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I had another dream last night, and since I'm documenting them here on this diary journal blog, well, here goes. I had the dream at about 2am (I've heard that most dreams are "realtime") and woke up at about 3am. As such, it's now 8am and I may not remember as much as I did at 3, but I wasn't about to get out of bed just for this. I needed my sleep last night.

I recall walking along a road and meeting up with some guy that I used to play against in hockey in college. A guy I wasn't particularly fond of, though when it came to hockey, we all pretended to get along and whatnot. But when the game started, we stuck each other with a few extra elbows than the other guys.

He was heading to a golf course, and I was right there, nearly, so he drove me the rest of the way. The parking lot was a one-lane grass parking lot that could hold about 25 cars. It had some very worn out grass along the fringes and solid, packed, worn dirt in the middle. A fence defined the border, and just over the fence was a red barn (the Pro Shop?) and a putting green. It wasn't any golf course I'd ever seen.

It was 7:30 and he was whining about how he didn't get there at 6 to sign up for the scramble, and didn't know whether he'd be good enough for them to let him in. I said "give them the name Barzeski and tell them I'm on your team. He said okay, and I said I'll go home and get my golf clubs.

The next thing I remember is walking along a similar road. I don't recall whether I had my golf clubs or not, but I recall heading to the golf course again to play. In front of me - it was snowing somehow - I saw a guy on a snowboard with ski poles pushing himself along. He was doing so quite effortlessly, given that it was a snowboard and his feet were stationary on it, unlike on skis where you can push. A cop started coming down the road the other way, and as this guy had white on, he quickly ducked down a side street and flattened himself against a snow bank. The cop went by, not seeing him. Presumably snowboard-skiing on roads is illegal in my dreamland?

I stopped walking and waited for this guy, whose name was Mark and reminded me of a guy named Mark Broadhead that I knew in high school (didn't particularly care for him, didn't dislike him). I told him that was a nice trick, and I asked him how he liked his board. We walked alongside each other until we came upon a stopped car. I walked up to the side of the car and the guy inside was shaking. He had on one of those red knitted caps and he pointed a gun at me and shot just as I leaped out of the way. I ran into the nearby field. Mark unstrapped from his board in record time and joined me. We hid behind a tree while the guy stood up and seemed to shoot around randomly.

He drove up the road a teensy bit and began shooting at the floorboards of the shed as if it was some alternate cosmic route by which he could injure me. He began yelling "Sam, where are you?" and when Mark and I realized he was out of bullets, we went and talked to him. He told us something about his friend being on a TV show, or needing to contact a TV show, or something. He was quite obviously either severely disabled or severely retarded in some way.

We went into the little shed (a weathered grey one) which had nothing but a phone, a small chair, and a small television. We watched him dialing numbers and in some weird voice asking to talk to the host. He was refused several times, and then I suggested he try a normal voice, or not asking "to talk to the bitch" as he was doing. He finally got through and his voice was coming over the television - he was on the air - and he started crying. I got the impression that his sister was the host and she'd become famous, leaving him behind as a poor crippled nearly homeless guy. One who owns a car, anyway. 🙂

Mark and I continue on our way to the golf course, and at some point, it turns into spring/summertime again and Mark disappears. I walk into the parking lot, the scramble having concluded, and the guy I don't like so much (his real name is John) walks up to me, arms laden with all sorts of prizes and trophies. He's thanking me profusely for letting me use his name, and he gives me all sorts of prizes for helping. For whatever reason, all of the prizes (some cash, some t-shirts, etc.) that he gives me are in manila envelopes.

Then I wake up.

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