I know that, on the heels of the last Blog, you may have the impression that this dream was somehow profound and poignant. I’ll tell you right now that it wasn’t, but it was a dream nonetheless and I had to write it down. It’s fragmented and weird like dreams are when recalled.
For some reason, I was late for a job. I think it was a bartender job. I was on foot and decided to take a shortcut that happened to be across a corner of a different country. I didn’t have a passport and I hoped that that would be okay.
There was an office on the border that was similar to the weigh station on the east side of northbound I-94 as you enter Wisconsin from Illinois. I entered the office and who should be the consulate/border guard but Scott Baio! I told him that I was just passing through and I didn’t have my passport. He seemed confused about how to handle it and, as a result, two other office workers, a man and a woman, began to laugh at him. He began to laugh himself and then pulled out a silver automatic handgun. He stood up, knocking his chair over and pumped three rounds a piece into his co-workers. I screamed and ran. I heard shots coming from behind me and, ahead of me, wood splintered off of the door jambs.
I ran and ran and ran. I didn’t look back, but occassionally I’d hear a shot. I eventually arrived at the bar, ran inside and yelled: “Scott Baio is trying to kill me!” I ducked behind the bar and waited. Then I began filling the cooler.