Clown cars

A few nights ago, I dreamed that a friend and I were riding on top of an 18-wheel truck. By “on top of,” I mean that we were standing way up on the leading edge of the trailer part of the truck. There was a handrail for us to hang on to, which was good because the truck was careening along a narrow mountain road with a sheer dropoff to one side.

I shouted to my friend how purposeless my life felt and he launched into an oration that I’ve forgotten, except to say that it was hair-raisingly inspirational and ended with him letting go of the rail, raising both fists into the wind and exhorting me to “Give! Give! Give!”

When the truck stopped, we climbed down from it into a wide place in the road where a dozen or so hippies were seated in very small Volkswagen Beetles, clown cars really, engines running, ready to leave. I was trying to squeeze into one of the cars with several other people when I woke up.

Another friend tells me that “Give! Give! Give!” might be the meaning of life. I’m inclined to agree.

The hippies are harder to figure.


Later this week, I’ll play a blind man in a video shot at Cleveland Park. A dog will urinate on my leg. I’ll say something funny. That’s mostly all I know.