(Disclaimer: These are all dreams – real dreams – and are uncensored. Any references to well- known personages herein are totally fictitious and not rooted in any objective, “true” reality and therefore should not be looked on as anything else  than totally subconscious fabrication. There are, alas, few instances of sweetness & light in my dream life – at least that I can remember, unfortunately – so you will not see those here. Most dreams I can remember are full of perversion and nocturnal paranoia, and are prime examples of why David Lynch’s films – especially BLUE VELVET, WILD AT HEART, FIRE WALK WITH ME, LOST HIGHWAY and MULHOLLAND DRIVE make perfect sense to me.)

Two young men and one young woman go to an AA meeting at an old two storey clubhouse in a deserted, closed, walled-in, overgrown-with-dense-foliage park. But it turns out they were mistaken about meeting because no one is there. The clubhouse is really the hang out of a depraved, vicious, sadistic street gang who end up trying to hunt them down within the confines of the park

A young man is walking in an older Southern California suburban neighborhood with many trees on the block. He starts to pass what seems to be a party house inhabited by a gang of white trash teenagers. A couple of the greasy boys work on a car that’s parked on the lawn. The young man stops to admire a beautifully restored classic circa 1959 Oldsmobile with whitewall tires that’s parked at the curb in front of the house. One of the boys approaches him and asks him if he’s interested in buying the car for a ridiculously low price.  He accepts, but the seller claims he’s going to have to return later for the pink slip, as he’s not sure where it is. The young man pays the boy $200 (which he has on him). The young man then drives to the house where a bunch of his friends live a couple of blocks away. He socializes with the friends who warn him that the bunch in the house down the street are no good and have probably sold him a lemon. When he’s about to leaveand get in the car an hour or so later, he’s suddenly tackled by a bloodied and bruised guy. They fight. The guy accuses him of stealing the car with his friends and then beating him up. The young man realizes that this guy may be the car’s real owner. It slowly dawns on them that the gang of guys down the street are the culprits.

Old office building in leafy, overgrown neighborhood. No one around. I go into the building upstairs to a skanky public restroom that looks like it was built in the forties. I wash my face and hands. Notice that there’s a bathtub behind a ragged, disintegrating, dirty curtain. I pull it aside only to find a suit-wearing corpse in moldy decay, one eye popping out of its head staring vacantly up at me. I back away in horror.

The lower echelon Wayans’ bros of movie fame are riding around in a huge car that is really a four poster bed with no motor visible. In this dream incarnation, they are also ruthlessly brutal crack dealers who pick me up because they think I’m going to rat them out. So I’m tossed in back with their Las Vegas stripper/whores. I have to talk fast and just narrowly miss getting shot to death.

My best friend and lover, a very young 20’s-something Anjelica Huston in metal studded black beret, tight black jeans and black turtleneck with silver chain around her neck lolls around the floor with me as we ready to do another shot of dope. I extol the virtues of trying to get clean which she ridicules as she no longer feels life is worth living beyond the pitiful confines of our pathetic drug addict’s existence.

I’m on tour with my band but have gotten separated from the rest of the members and am stranded at a hotel with my girlfriend who keeps changing faces/identities/personalities and has hired a number of prostitutes for me as a birthday gift. She watches impassively from a corner of the room as I go down on the huge pink flower between the legs of a tangly-raven-haired Italian Heather with huge breasts and pierced nipples.

I’m disturbed by the maid and am suddenly alone except for her. I try to use the bathroom but the huge ornate, many chambered toilet is stopped up because some idiot has tried to flush pinecones down the toilet.

I go outside to find the grounds handyman who is dressed in a shabby heavy overcoat and cap, and is commonly known as the Pantherman due to his collection of wildcats of all sizes. He carouses with his biggest cat, a huge black leopard.

I find myself back in San Francisco, once again trying to make a date on my band’s tour, fighting my way out of a dilapidated, ancient department store that is now used by street denizens as a combination crash pad and flea market. I try to fight my way down the huge curving staircase with its sinuous balustrade. A friend of mine explains that we’re an hour and a half away from the venue but must get there in an hour. He flags down a paunchy, middle-aged cop friend of his and the cop agrees to use his squad car to escort us on our bicycle (by towline!) at a 100 mph plus (!) to our desired destination.

Then there I am in this weird, rundown suburban hospital clinic wandering around in the intensive care ward where numerous anonymous figures all bandaged with broken limbs lie in beds of agony. I’ve got a doctor’s white coat on, but I’m not a doctor – I’m just pretending. I thumb through a medical case file book -- looking for what, I do not know. When I pass one particular page, an alarm goes off as if I;ve broken though some restricted access, so I have to turn the page back immediately. No one apparently cares. I go into the cafeteria. A couple of good-looking gay guys from SF sit at the long table  -- a table made up of normal-looking folks and sick, bandaged, diseased patients. There’s a shambling, tow-headed young veteran with longish hair who reminds me of a shaggy dog and a little bit of Frenchy. He’s feeling better, or so he says, when someone asks him. But when he gets up, he shudders and goes into convulsions. He knows he’s dying all of a sudden. A couple of his comrades embarassedly help him walk. I stumble along behind only to witness his buddy on the left suddenly withdraw an iron bar and plunge it into the convulsing boy’s side, cold-bloodedly (it seems to me) putting him out of his misery. I wake to an excruciating pain in my side.

It’s night. Lynne and I are getting chauffeured around in a black, seventies model Grand Prix by Steve H. We’re parked in a sprawling supermarket/mall/restaurant lot with both our front doors open because it’s still so hot. Steve is turned around discussing with us where we’re going to eat. Suddenly we notice two very long SUV style silver limos driven by crews of drugdealing rappers careening around the lot chasing each other. Finally one crashes into a parked car nearby. The guy in the driver seat stumbles out, holding his leg. His full-dress, purple foil suit is ripped, and he’s bleeding on the asphalt as he tries to get away. The pursuing limo backs up, stops alongside him as he reaches the driveway. The driver of that car, who looks like another one of the lower echelon Wayans, jumps out with a shotgun. He kicks the bleeding guy’s legs out from under him and then puts the gun barrel to the hysterically screaming man’s face. “I’m gonna blow you away, you two-timing motherfucker!” the gunman shouts. Abruptly he looks up, staring our way. I suggest to Steve that it might be a good idea if we split. Steve starts the Grand Prix and drives it to the other side of the lot a quarter mile away (it’s a huge lot!) where we park and nonchalantly decide to eat Mexican food. Lynne and Steve go get a table while I use the restroom. When I come out, I ask a busboy if he knows what happened with the parking lot gangbanger altercation. I say, “Did the guy get shot?” The busboy goes, “No, but that rappin’ maricon pulled out a machete and chopped his arm off!” I look puzzled, “ I didn’t see any machete.”

Lynne and I are living in some kind of courtyard type bungalow apartment setup. There’s a particularly violent macho, always drunk gay guy living a few doors down from us in the horseshoe shaped building layout. He goes berserk one day, beats his boyfriend (?) to death and the cops arrive to pick him up. They have to haul him out, four cops to the barechested, surfer-haired, bourbon-breathed behemoth as he bellows oaths and indecipherable curses. The cops resemble micro-sized bendable rubber dolls that have been attached to his upper arms and neck. The belligerent killer flails them around as he heads towards their cruiser parked at the curb. The little old lady neighbors can’t believe their eyes, murmuring, “He was always such a nice boy.”
Later, Lynne and I are walking down a grossly ugly boulevard full of paint shops, auto body places, stripmalls, etc., headed for a local cop substation that doubles as an ice cream parlor to give our report of the killer’s activities -- as far as we know them anyway on the night in question. Right as we reach the station, a flatbed tow truck pulls up in the street behind us. The drivers get out, operate the hydraulic lift which dumps the frozen solid body of the killer’s boyfriend on the sidewalk. He looks like a monolithic, musclebound, motorcycle-jacketed Freddie Mercury in his leather queen days and now encased in ice. He shatters into pieces as he hits the concrete. Lynne and I head into the station and sit down on the midget-sized, homemade, quilted double bed jammed beside the desk used by the station cops. One cop is hunkered down on his knees in one corner of the bed making out his report from our answers to his questions on a clipboard. We sit on the opposite side of the mattress. The other cop lies down from the end of the bed where he’s wedged up against the desk. He looks up at me with mournful calf eyes as he lays his head on the quilt near my knee. He’s clearly traumatized by the weird murder. I smooth his hair in a comforting manner as I look over at Lynne with an unspoken expression on my face of “What’re you gonna do?” She grimaces, shrugs her shoulders.

Later I’m living alone in a similar lawn court-type, old Hollywood apartment bungalow. I think it’s a single with kitchen but I’m not sure as it’s dimly lit. The place is located on the east side of La Brea just south of Fountain and next door to what used to be the Von’s market. It’s a quiet, late Friday night – a contradiction in terms. It also feels as if it’s the 1960s. The neighborhood’s being terrorized by a killer specializing in pre-pubescent teenage boys and young men. Suddenly, there’s a knock on my screen door, and I can see through the mesh, instantly recognizing by his vibe that this is the guy. He looks just like the actor Fritz Weaver (for those unfamiliar – Fritz played the crazy air force officer who went off his rocker in Sidney Lumet’s version of FAILSAFE, also played the cultured, tuxedoed heavy in the very first episode of  “The Man From U.N.C.L.E.” TV series and also was Julie Christie’s professor husband who invented the godlike supercomputer in Donald Cammell’s DEMON SEED). Anyway, the Fritz-lookalike killer is clad in a black leather jacket and invites himself in. I try to act nonchalant, not letting on that I know he’s the maniac. Somehow I cajole him outside. Suddenly, as soon as we’re through the door, it’s daylight, late afternoon. The killer’s doppelganger materializes out of nowhere from the direction of the street. But this Fritz is bespectacled, dressed in suit and tie and immediately tries to get his evil twin to come with him to the cops. Already, the denizens of the bungalow court are clustering on their porches. Killer Fritz turns on me as he thinks I’m the one who called his benevolent, socially responsible double. He pulls out a box cutter from his jacket and begins swiping at me with it. I grab a piece of wood from the flowerbed, and we begin our ‘rumble’ in earnest. Finally I manage to knock the boxcutter from his grasp. He sinks to his knees, dazed. I crouch to retrieve the razor blade that’s fallen out of the cutter. Holding it tightly between thumb and forefinger, I jump on his back before he can recover, slit the back of his neck slowly with the dull blade and black blood begins to ooze from the sliced flesh. He grabs it with one hand then turns to look at me in abject terror.

I’m at movie star Jim C.’s big, old-fashioned modern, fifties-style, split-level mansion in the Hollywood Hills for some kind of formal dinner party. The place is packed and the booze flows freely. As dusk approaches, everyone adjourns briefly to a house party down the block. I alone decide to remain, and Jim trusts me enough to leave me at his pad. I wander aimlessly around the house, checking out the claustrophobic, in-blue-shadows backyard where autumn leaves tumble gracefully into the cramped swimming pool. I head upstairs, actually up to the modestly elevated next floor since the structure, as I mentioned, is a split-level. There’s a kind of sloping, carpeted ramp that goes past the bar and up to the hall leading to the bedrooms. Suddenly, without warning, everyone is back, and Jim is holding court at the bar. I’m stationed at a window on the other side of the ramp when I’m suddenly distracted by high pitched squeals and screams from two inebriated young ladies in prom dresses having a knockdown, dragout brawl. They fall to the floor, the one with the blonde bouffant on the bottom trying to ward off the expertly-coifed brunette who’s trying to stab her with a fistful of hatpins! The brunette wins out, piercing the girl’s face and eyes in a bloody gout of gory frenzy. The guests that’ve stopped everything to crowd silently around the pair, are openmouthed with horror.  I’m shocked that no one’s trying to do anything,  and I run to the phone to call 911. The cops arrive literally in a couple of seconds, and I lead them through the paralyzed living room crowd to the scene of the crime. But the girls are no longer there. Instead there’s a huge blot of a bloodstained squarely in the middle of the ramp. “Jesus!” I say, “You guys aren’t supposed to move the body until the cops get here! You should all know better”. The baldheaded chief of detectives doesn’t know what to think. Jim shoulders his way through the stunned onlookers and explains, “She’s not dead, not yet anyway. We carried her into the back bedroom. She needs immediate medical attention”. Then, damn it, I wake up!

The G. W. Bush enclave in the desert mountains (can’t remember the rest but it had to do vaguely with mountain goats, wafer-thin SUV vehicles, narrow craggy precipices and various Middle Eastern extremists….)

The massacre at the upscale movie industry sandwich store…(damn, can’t remember anymore!)

I’m living in my own one storey house down in what looks like the cusp of Hollywood/West Hollywood south of Santa Monica Blvd on haunted old residential streets. It’s late at night and most of the street lights are off. The lights in my house are off as I approach. I go round the back to enter through the kitchen, unlock the screen door and go in. Then, suddenly like some zombie from NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD, the handyman who used to live upstairs from me on Fairfax (who we had nicknamed Lurch) is trying to break in behind me to molest me! He’s pretty huge and not as drunk as usual. I’m fighting him off and winning when he looks over my shoulder and points at the house next door. “Doesn’t your sister live there?! Well, the door’s wide open and all the lights are out!” I turn to look, then, forgetting  our fight, we both rush over and into the spooky house. The back door is swinging open, creaking and banging against the wall. I immediately get the chills thinking “has someone broken in here and murdered my sis? Are they still here? Or was it Lurch, and he’s the one who has engineered this whole sadistic mindfuck?” As we go into the deserted living room where we can barely see dim shapes of furniture, I wake …

copyright,  © 2006 Chris Desjardins pka Chris D.

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