I Had A Dream Last Night

Last night I was puttering around in my kitchen, tossing together some leftovers before settling in for my usual marathon of Law & Order reruns, and I came across an old tin with some mescaline I'd forgotten about, surplus from that nude backpacking trip through La Paz back in '87 (but that's another story).

I decided to toss the mescaline into the simmering pot of 3-day old beef stew, and figured I may as well toss in the rest of those Mexican Insanity chili peppers, for which I'd traded my Joshua Tree CD , during an ill-advised mule-trip through the guerilla-held hills of Chiapas, as we vainly attempted to visit some Mayan ruins during a local civil war (but that's another story).

Anyway, I sat down with my Mex-Mesc-Meat stew and got caught up in a breaking news story about American televangelist Pat Robertson publicly advocating for the U.S. to assassinate the president of Venezuela, a place where I once had to trade my virtue to a sweaty paramilitary border guard, in order to secure safe passage to Cali (but that's another story).

I guess the combination of the old meat, potent mescaline and stale peppers caused me to fall unconscious, because I don't remember the opening to the 9pm Law & Order, an episode that held particular interest for me because I'd gone to a cattle-call for extras for that episode and had waited in line in a light snowstorm for almost 4 hours before not getting picked, because I'd rejected the guy doing the extras casting, during a sex party in the basement of a Murray Hill barbershop (but that's another story).

I lay there on the bed, helplessly drifting in and out of a dreamstate, with CNN intruding into my REM state, injecting into my head a non-stop feed of commentaries on Pat Robertson and the CIA and assassinations already committed by the U.S. government. From here, I drifted deeper, deeper into a lucid dream, a dream within a dream, a dream that knows it's a dream, and therefore gives you an exultant sense of power, just like the time that I got five guys at Blow Buddies to try to suck my dick at the same time (but that's another story).

In my dream, I too had the ability to call for assassinations. In my dream, I was assigned the task of coming up with ten names. I don't know who ordered me to come up with the names, I just knew that I had to come up with ten names of people who needed killing, as Pat Robertson might put it. In retrospect, it very much reminds me of the time that I had to give the corporate auditor of the national theatre company I worked for a list of the ten employees I thought were most likely to be stealing from the box office (but that's another story).

When I woke up at 4am, covered in sweat and curiously wearing my Spongebob Squarepants bathing suit, I found that I had written a list, in a delirious, shaky hand, of my ten names. The names were crossed out, then rewritten. They were ordered 1 thru 10, then reordered in the margins, several times over. The same name kept appearing at Number One, although the rest of the list seemed to have no consistency, very much like when I was a senior in high school and I would trade my Ten Hottest Studs At Colonial High School list with Alan Atkins, the only other queer I knew, until finally we were caught exchanging the lists during Health class, which was given by Coach DiFranco and he made me stay after school to explain myself (but that's another story).

Here's the list, as best as I could read my drugged-out handwriting, in what seems to be the final order I placed the names, before falling back into my dream state:

1. Pat Robertson
2. Fred Phelps*
3. Hello Kitty
4. Jerry Falwell
5. Ann Coulter
6. Harry Potter **
7. Rush Limbaugh
8. Star Jones
9. Pat O'Brien
10. P. Diddy

*This one might be Fred Durst, I can't be sure.
**This one might be Harry Connick, I can't be sure

Now, some of those names are a bit odd, I know. I mean what could anybody possibly have against Ann Coulter? Interestingly, even as I was tripping, I knew better than to list the names of any government figures, something that might cause me to actually be visited by the CIA. The entire experience very much reminds me of the time that I bought ecstasy from a drag queen in London's Love Muscle and it had so much acid it in that my friends found me at the bar trying to pick up the bartender by singing him every song I could think of that had the word "boogie" in the lyrics (but that's another story).


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