HOW DID I GET HERE?

It seems there was a wedding we had to go to. After all, we were invited. In the kitchen as one of those giant rotisserie chicken machines. In the corner waiting to be cooked were hundreds of raw chicken legs.

My friend Manny and his wife Kim were having a wedding party for their daughter. They were both running around the house, which I recall was palatial. Sexual intrigue was in the air, on the menu, right on the tip of our tongues, but what, with whom was not discussed.

Next thing I remember I was standing on a bus. Let me clarify. I was not on the roof of the bus, but standing inside. Perhaps this is important. The bus was crowded, and I was hanging on for dear life.

Dear life,

How did I get here?

I walked into the stadium. There did not seem to be any restrictions to movement. A football game was in play. The stadium was concrete, and crowded. I recall I had been watching the Washington Huskies earlier that day on the tv at the wedding, as I wandered from room to room, trying to find someone I knew, so that I could start a conversation.

For some reason that can only be explained by dream logic, this stadium and the football game that was going on, was in America. I was struck with the shock of time travel. How did I get into the stadium, other than by walking right into it?

I mean, there was no admission. No transaction or exchange of money had taken place. How could anything be real without a transaction?

More importantly, how did I get from a house wedding in North Vancouver, all the way to a stadium, presumably in America?

I asked someone there which teams were playing. It was a high school rivalry. The football field was in bad shape, overgrown like the old field we played in as kids. Tall grass, dirt, not the manicured grass of a modern football match. I said to the faceless person, who is winning? They pointed to an old sign, which had physical letters and numbers that had to be manually advanced. There were words that named the two teams, but from the distance I was at in relation to the sign, I could not read the words. The numbers were blurred, but my gut told me not to worry about reading the sign.

My gut told me to ask a stranger how I could get from to a stadium in America to a bus in Canada. They said, oh yeah, I’ve taken that bus. What a crazy route it goes. There is a back entrance. I can show you to the border.

We walked up a concrete hallway to a metal door. On one side was America. On the other side, was Canada. I opened the door.

There was a scene like when you to through the airport, and have to take off your shoes, and belt. I remember once going through security, and they asked me to remove my belt. I unbuckled my belt and started to pull down my pants.

No, No, No!!! Just the belt, sir. Very well. You’re in charge here, not me.

You will have to have your picture taken for your new ID.

Should I smile? Yes, you can smile—if you can smile. If you can smile? Is there something wrong with my smile?

Just look at the camera. Be natural. It is just a picture. We will fix you up with a new ID, and you can be on your way. The bus is waiting for you.

On the bus, there was a Real Vancouver Housewife. She looked like she had been travelling for some time. She had a very small greyhound dog with her. I guess it is ok to bring a dog on the bus. The dog had a halter that read Service Dog. It did not look like a Service Dog.

Service Dog. That is like the Handicap sign some people have in their cars. How do I get one of those? Clearly, a man who goes from a wedding with rotisserie chickens to a bus to America, needs a Handicap sign.

Why are my toes so long? I am continually stubbing my barefoot toes. Why not just wear shoes?

To bed?

If you go to sleep with your shoes on, who knows where your dreams will take you.