The Sandman isn't my icon for nothing.
Apr. 3rd, 2003 08:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
uberreinigerYay! I finally slept. To sleep, perchance to dream...
I dreamt that my theatre buddy Jeff was the new tour manager for Bon Jovi and he, Jon Bon Jovi, and the rest of the band, all invited me to be their new rhythm guitarist on a four-gig tour. I agree, stressing that I must be back in time for work. Why I care about this, I don't know, but somehow we pull it off and I'm playing arenas with Bon Jovi.
Don't ask me why Bon Jovi. I haven't seriously listened to Bon Jovi since I was thirteen... which may have something to do with why the only song we play during the dream (although we play it several times,) is "Living On A Prayer."
Apparently, they like me so well, that they invite me to tour with them for four more gigs the following week and I'm freaking out because it will mean losing my job. Finally, as I stand before a thronging crowd of Bon Jovi fans (including a girl from college whom I've not seen in years,) it finally dawns on me that playing in Bon Jovi actually pays *more* than my regular job and I can afford to quit it. (I was, for some reason, under the impression that Jon Bon and the gang were going to pay me minimum wage.)
At this point, the dream shifts to somewhere in the week leading up to the next tour. Jeff (my buddy,) is sitting at a piano in a what looks like my grandmother's house and there's a party going on. He is stressing because a theatrical producer has asked him to write an upbeat piano melody about the Nazis. Jeff hands me a book while rubbing his face with his hands and muttering over and over "I can't do this." The book is a Nazi manual on how to skin concentration camp prisoners, all the more disturbing for the fact that the illustrations appear to have been made by a sadistic five-year old child and are accompanied by such captions as "it's easy!" and "need more skin? Go back for more!"
Jeff never does get the song written. As I'm reading the book, it occurs to me that I need a new guitar because a green B.C. Rich warlock would look out of place on stage with Bon Jovi so I go out and buy a black Washburn strat. Then I wake up.
I don't know what all this says about me. Obviously, the five year-old scribbling Nazi in my subconcsious obviously needs to be destroyed, but having met the Jon Bon Jovi who apparently also lives in my subconscious, I can say that he is a very nice man.
I dreamt that my theatre buddy Jeff was the new tour manager for Bon Jovi and he, Jon Bon Jovi, and the rest of the band, all invited me to be their new rhythm guitarist on a four-gig tour. I agree, stressing that I must be back in time for work. Why I care about this, I don't know, but somehow we pull it off and I'm playing arenas with Bon Jovi.
Don't ask me why Bon Jovi. I haven't seriously listened to Bon Jovi since I was thirteen... which may have something to do with why the only song we play during the dream (although we play it several times,) is "Living On A Prayer."
Apparently, they like me so well, that they invite me to tour with them for four more gigs the following week and I'm freaking out because it will mean losing my job. Finally, as I stand before a thronging crowd of Bon Jovi fans (including a girl from college whom I've not seen in years,) it finally dawns on me that playing in Bon Jovi actually pays *more* than my regular job and I can afford to quit it. (I was, for some reason, under the impression that Jon Bon and the gang were going to pay me minimum wage.)
At this point, the dream shifts to somewhere in the week leading up to the next tour. Jeff (my buddy,) is sitting at a piano in a what looks like my grandmother's house and there's a party going on. He is stressing because a theatrical producer has asked him to write an upbeat piano melody about the Nazis. Jeff hands me a book while rubbing his face with his hands and muttering over and over "I can't do this." The book is a Nazi manual on how to skin concentration camp prisoners, all the more disturbing for the fact that the illustrations appear to have been made by a sadistic five-year old child and are accompanied by such captions as "it's easy!" and "need more skin? Go back for more!"
Jeff never does get the song written. As I'm reading the book, it occurs to me that I need a new guitar because a green B.C. Rich warlock would look out of place on stage with Bon Jovi so I go out and buy a black Washburn strat. Then I wake up.
I don't know what all this says about me. Obviously, the five year-old scribbling Nazi in my subconcsious obviously needs to be destroyed, but having met the Jon Bon Jovi who apparently also lives in my subconscious, I can say that he is a very nice man.
