End of the world meteor shower and the runaway toolbox

I was in a Nevada City type of artisan town with lots of street vendors having an outdoor crafts fair. Some of ex-Remnant folks were there like Diane, Nancy, Tina Hansell, Martin Leon and Paul Estrada. The area was getting super trendy and overrun with an infestation of wannabe poser punks. There were a lot of bondage pants and screenprinted day-glo t-shirts being worn by a new latte-sipping generation on the slum, looking for bargains in this overpriced little town. 

The ex-Remnant folks were cashing in by selling homemade goodies, and everyone had their little yardsale tables all in a row. Lawn chairs were set up and there folks were enjoying the outdoor social time. 

Someone read an article in the local newspaper which mentioned that Bob Hansell had just died that day. I was shocked to hear that being read out loud, thinking it somewhat rude, as Tina was sitting within earshot. They read a short obituary which contained his horoscope for that day. Even tackier, I thought, since he did just die that day. I mean, how great could his horoscope have been, really? 

As we were all sitting in our lawn chairs, giving words of comfort to Tina, I happened to look up and noticed a beautiful meteor that lingered as it shot across the sky. It was extra bright and I could actually see pieces of it breaking apart as it entered the atmosphere. 

I uttered a Steve Jobs type of "Oh, Wow!" statement of incredulity and looked around to see if anyone else had seen it. Diane and Martin had, and they chimed in that it wasn't over. I looked back up and saw that the whole sky was being painted by elongated raindrop shaped meteors which washed the sky from south to north in a smeary Van Gogh style.

"This is it guys," I said and started bracing myself for impact. 

It seemed like there would have to be some fallout from an event this massive. Someone asked me how I felt about dying, since I no longer had the assurance of salvation that I was afforded by my old cult beliefs. I replied that I didn't know, but I was going to find out one way or the other. 

A few moments of this passed with no apocalyptic impact to speak of. We were, however, on a hill and Diane's arts and crafts toolbox, an antique given to her by her mother, got loose and started rolling down the grass. 

The toolbox appeared made of wood and metal, but, on close examination, I later found it was mostly wood. I attempted to secure it by grabbing its handle as it started, first rolling and then sliding on its back, down a very long grassy hill. 

Of course, this was unfruitful and I found myself getting towed, water-ski style down the hill. It was quite the rush, moving over the grass at near terminal velocity. It leveled out at the bottom, and the toolbox and I skied over a puddle which slowed our transit just enough to keep us from impacting a parked car down at the bottom of the hill. We just kind of nudged it. 

I examined the toolbox. Not too bad, just a few scuffs and one chipped corner. I thought about playing it off as "pre-existing damage," but I knew Diane wouldn't fall for that. The next best thing was to try to mend it, so I set about to pounding back in a few nails that had gotten a bit loose. That's when the real damage occurred. 

Apparently, older style wooden toolboxes don't take well to hammering, and I created a giant smashed in area right in the center of the box. Someone had the bright idea of drilling out a cone shaped bevel, which looked really out of place, but would have made a nice accommodation for a speaker to be installed. 

I thought about how to possibly cover this up and and decided to smear some crafts dye powder into the cavity to kind of antique the finish. At least it would blend in a little, I thought. I needed to be getting the toolbox back up the hill and so I had to go through several houses to get there. 

I found myself in Emily's house, someone who was a member of the DBSA support group that I attend. I had to ask her for directions since my travel had been so extensive on my downhill skiing trip. I went through a closet and out of the building, around some corners and eventually had my sights on the place where we'd been posted up. 

I don't recall what happened next, or whether or not Diane was sympathetic to my story about how her mom's toolbox escaped and got this inferior makeover. I thought that in light of the fact that we'd all just survived an end of the world level meteor shower that she might just let it slide. Ha. Like, literally. 

Sometime before that, I now recall, I was working on a car resembling my 1986 red Toyota Corolla SR5 2 door hatchback. It was a zippy car in its day, but now it was stalling out when I took it on its maiden test drive. I only got to the bottom of the driveway and I almost wore the battery out restarting it over and over, as it would turn over, catch and then die. 

All the lights on the dash were on and I was settling in to the idea that I'd need to pull some codes to figure out what was wrong. Never mind that this was a very early model in the computerized era of automobiles. It still had a carburetor for crying out loud. Anyway, I don't recall how this segment ended, only that it preceded the end of the world toolbox ski trip at the crafts fair. 

Now we're all caught up and it's still early on Saturday morning. Time for a stretch and some light exercise while watching cartoons. And then on to my caffeine and cannabis-fueled musical breakfast mayhem. God bless Saturdays.