A new dream
Oh wow was this one strange. Not strange because I was shovelling yams, but strange because nothing was terribly out of the ordinary, except for the professional wrestlers.
A sort of flying pan shot comes down on the front yard of our house in Alabama. Hulk Hogan, with his strange ass facial hair gone and a silver pony tail is walking down the path from the house area to the hay barn. There were a lot of people milling around near the garage. A car drove up and two very large guys got out of it. I thought I recognized them, but I wasn't sure. They looked around very confused and started to walk toward the house and I walked up and said, "Can I help you? I think you're trying to go over there." I pointed toward the hay barn, cause that's where the professional wrestlers were signing up to be truckers. We conversed for a brief moment, and they showed me the letter they had received. Apparently Grant Shreve was recruiting retired professional wrestlers to be truckers, with his home base in my hay barn. The letter was hand-written, with their stage names as the addressee. And when I say hand-written it was in that wobbly, loopy script that third graders use when they've just learned how to write cursive.
Then Warren came home from his bike ride and woke me up.
Psycho-analyze away.
A sort of flying pan shot comes down on the front yard of our house in Alabama. Hulk Hogan, with his strange ass facial hair gone and a silver pony tail is walking down the path from the house area to the hay barn. There were a lot of people milling around near the garage. A car drove up and two very large guys got out of it. I thought I recognized them, but I wasn't sure. They looked around very confused and started to walk toward the house and I walked up and said, "Can I help you? I think you're trying to go over there." I pointed toward the hay barn, cause that's where the professional wrestlers were signing up to be truckers. We conversed for a brief moment, and they showed me the letter they had received. Apparently Grant Shreve was recruiting retired professional wrestlers to be truckers, with his home base in my hay barn. The letter was hand-written, with their stage names as the addressee. And when I say hand-written it was in that wobbly, loopy script that third graders use when they've just learned how to write cursive.
Then Warren came home from his bike ride and woke me up.
Psycho-analyze away.