Scott S and The New Apartment
Then toward morning dreamt that Bryna and I were moving into a bigger apartment. The walls were old peeling paint, the carpet disgusting brown Brillo, but lots of space. I don't know if we were getting along. Not necessarily fighting but not real close and cozy. Scott S was coming over to visit. I was thinking Scott S. was some Chicken John, snooty SF guy, though I was picturing the real Scott S, a Sacramento guy, who thoroughly dislikes me. I guess I was juxtaposing to snooty guys, both of whom run (or ran) venues, though in real life Chicken John has nothing against me and wouldn't even really recognize my name or face. Anyway, Scott S shows up with a friend who has some crazy welded together two person bike thing. Neither of them say high to me as they ascend the back step of the apartment building. I follow them in, thinking I should have invited at least one of the guys who were hanging out on our back porch (Ben or some Craig Usher, another local guy who reminds me of Scott S butt he's really nice.) I go back but they're all gone. I go into my apartment. Scott's friend is racing an over sized bike pulling to trailers up and down our hall. He still doesn't acknowledge me. I don't know where Bryna is, but I imagine she's chatting with Scott on a porch somewhere. Our aparment has so many doors that when you open 'em all it's almost like you're outside. We have a way long closet with a toilet and sink at the end of it, maybe a tub, I don't remember. I decide that we don't need such a big closet and then with a little work it can be an extra room for guests (mostly our nephew Antonio.) I notice then that their is a room, and then the closet. Now if only there were another entrance to the bathroom. I wash my hands which for some reason have grease all over 'em. I'm looking at my tatoos, regretting having them, and thinking about how much of a dork I'll look like to Scott S with my dumb tatoos. I go to find him and Bryna and I wake up, relieved to not actually have any tattoos. Yay.