NP: Tool, Lateralus (CD)

Okay, that was just really, really strange. The dream started backstage at a show from Steve and Geno's new project, ostensibly as drum tech. Then, Steve went up to the mike and started singing, and I played drums. And missed the entrance, but I explained later that I had never heard the tune before.

In the process, I somehow picked up a sore throat. Steve recommended a doctor just north of me on Lincoln Avenue, and even made the appointment. It seemed to be part of some pedway, an elaborate maze of hallways, and in the process, I both forgot the exact address and got a little lost. It was dark, with small groups of people in lab coats huddled around pools of light. Ultimately, I stop somewhere, either because it's where I think I'm supposed to be or because I ask for help.

As it turns out, I've stumbled into an experimental drug lab, and they prep me for treatment as a test subject. This involves sticking me with some needles, applying some patches, and lying me down face-forward on what appears to be a chiropractor's table with a towel over my neck and head. And a big intimidating dual-pin IV that looks sort of like a tattooist's needle that isn't actually hooked up to anything. I recall some explanation having to do with coffee, but I can't imagine this was a stimulant. Nothing terribly painful, and eventually I'm discharged in a haze with instructions not to operate any heavy machinery.

So, naturally, I encounter my friend Don and someone else I can't quite recall, but who may have been a fictional character, operating a backhoe or a bulldozer or something. This is where it gets particularly fuzzy, not from the dream drugs, but from my memory of what was going on. My roommate's cat prowling around my bed migh have had something to do with that. Semi-consciousness is not the friend of the REM state.

When I drift back, I'm playing soccer over at River Park. Stuff happened of little consequence, but I knocked the ball out of bounds for a goal kick to our opponents. The goalie lined up to take the restart from near midfield, and I screamed bloody murder, much to my teammate's chagrin. I was willing to allow that maybe I had missed a minute or so of actual gameplay, but felt the need to play the part of the petulant striker to the hilt.

After several glares from teammates, opponents and a bespectacled referee, they took the kick. Except it was awfully weak, and I intercepted at the half-line, sending a ball toward the open net. I sacrificed power for accuracy, which allowed the keeper to run back and knock the ball off it's path with an obvious handball. The referee only awards a yellow card, and I'm livid, finally pulling myself from the dream among images of me kicking the crap out of the official.

Given the lingering stress of the recent past, I'm not surprised that I'm sleeping a bit harder and longer than usual, but this was just strange. Of course, most dreams tend to be, only you don't remember them. As for this, heck if I know. I'm open to suggestion.