I'm at "home" and heading in to the city to work. I'm at the top of the apartment building and I'm running down down down a long series of stairs, rather disorientedly. Every time I stop paying attention or hit a new landing, I'm on the wrong plane... I'm on the walls or the ceiling or I'm upside-down and trying to reorient myself to reality; a painting pops up in the middle of the stairs when I'm particularly confused, and I stop to look at it. The room shifts, and the apartment manager offers me a ride into the city.
I'm in the apartment manager's blue lamborghini and we're racing through the onramps/crossramps/freeways of (a very different) oakland. we come to one four-lighted intersection and we're red but he's creeping his lamborghini slowly forwards... traffic is going left but not coming from the left at the moment, and it looks like he's going to try to frogger through the traffic if he gets a chance. From the left starts to come traffic and I squeel a bit trying to get him to back up. He backs up slowly.
On the left, I notice two bike cops pull over another car with someone in a body bag. Including the bodybag, there's five people, all kinda somber/solemn. The bodybag looks a little smoky, and it starts moving. The being inside is pounding on the bag for someone to let him out. One of them does, looking a bit uncomfortable, and out comes a haze of pot smoke and a manicly grinning dude holding a bong in one hand and some weed in the other; he's coughing and laughing and doesn't seem to have a care in the world.
I get out and move closer. I find myself sitting down getting smoked out by the two cops, a male and a female. the female's on my right in a people circle and the male's not really to be seen. I'm fairly stoned when she breaks out two bottles of alcohol and offers them too me. one's a strange looking bottle of Jack, and the other is some sort of butter liquer. I weigh the options of which to drink first and decide to go with the butter liquer first, as it will taste better and get me drunker, and then the Jack will taste better. I spill a bit of each on my shirt when I drink them.
Now I'm getting worried about getting to work, and I'm about to head off, but the male cop stops me. "Hey, we can't let you go with that tie-dyed shirt." I look down, and it's really more of a splattershirt... I've apparently spilled a plethora of dyed liquids on it, drinking too fast or whatnot. The male cop holds me there with a hand on my shoulder, while the female goes up to a carnival booth on the side of the road, and starts scribbling furiously on a bunch of oddly shaped pieces of paper.
When she's done, I go up to the table and start reading them... several just have my name on them, some are nominating me for best this or best that (I don't think I ever actually see WHAT, just ... best (covered by something else), bt I'm flipping through stuff rather quicly. Somehow I understand that from all of this I'm about to get a new wardrobe of shirts...
leaving home for work, getting tripped up on stairs... heading out, getting a ride from someone (my boss?). having trouble with the streets, noticing some stoners getting pulled over by cops... smoking out and getting drunk with the cops... cops get me a new tshirt.
I wake up feeling really good.
when I get to my computer, I find that poemranker is struggling to stay "up", because it was picked yesterday as yahoo's "pick of the day" july 7th. it needs some work to keep up with that traffic!