My Sleeping Brain Writes Good Lines for Sam Elliott

There are three things that stand out about a recent dream that I had:

1) The dream was pretty damn weird.

2) While dreaming, my mind is apparently capable of writing killer lines for Sam Elliott.

3) The way my brain works, when my mind writes a killer line for Sam Elliott while I'm dreaming, this experience is potent enough to wake me up.  Whereas some people might wake in the midst of a nightmare, scared out of their minds, dreaming up good material for Sam has the same effect on me.  I was literally jolted awake.  I sat there in the darkness thinking, "Wow, that was a really good line."

So, the dream involved a woman I do not know and Sam Elliott.  These two had partnered in an attempt to operate a video rental business.  Given that my dreams tend to be rather absurd, this venture was located in a canyon and their inventory consisted of VHS tapes from the 80s.  The fact that this operation utilized VHS tapes from the 80s makes a bit more sense when you take into account that the Sam Elliot present in my dreams was also from the 80s--think The Quick and the Dead.  The canyon location is a bit more puzzling, particularly since I should probably specify that there was no structure situated within the canyon.  The VHS tapes were displayed on natural formations of rock that were roughly akin to shelves. 

Anyway, some marauding band of raiders vandalized this burgeoning enterprise one night, shooting up all the tapes.  Naturally, upon discovering this carnage the following morning, the woman and Sam Elliott were both greatly upset.  The woman was crying, lamenting the fact that they had not built a structure to house and protect their merchandise as well as her inability to find those responsible and make them pay for the damage.  Sam was equally distraught, but he was too pissed off to show it.  As he climbed atop a horse and prepared to go out looking for revenge, he said the line that I'm still stuck on.

"You're wishing you had done one thing and you're wishing you would do something else," Sam growled, yanking his six-shooter from its holster and proudly displaying it with a grin.  "Well, I'm fixing to do something--and it ain't wishing."  Then he promptly holstered his weapon and rode off, blazing a path toward a violent revenge, all while I sat up with a start, pondering my brain's ability to generate quality Sam Elliott material while I'm snoring.

If you somehow wind up in one of my dreams,
I strongly advise you NOT to fuck with Sam Elliott's VHS tapes.

Weird Dreams - 8/24/2012 Edition

I'm a deranged horror author, so it should come as no surprise that I have lots of nightmares and weird dreams.  There's some strange stuff happening inside my cranium, and sometimes my nocturnal escapades are so bizarre that I feel the need to share them.

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.