remake/remodel

cream of mushroom

While at the beach last Saturday, I dreamt of cream of mushroom beer. I was working as a waiter at a dim and tiny Japanese restaurant, moving from table to table, killing each patron. I don’t remember how. Every victim became a miniature rubber doll. No points of articulation. I would bring the dolls to the maitre d’, and he would comment approvingly, ususally: Yes, this was a bad one, but sometimes: No, you shouldn’t have done that. Outside, on a grassy football field, skinny young jocks dressed in old-fashioned football gear (leather headpieces, etc.) chased me around and kicked me with their cleats. One footballer in particular was mad at me because I was supposed to be after his girl. And his girl did have a shine for me, after all, but as I have a girlfriend already, I felt awkward and perhaps a little insincere. She pressed a sack into my hands and ushered me into an idling charter bus. I sat down in an empty bench and opened the sack. Inside was a six-pack of beer, so I popped open a bottle and drank — cream of mushroom beer! Vile. My friend Sean Mason, sitting in front of me, turned around and said hi, so I offered him a beer, and he agreed it was vile. The girl pulled up in a jeep beside my window and looked at me hopefully. We smiled and waved! We pointed at the beer and gestured with false cheer.