If you read our 2012 Bonnaroo coverage (hey thanks/that’s what’s up/high five), you probably noted our pleasant surprise at Rubblebucket’s incredible set–one of the funnest at the festival, in fact. If you didn’t read our coverage (get to it) but you live in D.C., you’re a lucky kid because they’re coming to The Hamilton with Dinosaur Feathers on June 21 and you don’t want to miss either act.
Expect a whirlwind of color, energy, a horn section, clapping, maybe some crowdsurfing, definitely some chanting, a ton of dancing and soooo much more. Let’s get weird and let’s do it for free.
We’ve got a pair of tickets we want to give YOU. Winning ‘em is simple; in honor of Rubblebucket’s debut album Rose’s Dream, tell us the CRAZIEST dream you’ve ever had. Or make it up. Just make it interesting. Readyyyy? Let’s go.
I have a recurring dream about my grandfather’s house where it has two additional rooms that don’t exist in real life. I go to this house/the fake rooms so often I had to ask my parents if they actually existed just to keep it straight. Not crazy, but pretty intense that my brain keeps faking the same architectural plan on a weekly basis.
My neighbor’s son, who is my age and also of South Asian descent, was wearing a Tarzan outfit and was running through trees. My house, for some reason, was located in a tropical rainforest. Nobody in my family was with me. He came in my room and yelled gibberish (apparently English wasn’t the language?) and I responded…in his language. We ended up taking the rope and I fell into a teapot. Where did this come from? Great question. So I’m in the teapot and Hilda Doolittle comes out of nowhere with all these orchids. She never writes about orchids so I don’t know why this is happening. I can’t find my neighbor’s son anywhere and I am literally just transported to this oasis of tea. I hear trumpets. No, no it’s not Zach Condon; it’s Ezra Pound. I don’t know why these literary figures were in my dream, but roll with it.
So Ezra Pound is playing trumpet and literally floating in air–not in a boat in the tea oasis, but in the air–like a ghost. Which he is. I’m freaking out. I am crying. Hysterically.
Do you know that sensation when you wake up from a dream but you’re still trapped IN the dream? Not like Inception, but it happens to me regularly. I wake up and my room is surrounded with cakes. Wedding cakes. HUGE towering wedding cakes that it seems like everything but my ceiling shrunk overnight. I panic some more, and then my sister smacks the door open and all the wedding cakes start to fall on top of me.
And then I actually woke up–conscious–this morning before my metro commute.
The Drew Carey Dream
Last year I was studying in a rural area of Southern Africa. I hadn’t thought about American culture for months, that is, until I woke up from the most deranged dream I had ever dreamt.
There I was, looking suave, at a lavish house party. Hundreds of people were talking and having a good time, and everybody seemed to like me quite a bit. I talked and flirted and made people laugh until I got curious. “Hey” I whispered to the girl on my right, “whose house is this anyway?” The girl smiled and told me that it was the house of Drew Carey. This caught me off guard. It took me a moment to remember who Drew Carey was, but once I did I shrugged my shoulders and carried on having fun.
Eventually one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen approached me with a glass of champagne. Instinctively, I knew this woman to be Drew Carey’s wife, but man was she smokin’. Not only that, but she was unmistakably giving me signs that she wanted our relationship to progress in a more private setting. This was fine with me so I let her lead me to a bedroom away from the party and soon enough her clothes were on the floor. Just then, just as I’m about to kiss her for the first time, there is a knock at the door. I run and hide in the closet, and that’s when things took a turn for the terrible.
“Why was the door locked?” It was Drew fucking Carey, I could see him through the crack of the closet door. His babe wife told him that she was changing, but now, seeing her naked, Drew Carey was getting all hot and bothered himself. What followed I cannot really explain. All I know is that it was the most memorable dream experience I have ever had, and that I couldn’t look away. Time moved slowly; forty five minutes passed by and I recall every second. There was Drew Carey, in all his naked , chubby, balding, sweaty glory, puttin the moves on the wife that was supposed to be mine. It was freaky. They ran through position after position, and then he opened up a drawer. Out came items, big and small, rubbery, electronic , colorful , noisy, and downright messed up. Just when I thought it would end, Drew Carey would seem to renew his efforts.
When it was finally over I woke up. Why Drew Carey? What did it mean? I told my one friend, but didn’t have it in me to tell my therapist when I got back to the states. I just want something good to come of this all.
I had a dream that the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, was transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.