Dream Sequence, Vol. 1

By SoDak and Null

We have spent countless hours discussing musicians, records, rock documentaries, and songs. Our lives have become intertwined in countless ways. From time to time, we have similar dreams. What follows is an account of our dream. It is an essay of “fiction.”

Hollywood is a fantasy. It is for the delusional. In one of the mansions, on this day, many celebrity musicians congregated to engage in their customary activities. In the grand room, in front of a giant mirror, James Taylor and Carly Simon are awkwardly entangled, fucking each other. Each of them stares into their own eyes, while singing “You’re So Vain,” thinking they have achieved immortality. In the corner, sitting in a gold chair, David Crosby wipes away the remnants of cocaine from his nostrils. With his other hand, he drops a turkey thigh on the floor. He then uses the grease from the cooked bird as lubrication, while he tries to achieve an erection. Splotches of dry cum cover his abdomen. After he climaxes, he runs his hands through his stringy hair, where the jizz acts as gel. Every now and then Crosby yells out, “I am a rebel—just look at my long hair. I am the counterculture.” Bob Dylan is propped up at a piano, mumbling old blues songs, deciding which lyrics he should steal for a new song. All the while, Roger McGuinn is hiding under the piano, hoping some of Dylan’s scraps will fall into his hands. Scattered around him are photos of Ben Carson, along with receipts for the donations he gave to this Republican assclown. In one of the corners of the room, where a giant television is mounded on a wall, is a stack of videotapes, including Chuck Berry’s collection of videos—from his hidden camera—of women peeing and pooping in the restroom in his restaurant/bar. Since Berry died, the videos are collecting dust, as no one else wants to watch them.

In one of the bedrooms, there are boxes stacked from the floor to the ceiling, filled with papers related to U2’s tax havens. In the corner are copies of Harry Browne’s book, The Frontman: Bono (in the Name of Power), torn to shreds. Some of the pages are in the fireplace. Bono paces the room, thinking that if he burns these books, the world will not discover all the ways that he actively avoids paying taxes in Ireland, in order to increase his wealth, while pleading that other people should give their wages over to his “causes.” He stops for a moment, in front of a picture of him posing with George W. Bush. Both of them are smiling, knowing that they executing a slick PR move. “I am the world’s greatest agent of change. Fuck Browne for suggesting that I advocate ineffective solutions, amplify elite discourses, kiss the asses of the rich, and do not truly care for the poor. I pay more than enough in taxes and am just being smart at business.” Out of the corner of his eye, he spots his cowboy hat, hanging on a hook on the wall. He smiles thinking of the time he had the hat flown first class after he forgot it at home. If he did not have all this wealth, the hat could not have travelled safely for him to wear at a concert. “Fuck Boff Whalley [from Chumbawamba] for writing that poem ‘The Twat in the Hat’ about me.” Bono runs over to the computer, googles himself, wishing he could delete any reference to this poem. All the while, The Edge has been sitting at a desk, working on papers related to his decade-long fight to construct luxury mansions on Sweetwater Mesa, an undeveloped part of Malibu. A loud noise, from the outdoors, interrupts their self-absorption. Both of them pause, look at each other and then toward the window. The unsettling disturbance continues, creating confusion, given that it sounds like a dying goat. They walk to the window, witnessing a spectacle.

By the pool, standing on a chair, is Stevie Nicks, singing one of her most recent songs. The lyrics center on Nicks being a mystical angel; there is nothing new here. Her handler looks exhausted, as he has spent the last twenty minutes blowing cocaine up Nicks’s ass. Gene Simmons swaggers around the pool, hoping that everyone is watching him. He removes his robe, bearing his family jewels. He sits down in the grass, bends over and proceeds to lick his taint and balls with his unusually long tongue. Once he gets hard, he starts to suck his own cock. He immediately makes plans to copyright oral sex. Eric Clapton stands by the side of the pool, staring at this display, while contemplating his increasing irrelevance. Given the election of Trump in the United States, he considers whether his own anti-immigration statements from the past several decades, in regard to the United Kingdom, could gain him some new fans. His thoughts are fleeting, as he desires something more sensational. For some unknown reason, he is carrying Courtney Love’s bastard love child, who was born addicted to opiates. Clapton holds the baby above the pool, wondering if he could write another hit song if he dropped the kid into the water. Instead of “Tears in Heaven” it could be “Tears in the Pool (The Drowning Baby).”