Once I went to bed last night, and put in my earplugs (earplugs have been making for better sleep than any over-the-counter and/or prescription medicine), I had a weird dream:
I was riding in a truck with my friend Denise. Denise used to work at Rizzoli in SM with me; she is smart, funny, sarcastic, and was really good at her job. She had a great sense of style: dyed red hair, bangs, tattoos: she looked like Jay Bakker's wife when their show was still on (this is one of those comments that I'm not sure the subject will know is a compliment. It is! Both Denise and Amanda possess a certain confidence in their own individual beauty that I could only dream of having myself. They're both strong and gorgeous. It's a compliment, Denise! Send me some pictures and I'll show the world!). Anyway, she and her husband moved to Bakersfield, and I've only seen them about three times in the last 6 years; her husband emails me occasionally with updates and news, but Denise is apparently afraid of the computer. Or just way too busy to waste her time on it; either way, we communicate via her husband, a very interesting man himself.
Anyway, so I'm riding in this pickup truck, and Denise is driving. I'm not sure, but I don't remember her driving a car, ever? I could be wrong. Anyway, the street we were on looked like Sawtelle Boulevard in West LA, where it goes under the freeway, near Pico. If that's the case, we were heading south on Sawtelle, minding our own business, talking in the pickup, when all of a sudden, a man in a big white Cadillac-type car (I've been having a lot of issues with white cars all of a sudden!) comes driving straight at us. He's driving the wrong way on our side of the street.
We hit and it's a major accident, but this is a dream, see, so everyone's OK. The cars are wrecked but we're fine. Denise and I are sitting in the truck with the windows down when the man, the driver of the other car (in my dream he looks a bit like this homeless guy Pat and I saw on our way to the Yard House; we commented at the time that he reminded us of Devandra Banhart), and he's pissed. And crazy. He comes up to my open window, and in his hand is a small wrench - it's doll-sized, it couldn't hurt a fly - and he throws it at us through my window. Denise and I realize that this is a bad situation, so I yell at her to roll up her window, while I roll up mine. And then the guy goes ballistic, hitting our truck with all these minute and diminutive tools: tiny hammers and nails and screwdrivers, he's pulling them out of his pocket or from his car: he's got a ton of teeny tiny little tools and screws.
So while he's hitting us with this barrage of small but pointy implements, we're just sitting in the car, cringing every time one of them strikes the windows - but nothing is hitting us. The car is protecting us, and we start laughing.
I haven't laughed in a dream in a long time! Nor have I spoken with Denise in ages; I just realized: I miss her. I have no idea what this dream means, but it was funny.
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