The Bar That DBok Ruined - Update

As I mentioned, I am in the process of buying the Yellow House bar (the one that DokBok smart-assed right out of business). We will decide whether to pull the trigger in the next few days. Jack the Giant will run the place and I will supervise.

So, I've been checking out Craigslist for some of the items we would need including:

Bar Stool Go Cart, Honda Power, Very Fast - $1100

How many times have you said to yourself, "I wish this bar stool would do 90 mph."

Me too.

Alternatively, we could try this:

It's only a two and a half hour van ride south...


Reservoir Dogs, anyone?

Here's what we're doing for the next Rusty...

Bring your bathing suits, BB guns and bad attitudes, boys. Loud, awful music won't hurt, either.

This should keep us all busy.

I dreamed a dream of Rusty

All the major players were there. Except Litzi, since my dream-generator has only written files on her. OneEar was intoxicated and physically mischievous to the other patrons of the large, fancy hotel/spa/convention center where I was doing something work-related and the clowns had showed up for a simultaneous Session. Alceste had somehow managed to become covered in mud, and was grouchily looking for a quiet back room in which to sleep. He shoved some fax machines and desktop computers aside and settled in like a grizzly in his cave preparing to sleep through the winter, getting mud everywhere on the nice furniture. He laughed a little, grunted something foul, and shut his eyes behind his unremoved glasses.

OnO was talking with the hotel manager, trying to avoid some sort of punishment, or at least inquiring as to what sort of punishment could be expected if there were, say, a bunch of clowns running around drunk, having permanently stained the spa and its towel-clad patrons. He was also putting himself in the position to question the amount of the bill, with no intention to actually barter, only to agree completely with whatever the manager said.

Cocoa was ridiculing us, unimpressed with anything. He evidently did not approve of the circumstance and was letting all of us, and hords of otherwise innocent bystanders (no one is really innocent, he thinks, but that is another point altogether) know. He was sober and seemed sulky. More so than usual.

Then, the dream came to conclusion with me encountering my high-school girlfriend at the hospital-business part of the convention. She was working for industry, and like the majority of the convention paid participants, was wearing maroon hospital scrubs. As the convention was coming to an end and people (not the clowns, of course) were disbanding and checking out of the hotel (it was a very big hotel, and nice, and the clowns weren't going anywhere until forced), I accompanied her down some big, marble stairs that led down to the parking lot outside in the snowbanks. She was chatting with some passing colleagues as we descended; right before we started down the stairs, at the top where there was a nice overlook to the snow-covered scenery around us, I encountered an old teammate from my wrestling team in college. He seemed successful with nice clothes and a fancy haircut, being a bit stand-offish to people trying to catch up with him and engage him in small-talk. We saw each other and gave an uncomfortable man-hug--you know, more than a handshake because much time had passed since we had seen each other, and we were comrades once. Back to the near-bottom of the staircase: suddenly, my former girlfriend clacked her teeth together as she was laughing with her colleague, and her front teeth broke in half in the middle. As her broken tooth shards fell from her mouth, I instinctively tried to follow the broken chicklet onto its resting place on the stairs, as I felt a repair would then be possible.

It was all pure instinct; I've had no formal training in dental triage or disaster management. Just sort of a 'oop--there it goes, oh and it's tumbling, bouncing over that way and under the edge of the carpet' that goes through the mind of a housecat as it watches a red dot from a laser pointer wiggle over the floor, confusing the mental apparatus that had evolved over millions of years to successfully inhale its prey.

My more recent girlfriend had figured prominently earlier in the dream, as I was trying as hard as possible to protect her from the wiley and predictable ways of the monkey platoon. When Alceste began forming his muddy nest, she was delighted that there seemed to be permission to act as a homeless person, and she, too, found a spot on the floor to bed down, fully clothed with a backpack.

Getting back to the tumbling tooth, as I watched it in motion, trying to make a mental note of its final resting place, I was watching the face and form of my former companion--her face turned white, and then blue as her knees buckled and she fainted, falling flat on her back on the stairs, presumedly from the pain of a fractured tooth and the psychological distress of a front tooth wrecking her appearance. It's cute when you're six, but even hockey players can't fashionably support a toothless grin.

As you can imagine, my attention was split between the final locus of the tooth, and the dropping body in front of me. Years of formal medical training finally allowed my squirrel-in-the-street-with-an-oncoming-car brain to look after the patient and place the patient's wild tooth on a lower level of priority. I propped her knees up, and the color began to return to her face, and some people came to either help or accuse me of some form of wrong-doing. They asked me what to do, but then I returned instantly back to the search for the tooth in the immediate area, lest it sprout legs and run away, never to be seeen again. I muttered something like, 'call an ambulance; I think she's ok' or something to that effect, and then found, to my surprise, the remnants of several of her teeth lying on the dirty stairwell. I collected them all, looked back to ensure she continued to live, and got out my cellphone to do what the others had not.

And I awoke.

What does this tell us about the whereabouts of the next recording session?