There was more to this dream than what follows, but I can’t remember it all, or the moral of it.
I dreamed it was 2016, four years after Barack Milhous had pulled an upset, and won re-election to the White House.
Finally giving up, I’d sold out to the System, the Man, the Establishment, that had dominated America since the dawn of the Age of Aquarius in the mid-term congressional elections of 1974. One has to remember that despite the interjection of one Reagan and two Bushes during all those years, the hippies have, really, run things; everything on the hippie agenda of the 1960s becoming legal, or at least socially acceptable, by 1980.
Selling out, I’d waxed rich and prosperous.
One evening, I decided to go out and dine at a fine restaurant. I was taken there in a 60-foot stretch limousine driven by my pal grouchy old Don, the NNNHL0I primitive. I’d given him a spiffy uniform and all that, but his food and housing were his problem, and so he lived in the garage, sleeping on oil-saturated rags on the concrete floor as his mattress.
As we pulled up to the restaurant, the Las Vegas Leviathan, the Systematic Chaos primitive, was out in front, begging. He’d lost considerable weight, but none of his expanse of skin, which shrouded him in folds and wrinkles. Feeling generous, I gave him a $100,000,000-bill, which by then was about the equivalent of two cents in George Bush money.
The maitre d’ was, much to my aghastment, my fellow alum Skins, for whom I still entertained warm feelings and affection, but as we all make our own beds…..
The waiter was the dork, the Mr Scorpio primitive, who kissed my ass because I was good business, and my arrival meant he’d have something to eat after I left, even if it was only onions and coconuts and beans and fat and mushrooms and other things I scraped off food before eating it.
The surly bus-boy was Pedro Picasso, the Atman primitive, having lost all his youthful vitality and good looks, not to mention his wife and his mother’s money.
In the kitchen, the sparkling old dude, compelled to work into old age, was the chef.
His assistant was the pie-and-jam primitive, the grasswire primitive, who made bubble-and-squeak for the help, from the leavings of what the chef prepared.
The dishwasher and bathroom-boy was the Bostonian Drunkard.
On the stage, the subway cat, the undergroundpanther primitive, performed a strip-tease.
There was more to the dream than just this, as it seemed to last all night long, and at the end there was a moral, but damn it, the memory’s incomplete.
