William Oaka Helton, Greg Kioski and Mitch McConnell giving haircuts in a carport

I was being chased by zombies early on in my dream. I eluded them for the most part, but once zombies make an appearance in a dream they never quite go away. Everyone you meet from then on is suspect. Either a zombie or a future zombie. Regardless, that dream evaporated when I had to get up to pee, and my next dream was relatively zombie free. 

Next, I was walking around somewhere and I came upon a carport on a hill. It was one of those basic models, enclosed on 3 sides and rather dark inside. Inside, William Oaka Helton was setting up to do some barber work: getting the place swept out, plugging in his shaver, dusting off the chair, you know, barber stuff. He asked if I'd be able to relieve him in a bit, but I begged off. It was too dark in there to do any good hair cutting. 

I walked on a ways and came across a blue Fender strat, brand new, which I appropriated for myself without any associated guilt. Maybe it was mine, I don't know. Mine now. 

I went back to the carport barbershop and now Greg Kioski was on duty. I talked to him for a while about the guitar, which I was having a difficult time keeping clean. It had gotten some dirt and water on it from the dewy grass I was forced to lay it on momentarily. I asked Greg if he'd mind if I got it cleaned up there at the barber shop. He told me I'd have to hurry because Mitch McConnell was coming soon to relieve him. 

"He won't be giving ceremonial haircuts, either," he told me. "When he gets here it will be some real Bush type stuff. Rolling up the sleeves and getting down to business." 

It felt real, but I don't know about Bush ever doing any rolling up of sleeves except for photo ops. He was no Jimmy Carter. But now I'm just interjecting. In my dream, it seemed to be an apt description. Mitch was also a lot younger than the turtle we see on TV these days. More like Mitt Romney, but it was understood that it was Mitch, so I'm gonna have to leave that in place. 

Not much actually happened in this dream. I had to use toilet paper to wipe down the guitar, which was abrasive and didn't do a good job of lifting the dirt. It just smeared it around, scratching the perfect finish. I was obsessed with getting the thing clean and not ruining it further. If I'd only had a spray bottle, I thought, I could rinse off the guitar with minimal friction. Oh, well, you never have what you need in a dream, so toilet paper and scratches it was. I had to get out of there before Mitch showed up. That's about it.

It's Sunday. Family Google Meeting is in a few minutes. I'm so not enthused about these things. I feel like the odd man out every time. I'm so unrelatable and disconnected from everything they ever talk about, which is mostly Minnesota stuff, grandkid stuff and things which I haven't taken part in, or won't ever take part in, because I'm out here and they've been out there for the last 40 years. We have no shared experiences, at least none that come up in family meeting. 

Likely, the ones we do have are just bad memories for them anyway, as in me as a teenager. I'm always aware that the whole reason they moved to Minnesota was to raise their kids in an environment where they wouldn't grow up to be punks like me. 

Well, I ought to attempt an appearance. I don't do much talking. I just go on with my morning breakfast routine while the chatter goes on in the background.