Fever dreams

Which really weren’t fever dreams, but sure felt like with a surreal quality to it all.

Dream sequence start. I was at a Kinky Friedman book signing, and I was stretched out on the couch, under the covers. I don’t know why I carried a blanket, or why I was ready to go to bed. At the last book signing, Mr. Friedman asserted that his book deal was just about up, and in the final “Kinky Friedman, Investigator” series, he was going to, in his words, “Kinky gets bugled to Jesus.”

So in the dream, he stopped by, said something to me, then ambled off and turned out the lights. As the bookstore employees were closing, they realized someone (me) was still there, and they realized that I needed to be let out. So I gathered up the bedding, computer, and books, and shuffled out the door. Which led to meeting with the bookstore reps, and eventually, the bookstore’s “buyer” who didn’t know astrology from Shinola, but her daughter did.

“Oh man, I read your stuff every week!” Dream sequence end.

Just goes to show that even harmless, over-the-counter drugs do weird things. Or maybe, reading “existential novels” before bedtime does that.

I got up because that dream was, well, for lack of better words, just plain weird. I typed it in, then grabbed a cup of herbal tea and headed down to look at the predawn lakefront.

Fish were jumping. Somebody was feeding. Feeding frenzy. I sipped on the tea, thought about it, made an estimate as to what was working, weighed that against what was currently tied on the end of the pole, wandered home, poured more tap water into the empty tea mug (two tea bags), set it to nuke for a couple of minutes, and grabbed a pole. Next thing I know, sun’s coming up over downtown. Go back, grab more lures, take a swig of tepid tea, and go back to the waterline.

Caught nothing. Sure had fun, though. I figure I fished for almost three hours, off and on, while most of Austin was asleep. And something with fins was moving. Big fishes. Carpe Carpio[/I>.