And then there is the re-occuring dream I have of waking suddenly in a old roadside motel, interior room lit by the flickering neon vacancy sign radiating through the window. The dulcet sounds of Slim Whitman Indian Love Call haunting in the background. Near completely immersed in a bathtub full of ice, missing a kidney and a carney clown standing over me with a bag of boiled peanuts and a strand of dental floss hanging from the corner of his mouth.
Now I just know what all of you are thinking and I get it! Slim Whitman? Really?