I'm walking down Interstate 10 in Houston. It's extremely overcast, almost to the point of seeming like nighttime.
Overhead, a 737 flies into the clouds, and close on its heels, another 737 disappears. They're only about 50 feet apart, so the inevitable occurs (at least in my dreams that involve planes) ... the planes collide in mid-air.
The unusual thing about this particular dream is, since it takes place in a dense cloudbank, it seems as if the clouds are exploding. It's really quite fascinating to me ...
Until flaming wreckage begins to rain from the heavens. At first it's very far away. However, each second, a new fireball descends closer and closer to me, and so I start to run away to ...
Some kind of dive-y gay bar where I meet Hal Sparks' character from Queer as Folk, Michael. We're friends in this dream, but instead of working retail, he's a police detective. Mighty cute one, too.
He introduces me to ... a basketball player. He's very tall, and I find him hopelessly erotic because of that, as there's not too many men taller than I.
Myself, the unnamed b-ball player, and Michael and his trick for the night adjourn from the bar, and proceed to Michael's home, where we settle down to some serious heavy petting.
Until the flaming wreckage starts pelting the neighborhood. Alluvasudden, I'm being whisked to the police station with Michael, but I'm afraid of walking through the security scanner, since I have a bud of weed on my person, and I don't want Michael to get in trouble.
He pooh-poohs my fears, but of course, the buzzer on the scanner screams. So I'm stuck in this little booth, while Michael attempts to smooth things over ("It's just a little weed guys, we all smoke it, don't ya know"). It's thus that the terrorists don't shoot me when they enter the station, riddling everything that moves with bullets.
Very graphic. Very disturbing. I try to wake myself from the dream, but I'm not lucid enough, so I cower instead in this strange scanning booth, and wait for rescue.
Which comes in a hybridized form of The Spice Girls (don't know which ones, sorry) and Charlie's Angels, both old (Jacyln Smith and Farrah Fawcett-Majors) and new (Drew Barrymore and Lucy Liu).
They grab me from the scanner, then cover me while I make a mad dash out of the police station which has transformed into a television station. The terrorists have assumed control and are broadcasting poorly drawn cartoons they've created.
I'm happily reunited with my basketball player, and as I adoringly look up ... way up ... into his eyes ...
I wake up.
Vivid dreams like this are a curse, not a blessing. I hate waking up each morning thinking what the FUCK?