker bar and the place is full of "bad" bikers, not "good" bikers. These bikers are being exceptionally pig-like toward a purty lil' gal named Tamara. Now Tamara in this dream looks a lot like Jamie Presley from the TV show 'My Name Is Earl' and the bikers are close to dishonoring her by attempting to pull a train on her as she is being forced to lean over a pool table. Did I say that Tamara looks like Jamie Presely, the actress? . . . Anyway, I'm sitting at a corner table watching all this in a real-time dream and after tipping back the last swallow of my Shiner, I stand up, take the container of super-strength pills I keep in the little pocket-in-the-pocket of my Wranglers, which for any ladies reading this are tight fitting Wranglers; so I swallow one, cause that's all you ever need when taking super-strength pills. As the super-strength-pill begins to work its' magic I challenge the baldheaded, tatted-up leader of the biker gang to a arm resslin' match for the honor of sweet lil' ol Tamara. I promptly whip his bald-headed-tatted-up ass and then in quick succession every one of the other bikers, till I face the stereotypical biker gang "runt" who went by the name of Poochie in this dream.
You know the one. . . . skinny, sunken-chested, pocket-protector in his biker vest; wearing the glasses with the broken taped-up ear stem.
At this point the dream begins to slow down like a typically poorly choreographed 'Walker, Texas Ranger' fight sequence; It's just me and Poochie, except that in the background I can hear sweet, lil'ol Tamara saying something about "either use it or lose it.”
I stay focused despite that . . . Anyway, we go at it, locking hands, staring straight into each other’s eyes and then even before we get the go-ahead from the midget bartender . . . (my dreams seem to always include a random midget for some still unexplained reason; I will need to see someone about that lil' ditty no doubt!)- sorry for that lapse, I was saying, we're just about to lock it up, the moment of truth . . . I can feel the surge of super-strength pulsing through my now Popeye-like arm from bicep to iron-band wrist and then . . . Poochie takes a gun out of his pocket and shoots me dead! What in the Sam Hell is up with that?
Super-strength pills my ass!
End of dream. I tried to drift back into it; no luck. Gone like the wind.
Is there meaning to this dream?
Is there a puny biker-dude out there with my name typed into his PDA?
I have not had a good night’s rest since this dream. I'm seriously considering an appointment to see a combination late 60's pop-psychologist slash mescal dealer who runs a little practice out of one of the back rooms of the Santa Elena Cantina just across the river. I hear that he has a way with dream interpretations. I need to do something . . . very . . . tired . . . must . . . get . . . sleep.
Adios,
lc
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment