The Nightly Show

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I read somewhere recently that one's dreams are among the most boring things possible to discuss with another. I suppose this stems from the same you-had-to-be-there factor that makes stories about what happened that one time at that party seem so funny to the teller, but less so to the audience. Except, in this case, the teller wasn't really "there," either. All the same, I've had a few doozies lately, like the one where I chivarously defended a female crank-powered television designer against her knife-wielding chauvinist colleague, and later shoved him out the front door of my childhood home, only to turn around in the foyer and be confronted by an extraordinarily tall and thin man in a grey suit and a blank, glossy black mask.

Last night's was less creepy.

My wife and I had moved to help Nona (that is, my dear maternal grandmother) with the small Old West tourist trap that she ran. There was a dusty main street lined with storefronts, chief among which was the Sherrif's Office/Park HQ. I was working on fixing the small mine-cart-themed rollercoaster while a patron who had waited since the day before to ride stood patiently by. I got it working, and sent her on her way when 'ol Black Bart, the guy who played the outlaw in the Main Street Shootout show, and who, I remembered thinking, occasionally forgot it was an act, came in. He had a new circular saw he had brought to show me, but had little experience in using it, so I showed him how to cut angles and variable depths with it. Christina was there as I tried to teach, but she grew annoyed because he wasn't paying attention. He kept getting distracted by the action outside the window, where the improbably diverse (and improbably buxom--it was my dream, after all) coeds who ran the saloon were having a charity carwash, clad only in their denim cutoffs and easily-saturated half t-shirts. Christina and I were called away to help Nona prune a storm-damaged tree just before I woke up.

Illustrating the depth to which the internet has permeated my psyche, in the fog of semi-conciousness, I thought, "I should write that up for my blog."

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