Bumblebee Frat Boy Storm

I am visiting my parents.

I am staying in my grandmother’s old house nearby. It had been used for storage for several years, but it has been fixed up as a kind of guesthouse. It’s older and simply furnished, much as it was when I was a child.

My parents and I sit in the living room, talking about work. I look out the window.

There are many cars rushing down the road outside the house. Strange, ominous storm clouds are gathering.

We turn on a portable radio sitting on a table in the living room.

The announcer on the radio says that a storm is approaching. The county is being evacuated.

“Gather the things that are most important to you and leave,” the announcer on the radio says.

We leave the guesthouse and walk to my parents’ house just up the road. It is the house I grew up in, a house that has not existed in many years.

My mother gathers family photos, some clothes, and my grade school report cards. My father gets some tools, money, and important papers.

I only have a few things with me, since I am visiting, but I can’t find my passport. We look all over the house, in drawers, under beds, and between the cushions of chairs. We finally find it.

I get into my car, my parents get into theirs and we head out into the traffic.

I keep driving behind them, trying to follow in the heavy traffic through twisting mountain roads. Rain and hail begin to fall. The wind picks up. It grows darker.

When we cross the county line, I see my parents stop at a roadside diner to get something to eat. It’s one of those landmarks near my hometown that’s been there for many years.

The diner is crowded with people who are evacuating because of the storm. They talk about it being related in some way to a war.

John is there. He walks around with an antique tape recorder, interviewing people about their experience with the storm.

I want to talk with John to find out where he is going and how he is doing, but I lose him in the crowd.

Amongst the people there are three men dressed as bumblebees. They are drunk and loud, acting like frat boys.

I am annoyed with them.

The place gets more crowded and people start pushing against me. I decide to leave.

I push my way through the crowd reach the door of the restaurant.

I open the door and walk into the parking lot. It is night and a gentle rain is falling. The clouds are beginning to move away.

I get into my car. I hear someone and look behind me.

The bumblebees are in the back seat of my car, still drunk and acting like frat boys.

I am annoyed.

Then I woke up.

Mining Car Elevator Cafeteria

I am standing in the lobby of a tall office building.

It is the kind of place you might find in mid-town Manhattan, with fancy marble floors and a dignified reception desk.

I am headed to work and wait for an elevator. There are other people there, milling about and going and coming from work.

Joan Rivers walks up.

She seems to know me. She asks how I am doing.

I explain that I am working on a sit-com with some other writers on the fifth floor.

“You should stop by,” I tell her, “We could always use your advice.”

Joan presses the button of the elevator and chats with me some more about the television show she is working on in the building.

The doors of the elevator suddenly rush open. They close again very quickly.

Joan is puzzled.

"Oh, you don't know?" I ask.

"Just wait," I say.

I push the button on the elevator, carefully watching the floor indicator above it.

Just as the elevator arrives on our floor, I grab Joan and push her in, the doors of the elevator closing quickly behind us. As we begin moving, Joan lands on her butt on the floor of the elevator.

"You have to be quick around here," I say.

Joan talks more about her show as we ride in the elevator.

“The writers are terrible,” she says, complaining about a sketch they made her do.

The elevator has glass sides -- we can see the inside of the elevator shaft going by as we travel from floor to floor.

The elevator stops. Joan steps forward as if she is getting ready to exit the elevator.

"Oh no, it's not ready yet," I say.

The elevator, on some kind of track, flips over on its back, tossing us around. The doors open and we ride through a large cafeteria.

There is a track that runs through the center of the cafeteria, the elevator gliding along like one of those little cars they use to move material in a mine.

There are people getting food and sitting at tables on both sides of us, all around the cafeteria. We watch them through the glass sides of the elevator; we can stand up and almost peer over the sides of the elevator car.

"The food's really good here," I say. “You should try it sometime.”

Then I woke up.

Movie poster house dungeon

I standing in the living room in a little two-story house in an older suburban neighborhood. It reminds me of the quaint two-story homes that they have in the West End, where I used to live many years ago, in Winston-Salem.

It is a beautiful, Spring sunny day

I hear a knock at my front door.

It is my friend Stuart.

I am surprised to see him. He explains that things hadn't worked out for him in New Mexico, where he moved a few months ago. He had sold his place and was going to get another one out West. Until things got settled, he wanted to stay with me.

I show Stuart around the place. Each room is done up with a theme and includes posters from my movie collection.

As we look around the house, we talk. I explain that, somehow, I had bought the house outright.

I tell Stuart that I'm not working full-time for anyone and have enough money to live on for a couple of years. My plan is to write and work on films to try to make a go of it for two years; if it didn't work out, I'm going to look for a job in this new town.

The place isn't ornate; just simple and tasteful. There's a "studio" where I have my computer and some video editing decks (with some posters from documentaries); a nice living room and dining room that are open and bright with high ceilings. *It's where I keep my best posters that I want to show off.) There's also a "library" room full of my books, cd's and movies and a nice comfy chair for reading.

I show Stuart to his room -- it's on the second floor, across from my bedroom, and it's called the "Fellini" room. It's decorated with some posters from Fellini movies. Stuart seems very pleased.

We talk and work out an agreement where Start would help me build a dungeon in the basement of the house while he stayed there.

It was good to see Stuart there. I felt some really good vibes from his presence and missed him since he had moved away.

"Make yourself at home," I say, "My house is your house."

And then I woke up.

Fright wig used car salesman imaginary movie

I walk along streets in Raleigh, going to a basketball game at NCSU, for some reason. Along the way, I run into several fans who were really hyped about this important game, for some reason. I finally reach press area.

There is an older woman there who reminds me of Nan Kehone, the president of Duke. The woman is wearing a fright wing and red clothes. The university has hired this woman to be a "professional fan".

In the press area, there is a politician and his speech writer, working on some kind of speech for him to give at a rally for the crowd. They're having trouble with it.

I ask if I might help. They hand me the script and I read part of it.

The speech is dreadful.

Suddenly ...

I am a used car salesman in a lot located in a shopping center.

The car dealership is doing some kind of promotion. I have to take customers into a theater and write down what seat they sit in in the theater -- it is supposed to give us an idea of how good their eyesight is to see if they would wreck our cars. The theater manager glares at me in the lobby as I and other car salesmen pass by, annoyed at us coming into her theater with our customers.

And then ...

I am at a family gathering.

There is someone there I went to high school with. He was a real bum in high school. He had gone to college and worked with computers now.

Suddenly ...

Jason and I are in a hotel room.

We went to see a of performance reunion by the cast of Charlie's Angels earlier in the evening. He is excited because one of the cast members, Cheryl Ladd, wore a dress that he saw he wear in person when the show was originally on the air. The dress was a quite hideous blue and red number.

Cheryl Ladd is there, in the hotel room, lying on the bed, talking with Jason about the dress.

And then ....

I am driving an older car from the 50's, going to my new apartment.

It had been raining and it's hot and humid. The car is full of wilting flowers.

I am looking for water to put on the flowers so they wouldn't wilt. I notice that plants were actually growing out of some parts of the car. The car is very old and about to fall apart.

Suddenly ...

I am in a movie theater watching a Star Trek movie that doesn't exist.

The movie is about a space station being invaded by an alien that would seep through parts of the station like acid. The aliens kill Nurse Chapel. (I am aware that, in her contract, she stated she didn't want to be in another Star Trek movie.) The crew didn't know what the alien was and rush around trying to figure out what to do.

And then ...

I am at my college graduation except, in this case, the graduation consists of only 30 or 40 people.

One of the people at the graduation is a student who was doing his final assignment, a speech. No one listens to his speech - people just get up and leave.

When the speech is over, the student talks to his professor, sitting at a nearby table. He is worried that he might not pass the assignment. The teacher gives him a large wooden block with the letter "B" on it and the hands a report card to him.

Suddenly ...

I am in a movie theater watching another movie that doesn't exist. It is a documentary about the Minneapolis music scene of the 1980's.

The movie includes interviews with Prince, Morris Day, and several of Prince's girlfriends.

And then I woke up.

Airport Gameboy Plane Crash Birth Drama

I’m in a movie theater, sitting alone, watching a film.

In the film, there is an airplane, full of people.

Richard Dryfuss, Ellen Burnstein and their small child sit in the airplane. They're arguing about the trip they're making; the small boy ignores them, playing with a Gameboy.

Cut to the plane exterior. There's some kind of short or spark or something. The airplane's engine catches fire.

Richard notices it out the window.

"Look!" he says.

They stop arguing.

The fire gets worse and the engine stalls. The airplane starts going out of control.

The oxygen masks come down, the passengers prepare for a crash.

The plane starts going in a free-fall, straight for the ocean.

Cut to the interior of an airport.

Richard, Ellen and the kid are sitting in chairs at what looks like a concourse.

The boy is still playing with the Gameboy -- Richard and Ellen are just waking up.

They both talk about the dream they just had about their airplane crashing.

Richard and Ellen continue to argue with each other about the trip for a few moments.

Then, Richard notices that something's weird in the airport.

There's strange Muzak playing in the concourse, but no announcements. No airplanes are taking off or landing, everyone is eerily quiet.

Richard talks to one of the staff, asking them why things are so strange.

The staff are calm, cool, and friendly, but almost completely emotionless. They are evasive and do not answer his questions.

Richard and Ellen make their way around the airport, trying to ask different staff members what is going on.

They tell the boy to sit down and wait for them to come back.

They argue ­ Richard thinks something is wrong, but Ellen doesn’t.

They get no answers from the airport staff.

Richard and Ellen go back to their chairs and notice the boy is gone. They look around for him, but he is nowhere to be found. They ask passersby if they’ve seen him. No one has.

They turn around and there he is again, just popping up out of nowhere, still playing with the Gameboy.

They’re relieved and tell him to sit down.

Twice more, they argue, talk to staff and loose the boy. The third time, he doesn’t reappear.

They go to a security guard for help.

"Come with me, please," guard says.

They're led to a back room that looks like a surgery theater in a hospital. A doctor and nurse are there.

"Get on the table, please," the doctor says.

Ellen argues, but the doctor is firm and calm. She gets on the table.

"I'm afraid you'll have to go through the whole thing again," the doctor says.

Stirrups pop up on the table and Ellen is strapped into place; another nurse appears from a nearby room to calm down Richard.

Ellen's stomach begins to grow huge.

She gives birth to her son all over again.

He emerges from her vagina, fully clothed, Gameboy in hand, the same size and age he was before.

Richard and Ellen are again on the concourse, sitting in their chairs. They look at the child, then at each other. They wonder aloud if what just happened really happened.

Richard finally seems to understand.

“We’re not in an airport,” he says. “This is purgatory.”

Then I woke up.

Technicolor Hostage Cereal Gangster

I am alone in a huge movie theater.

I am watching a movie.

It looks like a bright, vibrant Technicolor movie from the 1930's. But the film is one of those Warner Brothers gangster movies, which were all done in stark black and white.

A gangster is holding a woman captive on some kind of road trip. With them, they have a Black cook, a young girl.

The man resembles George Raft; the woman reminds me of Loretta Young.

The house they're staying in is dark, with high contrast shadows all around.

The clothes the characters wear or objects in the room are vibrant reds, greens, yellows and blues, standing out from everything there.

They’re about to have breakfast. The gangster sits at the table in the dining room, reading a newspaper. He talks about the cops not being able to find them.

The woman tries to figure out how to get away. She nervously drinks coffee and spreads some jam on a piece of toast.

The woman says something about checking on breakfast and goes into the kitchen.

The cook is there. The woman starts yelling at the cook and the cook recoils.

She leans in close to the cook and whispers in her ear.

“He’s trying to kill me. Just play along.”

The woman takes a stack of brightly colored dishes and throws them to the floor. She yells at the cook, asking her why she has to be so clumsy.

The woman leans in and whispers in the cook’s ear again.

“Run away and get help.”

The woman crashes some more dishes against the wall and yells at the cook again.

The cook seems like she’s in a state of shock and doesn’t know what to do.

The woman pointss at the door. She pleads with the cook, motioning with her hands.

The cook quickly and quietly scurries off.

The woman regains her composure. She picks up a tray that has some food and dishes on it, along with two boxes of cereal.

The woman carries the tray into the dining room.

"What was that about?" the man asks.

"I just fired the cook - she’s so incompetent,” she says, trying to remain calm.

The woman moves the tray towards the table.

Two boxes of Life cereal are on the tray -- the kind of boxes they had in the 1960's with "Life" spelled out in brightly colored letters.

As she sits the tray on the table, some of the letters on the cereal boxes float away into the air, forming the word "Lie".
Then I woke up.

Alien Blowfish Duck Lamp Sacrifice

I am a lamp.

I am a common, everyday lamp. One that would sit in a typical American home in the 1970's. I have a tapered ceramic base in some strange orange and burnt umber colors, a 60 watt bulb for my head, and a head covering consisting of a paper lampshade.

An obese man sits in a Lazy Boy recliner in his t-shirt. He takes a drink from a can of Budweiser and sits it down on the table beside me. He is watching a large 70's era console television set.

There is shag carpet on the floor, a sickly yellow and brown color. The room has plain wooden paneling. The lighting is subdued. It is night.

Sitting next to the television, near a window, is a toilet. The bowl of the toilet is filled with flowers, as if someone is using it as a decorative planter.

I hear someone in the hallway next to the living room.

It is an elderly woman. She is plainly dressed, her face wrinkled. She reminds me of a character actor one might see on a 70's British sitcom.

Her face begins to look distorted, almost like a blowfish when it's beginning to expand.

"Perhaps I should go upstairs," she says, apologetically, in a stoic, very British voice, "If the aliens are really here and taking over people, it might be best to just get them out of the way where they won't disturb anyone."

The man in the recliner stares at the television and seems to ignore what she is saying. His chair faces away from the hallway towards the television and he cannot see her.

Her face and head distort even more, growing larger and looking more like a blowfish.

Strange noises start coming from her body.

"Quick! Hurry!" I hear my friend Stuart say, "You have to be a sacrifice for the alien!"

I turn to see legs and arms sprouting from the toilet, like an anthropomorphic character from a tv commercial. It stands up.

"You have to be a sacrifice for the alien!" the toilet says in Stuart's voice, moving it's seat like a mouth.

"I don't think that's a good idea," I say, somewhat concerned.

Suddenly, I see a log in front of the television with an ax in it. The man rises from the chair and grabs the ax.

I feel funny.

I look down and see that I am now a duck, standing on the table.

The man grabs me by the throat; I flap my wings and feathers fly as he moves me towards the log.

"It's the only way," Stuart the Toilet says, "You must be a sacrifice for the alien!"

The woman's head grows larger and more distorted. Her body begins to shake.

"No!" I scream and squawk, "You be the sacrifice - not me!"

The man firmly places me on the log, his hand around my neck. He holds the ax high above his head.

"No!" I squawk, "There's got to be another way!"

"You must be the sacrifice!" Stuart the Toilet intones.

I see the blade of the ax coming closer towards my head. I struggle and squawk, but can't break free.

Everything goes black.

My head feels strange, as if part of the top center of my brain is empty, missing.

Then, something like a rush of electricity or bolt of lightning surges through the hole in my brain.

I open my eyes.

I am still a duck.

I am standing in a room all by myself. The floor is black tile. All of the walls of the room and the ceiling are covered with mirrors.

"Damn," I squawk, "what the hell happens now?"

Then I woke up.