My Dream, or Death of a Vocalist

I had the dream again. Not the pounded yam dream; the other one. In the dream I a member of the Men’s Octet. I am good looking, funny, and the highlight of campus life from 1:00-2:00 once a week. Everyone likes me, and zany things happen every time I perform. I usually end up getting wet.

I get waves of energy from the crowd. I can tell they like me best, even though the “Help Me Rhonda” guy thinks he’s the shit. Then all of a sudden I’m one of the twins. We’re all triplets! And everyone still likes me best ’cause I’m the cutest. And if you think we all look the same, well fuck you. When we sing Beach Boys songs they even let me be the guy who surfs. Then I find myself soloing. I make eye contact with a girl in the crowd and pretend to like her. I know she likes me back, because I’m talented, and I’m funny. And then something zany happened! I forget what, but man is it zany. All I know is, I’m happy. God Bless America! The American Dream is mine.

As we break off into “Take is to the Limit” I realize I’m now a Golden Overtone. I’m not used to being a girl and I can’t help touching myself. I really look good in a skirt. I’m still wet though. Now the “Help Me Rhonda” guy is giving me the eye. I’m blushing. I feel like a little girl! Wait a minute, that’s what I am. I must run to the village to fetch milk for Grandpapa. God Bless Sweden! God Bless America, too!

Then I find myself again, but in class. I’m still wet for some goddam reason. I fail my midterm, but that’s not important. “Wait until next Wednesday,” I tell myself: people will like you … as I wake up amidst my own filth on my physics problem set I realize who I am, and that I didn’t mean all that “God Bless America” shit anyway.