Doug Blough

The Everly Brothers sang, “Whenever I want you, all I have to do is dreeeam ….” That was my attitude in my formative years watching Ginger from Gilligan's Island.

I find dreams an intriguing and wonderful phenomenon and maintain an invention that records dreams to be watched the next morning would be a greater invention than the Slinky and DNA combined. The world would celebrate in unison, all wars and online bullying would cease. What a beautiful day it would be watching our dreams play out and analyzing just what the mother those wacky, bizarre scenarios could possibly mean.

Last night for instance, (who am I kidding; it was late morning) I dreamed about my old weightlifting buddy Spence Benoit, a Cody contractor I run into maybe twice a year the last 20 years. In this dream, we're at the lumberyard and Spence was trying to coordinate a number of girlfriends he had on his stringer. (The man was a lothario in real-life younger days).

A couple of these gals seemed interested in me, but refusing to step on my buddy's toes, I removed myself from the line of fire like any good homeboy would do. I come upon a bedroom, and I see Spence in the sack hovering over what appeared to be several ample hooters. I walk in to give him a slap on the back and next thing I know, three infants are screaming in unison, (although it strangely sounded like the howling of wolves).

Next thing I know, Spence came roaring from that bedroom screaming at me like, “I'd just about gotten the last one asleep and you come in there and wake them all up? I want to kill you right now!” I mean, the man was literally threatening to end my life with one swing of his mighty right arm. What in the Sam Hill was that dream trying to tell me? Am I soon to sire triplets? Not bloody likely.

It's been a couple decades since I broke my nose during a dream filled with promise, but it still strikes me as so bizarre, it warrants resurrection. I was trying to make the first string of a football team, and when a runner fumbled, I saw my chance. The ball was bouncing loose and I had the angle, but as I prepared to dive on it, I remembered all the players who have been paralyzed diving head first. I hesitantly threw caution to the wind and dove towards my chance to make the team.

Next thing I know, I'm awake and lying on the opposite side of the bed with my head dangling over the side. “What is this wetness I feel,” I wondered, and as I righted myself, realized I was dripping blood droplets onto my semi-clean sheets. It was coming from my nose, and I simultaneous realized the set of box springs leaning against that wall for no particular reason, also had fresh blood smeared on a spot nearly dead center. In a pained daze, I deduced when I dreamed I dove headfirst, I had launched myself across my bed, smashing into that box springs in a gut-wrenching collision. I made the team but would spend the season on Injured Reserve with a broken, mangled nose.

On a more alarming note, we all know when you're falling from a great height in a dream, you will actually die if the dream plays out to landing. So how do we know people who “died peacefully in his sleep” didn't really plunge 500 feet from a cliff to die a gruesome, terrifying death?

Did I just blow your mind with that scenario? Regardless, I suggest you sleep with one eye open and if Spence's bedroom is a-rockin, don't come a knockin'.