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The Night I Spent With Ron White


Dreams have always fascinated me.  I often wonder what triggers the mind to manufacture a story to entertain us while we sleep.  There are times I feel as if David Lynch is my sandman and sprinkles pretty weird dust in my eyes as I drift off to slumber. I have no idea what prompted my dream last night but it was a doozy.   It began when I went into the little local convenience store at Wilbur.  Now locations in my dreams do not resemble the actual places they are supposed to be in real life.  That would be too blasé, but it was supposed to be the Wilbur store all the same.  Sitting at the table in the store is the comedian Ron White.  That’s right my secret soul mate.  I believe we have been separated at birth.  He is of course drinking Johnnie Walker (not sure which color) smoking on a cigar and playing cards.  He asks if I know how to play poker.  I am thinking maybe he wants to play strip poker so I never turn down the opportunity to enhance my card playing skills even if it means the loss of a few articles of clothing.  So I sit down.

We carry on this friendly conversation.  He asks about farming and so forth he being a good old boy from Texas we share talk about raising cattle.  I notice that one side of his face shows a scrape.  I ask him what happened and he says he fell off of his bicycle.   A comic superstar is reduced to riding a bicycle not in a limo?  Perhaps he has gotten a DUI .  I have a pretty good idea what you are thinking already.  I share the same idea as I write this.  I believe the US government did LSD testing at Paragon Elementary and slipped a few hits into my milk during my tenure there.  I must be having some kind of flashbacks.   Perhaps the evening meds cart got mixed up and made a second round past my room and I got double dosed last night!

Now the dream goes fast forward.  I am often amazed how some portions of a dream are in such detail and then the story line jumps two miles down the road.   I now find myself at some sort of festival or gathering.  I must have fared pretty well in the poker game because unlike so many times in dreams I am not standing in my underwear but fully clothed.  I know people there and they tell me to be sure and go over to the building that they point to because Ron White is going to do a concert.  I waltz over and enter a large concrete block structure filled with people.  I notice that it is an apple house used for storing fruit.   I can smell that wonderful aroma of apples.   Now, I have a pretty good idea where this strange detail comes from.  I have one of those automatic air freshener dispensers in the bedroom and at the present it has a lovely cinnamon apple scent installed.  I would say that dream detail was courtesy Air Wick.   I manage to find a place to stand in the back of the building by moving a crate of apples out of the way.  Ron is on a stage and is doing his routine.  The room is dark except for the lights on stage but he manages to see me and begins to point and call out to introduce me.  Was he going to announce that I was a hell of a poker player or maybe that we spent a wild night in Wilbur, Indiana years ago.  We will never know for at this moment the alarm clock goes off and it’s time to get hit the floor and get ready for work.  I feel as if I have a hangover from an all-nighter.  I turn on the bathroom light and view myself in the mirror to see a wild look a bit like Salvador Dali only with a little a smaller mustache.    

I am writing down this account of my dream because I read once that it can be healthy to keep a dream journal.  It may say something about what could be an underlying psychological tempest.  I am thinking with last night’s dream perhaps it is saying that I was wanting to be seduced with drink because Scotch does tends to make one’s clothes fall off.  We all know what Freud thought a cigar symbolized and I am thinking that the apples in the apple house stood for the forbidden fruit of sin.  Leave it up to me, I can’t even have a simple “in your face” erotic dream.  You throw the bicycle in and Dr. Phil is for sure calling the bus to take me to the basket weaving camp.  Probably after you read this you should burn it to destroy all evidence of my psychosis.   Otherwise I may be spending afternoons in the activity room playing Chinese checkers with myself waiting for the mid-day meds to arrive.  My subconscious should not be allowed to be unsupervised!  The oddest thing though, when I woke up this morning I could have sworn I saw some cigar ashes in my bed and I had a hankerin' for ‘tater salad.
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