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|But, that's where you could best see the pretty girls singing||Dreamt:||July 20th 2005|
So yeah, I was at a concert. The seats on the right side were packed because that is where you could best see the pretty girls singing.
There were no prizes for the competition. Girls just liked to compete to prove they were prettier or better singers or dancers.
The girl on the stage was going to sing some hoppy, poppy song. Earlier I had disconnected her microphone and no one was hearing her. Because I did not like her I did not want her to win.
I was going to get up and move soon. Some smelly black grunge band was moving into the stage area.
A girl in the audience’s bra had fallen off and was hanging in her shirt with her back to me. She had not noticed nor cared. It was a world on camera and on Television.
The basketball shot was horrible yet the result was fantastic. The shot was two feet below the rim. As the game continued into its last twenty-five seconds I wondered.
The other team turned the ball over the ball was shot. 73-63
Allen Iverson was now no where to be seen. There was twenty seconds left. When I looked back 73-66, twelve seconds left. I wondered, was it possible Allen iverson’s team actually won this game down 7 points with twlve seconds left.
I also asked myself? Was it the “Greatest shot” Because it went in or because they went on to win?
*** Dream faded***
On the wall of my room was a poster of Grant Hill in the air fighting for a loose ball with Michael Jordan. It was said that Grant Hill was the only basketball player in history who did not fear Jordan and his facial expression reinforced that.
Next I was in a gymnasium. There was a crowd and cheerleaders, an announcer and a mascot. Someone said, “They’re going to replay the greatest shot in NBA history.
Basketball players appeared on the court. Allen Iverson takes the ball to the post and shoots. The shot looks something like this.
The score is 73-60.
The shot is low, it hits the net and wraps around. The net sort of captures the ball, conserves its momentum and by force it wraps around and sort of dunks itself and the crowd cheers. The score is now 73-60 with twenty five seconds left:
IT WAS ASSUMED he’d make a dollar for every large bottle he sold.
So, he (he was not Webster, slightly older) he ran off then asked me, “are you going to drink that pointing to my cup. I said no.”
The presumption was that the cup was worth 25 cents and he’d sell that too.
I remember he had once come to my dorm room asking for a quarter I owed him. So he’d sell it for sure.
After a while I lost him and the dream faded.
Walking across the mall of Charlesland there are two movie theatres. One theatre has newest movies and the other has older ones. At the end of the mall is an arcade shop. The arcade room is filled with different games I have never seen before.
• I should take a moment to note that arcade games are really different in Charlesland. The systems have many colors and the controls sticks of the game are quite variable. I play a fighting game a few moments and move on.
“Some man in a white mask” (you know, when a guy has a monkey they wear this Arabian white head gear and mysterious clothing.) It was like that. I should mention I am the only person in the arcade. The guy is reading a script about his “ball numbers game” and how it works.
“The magnificent”, “The object” “the wondrous” are all things he said with a dead pan motivation.
I turned a corner and lay down from the fatigue of walking. “I wonder if this person was going to continue to read his script even if there were no customers there.”
It did become quiet. Two Chinese voices people began chattering from behind the arcade’s counter. I pretended to not hear them but kept my eyes shut. They chatted back and forth as Chinese often do then left alone.
I am sitting at a dinner table now. Across from me is seated an annoyed black man. The two Chinese fellows have their back turned. The black worker is hitting them in the back of the head with a notebook.
The reason the worker is annoyed is he has to work that stupid job at the counter. The two Chinese people turn around, speak Chinese, and then turn back around.
I tell the black man to consider being polite to people to which he balks at me. I consider, this must not be the best job for this man. (Though I’m sure they are busy on Fridays.)
Looking at other booths I notice [former NBA coach] Phil Jackson sitting in the table next to the Chinese. I tell the black man to wait a moment and…
For a moment, inside my dream, I have a short conversation with him which I do not hear.
Its like part of me goes and talks to Phil while part of me sits. When I get back I tell the black man,
“Heh, stop that!” because he is continuing to molest his irate Chinese bosses.
“Okay, I talked to Phil Jackson; he says you can sell orange Shasta ® for him. The black man seems really excited. “Really?!” He grabs the sample bottle from off of the table. I’m going to sell so much and make so many dollars.
Upon finishing writing this I should laughably comment. It’s a
very Charlesian phrase, “See the pretty girls singing.” You know its
not possible to see songs.
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