If there is such a thing as an LSD flashback
I have mine while I'm sleeping. Not all the time. Most of my dreams are quite forgettable, and promptly forgotten. Maybe I'm counting rope, or falling, or watching my soul
carried away on a platter.
Normal stuff. But every once in a while I have a dream sufficiently bizarre as to be worthy of PeeWee's Playhouse. This was one of those dreams.
My dream began in an alley lit by flashing neon signs. We're out clubbing, my buddy and I. You can hear the buzz, people talking, couples flirting. My buddy gives me the thumbs up, it's going to be a Big Night. Then I look again and see I'm out with William Shatner.
That's right, William Shatner, I'm out clubbing with the Man himself, the dude who does the painful writhing scream and got Nichelle Nichols in a lip lock, not to mention Joan Collins a few dozen other scantilly clad alien girls.
Only we aren't on Armeniar 7, we're on Earth. This Earth, this day, this year. Reality baby. Bill, (I can call you that, can't I Mister Shatner?) grins at me and cuts past a whole line of people right to the bouncers.
"You can't come in."
The bouncer is big, bald and has spent more time in a gym than Hans and Franz combined. He crosses his arms over his rather immense chest. "No way I'm letting you in."
Bill, (I'm calling him that no matter what he thinks) harrumphs, adjusts his toupee and marches on. There's a bar right down the road, lots of people inside, dancing, drinking, carousing. We reach for the handle on the glassed doors.
Locked. Bill pulls, but they won't move. A man arrives and slides a thick timber down into a specially grooved latch. They don't want us.
Shatner's pissed now, really steaming, but he turns on that 'A Piece of the Action' smile, the same one he tried when he hammed it up as a pretend mobster.
There's another bar ahead, a thick rounded wooden door that looks like it came from Friar Tuck's residence. No admittance.
Finally we slip into a restaurant. The maitre'd is tall, thin with a John Waters mustache and the absolute certainty that he's well above you on the social food chain.
"Non, non, non," he intones in a Clouseauesque French accent. "You cannot be served here,"
Bill finally loses it. "But I'm Captain Kirk!" he bellows, arms outstreteched in utter exasperation. Nobody in the restaurant pays the least attention. The maitre'd merely shakes his head and points to the door.
Then were out on the street, alone. I can't get into the hip clubs even with Captain Kirk as my wingman.
Yes, I really dreamed this. Every couple years I dream up a doozey and this certainly qualifies.