Wednesday, June 13, 2007
I Have a Dream! No, Seriously; It Goes Like This . . .
The subconscious mind works in mysterious ways, but sometimes the mysteries are a little easier to discern than others.
Left-Over and I are planning to attend the Yearly Kos Convention in Chicago later this summer. It should be an exciting and eventful weekend, but not as exciting and eventful as the dream I had last night.
In my dream, I am at the convention, sitting in a balcony seat for a Q&A session with an unknown speaker. Surprisingly, as the mystery speaker walks out on the stage, I realize that it is none other than George W. Bush. He has a number of security guards with him as he strides out to the center of the stage and sits in a chair.
For some reason, the stage is not in a convention center, but rather some sort of performing arts venue. I can’t see the very front of the stage from my seat in the balcony, but I can see five chairs in the center for Bush and his four security guards. There is nothing else on the stage but a plain backdrop that slopes upward, at first gradually, but increasing to near vertical at the very back.
It is eerily quiet, as I look around at the audience, waiting for someone to ask a question. No one speaks. I am also waiting for a chorus of booing, like during the presentation of Andy Card’s honorary degree, but it doesn’t come. There is no question to be heard, but Bush starts answering one anyway. He starts to talk, but I can’t hear what he is saying because his voice is quickly overpowered by music that is coming from the house sound system.
Bush stands up and his security crew suddenly scampers off of the stage dragging all of the chairs. Bush begins to shuffle his feet, slowly at first, but then speeding up into a tap dancing rhythm. Before long, Bush is bounding around the stage like Fred Astaire. A partner appears from stage left, and they begin to swirl and dip to the music.
The audience seems too stunned to do anything other than stare, slack jawed. I want them to boo his dancing, but they don’t. He’s not bad, but I want to yell something that will show him how much he is reviled! How could he be so bold as to come to a liberal bloggers’ convention, and not be treated with disdain?
I think of a “clever” line that will undoubtedly break the ice and turn loose a torrent of boos and catcalls. I yell out that he’s “not on Dancing With the Stars, so he can just get off the stage!” I’m quite proud of myself for being the first to challenge him. But suddenly, my call doesn’t make sense because he is no longer dancing.
He has jumped on a bicycle and is riding it around the stage! It’s a trick bike with pegs on the back wheel, so he can jump and spin as he turns. He rides up the ramp at the back of the stage and then zooms back down to the front where he briefly leaves my field of vision. I strain my neck to see what he’s going to do, as he circles the stage a couple of times. Suddenly, as he reaches the part of the stage that is hidden from my view, I hear a loud crash. The crowd, who had been completely silent other than my own yell earlier, bursts into loud applause.
I jump from my seat and run to the front of the balcony to see George W. Bush sprawled on the stage, his bike a mangled scrap of metal lying next to him. His security guards are running to his side as several audience members point and shout “His hand is broken, His hand is broken!”
I feel a sense of intense joy and contentment wash over me as the crowd is filled with lively discussion about what they have just witnessed. Finally, some “karma” has come home to roost!
As I get up and begin to walk out of the venue, a big smile on my face and a bounce in my gait, I start to overhear some conversations that snap me out of my good mood.
According to the voices, media reports are beginning to circulate that because Bush is known to be an expert rider, the only possible reason for the crash is that Bush was drugged, apparently by attendees at a liberal bloggers’ convention. All over the country, people are beginning to question the motives of bloggers, whose lack of patriotism led them to poison our incredibly talented President!”
And suddenly, my thoughts crystallize on what I understand to be the real story behind the President’s drugged bicycle crash. While the crowd around me buzzes with questions and perplexed conversation, I know exactly what happened behind the scenes, unrecorded by any form of evidence or proof. It is all part of a grand master plan to undermine the convention and build sympathy and support for the President!
I wake in a cold sweat, yelling out the same words that I have considered many times before: “Damn You, Karl Rove!”