So, last night I dreamed that my good friend Dave Scearce (a swell guy and one of the best bassists around) took me to see a comedian perform at a stone amphitheater. The comedian was a figment of my imagination and not an actual comedian, and I can't remember if he was any good or not. Besides, it wasn't important to the dream. Anyway, we were watching this guy perform and I got up to go to the bathroom. Suddenly, I became weightless, and I began to float upward. I reached a height of maybe forty or fifty feet, and then this zero gravity phase of my dream came to an abrupt halt. I plummeted downward, terrified, and slammed into the cruel rock surface that the amphitheater was composed of.
This left me with a mangled arm that was bleeding freely and a deep gash in my head that was bleeding even worse than the mangled arm. Making matters worse, I began vomiting up blood. Lots of blood. Dave was quick to lend a hand, and he rushed me to the hospital. I told him not to call Kristen (my wife) until we saw a doctor because I was hoping that it wasn't that bad and I didn't want to scare her. This while I continued to gush blood from my wounds and puke up lots and lots of blood repeatedly.
Once we got to the hospital, we had to wait a while, but finally the doctor hit the scene. He looked like a normal enough guy, but I knew things had taken a turn for the worse when he introduced himself as Dr. Frankenstein. My misgivings were confirmed when he pulled a gun on me and said, "My prescription: one round to the base of your skull to put you out of your misery."
At that point, I looked to Dave and acknowledged that it was time to call my wife.
. . . . .
Anyone who wants to offer me some meaningful insight into that absurdity is welcome to do so.