I had a weird dream last night. It must have been because I had too much of that dangerous combination of tequila and mousse.
I dreamt I had walked into a big box store for some reason or other, but when I went through the doors it was more like a music club. There was a bar and a band playing loud metal music, lights whizzing around the room and the smell of poppers in the air. Trying to act nonchalant like this is a normal thing inside shopping stores, I move towards the front of the room as is my normal behavior in a club. As I get closer to the stage, I could begin to make out the band. They are all nondescript white kids in their twenties, all with long dreaded hair that moved in concert with each other as if the hairstylist had been the choreographer.
They were fucking loud!
They were all moving in time to the groove of the music, a 5/4 count which I thought to myself at the time was an odd groove for a death metal band.
But it was a dream so who was I to argue. (It was a dream where you know it was a dream but you were in it anyway-I hate those!!)
So the band is playing, and the audience is pumping and I begin to drift into the beat of the moment and start to hear the lyrics.
Da-da-dadada Da, da-da-dadada Da , da-da-dadada Da, Satan sells you socks, Satan sells you frocks, Da-Da-dadada Da , Satan cuts your locks, Satan fills your Box.
I was never much for the lyrical content of death metal/cookie monster bands. (Even though I’ve played in many of them), but this seemed a bit odd even for them!
But I guess I was mixing things in my head because I really didn’t understand what was going on and as I looked around and I found my fellow concert goer’s holding electronics and consumer items over their heads and swinging to the beat.
They are all yelling:
Satan Sells us Socks.
Ok, that wasn’t the weird part. That’s just my normal fucked up notions about consumerism mixed with my years of selling shoes in a past lifetime.
But here is where it gets a bit funky- A tall dapper man well into his 50’s comes out onstage to address the audience. This man is an exact Clooney clone except for the fact he had no feet that I could see. Just pant legs that go to the floor. He moved up onto the stage and opened his mouth as if to sing.
Satan sells you socks, Satan fills your box.
But instead of words coming out he just pukes up all this money, in bill AND coin form, Gobs of it! Now I’m thinking to myself in my semi-lucid dream state-this is getting weird, do the cashiers know he’s doing this?
But the band starts to hit it harder and the audience is eating it up. Literally! One at a time they walk up there and stick their face in the mound of money puke like a it’s pie eating contest and chow down. It’s almost sacramental.They all walk away from the stage with a mixture of puke. and cash on their faces, with the electronics they were holding, now attached to them like crosses on Easter. They are all still singing with the band-which I now also realize have never stopped playing the verse. No Chorus, No Bridge, No break. Just an endless verse with lyrics only slightly changing.
Satan goers to Philz.
Satan cures your Ills
Still not that bad……I mean I know I’m dreaming and I know I’m just a casual observer thinking that this is odd in the dream, but this is America, I’m liberal. Dude with no feet…a bit weird, but hey,everybody has issues-until all of the concert goers began to take off their clothes and and grope each other.
Now we’re talking gross, these folks are covered in money and puke, all still attached to their electronics like an appendage from days gone by. All undulating and gyrating.
Did I not mention that the dapper dude is continuing to puke up his substance all this time?
So the room is filled up to my knees in this sticky gooey stuff that smells oddly like Cilantro. Folks are now having sex in the club, sex on the floor, sex on the bar, sex on the stage- but sex is not intercourse or felatio or one of these chestnuts. No sex in this dream is using the other persons electronics! Everybody is fingering everybody else’s Iphones, Iwatches, Flat screens, Game boys….
At this point I can’t take it so I split-I run- I actually fly because while I was standing there my feet began to disappear
So I float/run out the door as fast as I can into the night. The clear cold night of a normal San Francisco fall.
Mousse- too dangerous to eat alone.
I hate those kind of dreams.