I have this recurrent thought that I’m supposed to register for a race. Go pick up my bib and t-shirt. This flickers in my half-sleep, an awareness I must get up shortly and go somewhere. When I do wake up finally (in real life; it’s after noon; I took half a Trazodone at 11:30pm last night) I have a pain in my right lower leg. That front muscle that runs along the outside of the tibia. Familiar pain but I haven’t had it in years.
Main dreams float in and out, beginning with a return to the San Diego Reader. I go back to work there, and visit there, and it looks much the same as in 1993, only I am afraid they’ll find me out, as there are still one or two characters hanging around from then. Once before I had a dream where I have to work on a major product, a special issue or insert that keeps me there for a couple of nights. A lot of pasteups. A lot of filler columns to write under different names. The editors come in and it’s Buckley and Tierney from the YDN Magazine. Also Bobby Shriver is in there, making fun of me because I’ve been there all night.
I have to prepare and host for a major event. It’s at a place like the National Press Club. Are we celebrating Ambassador Kennedy? Is he still alive? Again it’s an all-night, all-day slog. I get into arguments about the sorts of lies told about JPK. I have to gather up plastic bags of trash and newspaper clippings as the event wears on.
Moki is with me and some of his friends in a high-rise building someplace. More an office building than apartment. We are going to smoke some boo. Before we start he generates some printouts of line graphs, like EKG charts, showing the potency of the drug. This is very good stuff. I get very weak puffs, barely a hit, however. We are awaiting some woman who works at a tabloid newspaper downtown but she doesn’t show because she has to be at work all night. She can come in a couple of days, though. She’s a cross between Sherita and Sharlene. So we’re back in a similar place, a small conference room with sofa and upholstered chairs, a couple of days later. This time I’ve insisted that the graphs be drawn properly, with india ink and speedball nibs, so I produce those. The boo isn’t much stronger, but it gets me a little high. Not high enough not to be hungry. Down at the end of the corridor there opens a big food court, something like a cross between the food services at the New York Times and a food court in a shopping mall. Nothing special there, really, but we are hungry.
