I went to visit him, he was in some sort of group rehab or residential program. The place was in a bad, old, near-downtown neighborhood. I could picture the door of the building perfectly, it was a familiar place. But when I got there, there were 2 scary people walking up the street towards me, and suddenly the doors didn’t look the same, and I wasn’t sure which was the right door.

I walked in the closest door and it took me to an area outside an empty, dark, church sanctuary. To my right I could see a room full of people, all concentrating on something at the front of the room that I couldn’t see. I saw Ryan sitting in there, just his profile from the shoulders up. A man walked up to me and asked if he could help me. I told him I was there to see my son, and he looked concerned. He said something like he didn’t think that would be a good idea. I persisted, and he got more firm. I saw Ryan looking our direction. About then, the people in the room got up and started walking by. I expected to see Ryan walk by, but he wasn’t there, I thought he was avoiding me. This didn’t surprise me, there was a lot of avoidance in our relationship.

I gave up, and asked the person if the door next to me would take me outside. He said it would, and I walked outside. As I walked out the guy said to me “I wish I could believe you, I really do.” Once outside, I was suddenly scared again, and I heard a voice telling me to run. I ran the half block to the car, stepping over a low picket fence, and got my slacks caught in the fence. I reached the car, and woke up.

What stuck with me was the fear more than anything. There are so many ways I could interpret this dream I’m not even going to try. Karen said simply “oh honey, you have so much more grieving to do.” I suppose she’s right.

Thanks to Giana for posting this YouTube link showing the true story of “O-Bum-O-Gate”.

And here I thought he was just one of the guys…

Drudge is gleefully rolling in the mud with this one.

O-bum-a-gate:

You always know where you stand with a liberal, whether it’s Clinton or Obuma. A conservative will tell you how disgraceful this is while offering candy to your young son at the same time.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/31726640

Friday night my 21 year old son took me to a show to see a particular favorite artist, Robert Earl Keen. Robert Earl Keen is a Texas songwiter, and one of the best. He’s right up there with Jerry Jeff Walker, Willie Nelson, Lyle Lovett (he and Lyle were college roomates), Joe Ely, and others. A step below Townes Van Zandt, but who isn’t. It was a great time.

The opening act was a band called Cross Canadian Ragweed, out of Oklahoma. I have a few of their albums, and they play solid bar-rock, southern rock, and country-tinged rock. Most of the crowd was twenty-something, and they all seemed to know this band. I assumed they were all there to see The Boys From Oklahoma, as they’re called. By the time the set was over, the crowd was primed. By primed, I mean downright drunk. But that was OK, they were having fun and it was a fun crowd.

We were right up front. We got there early with our lawn chairs (it was an outdoor show) and set up in the front row. I love to be close, I like to watch the interplay between the musicians. Some bands are rehearsed to the point that they need very little on-stage communication. But some bands are loose – impromptu solos, set lists that change based on the crowd, and so forth. I enjoy watching how those bands communicate. By the time the show started, people were crowding in front of the front row of chairs, so we were forced to stand – but no big deal, we were in front, and were one of several hundred people up close.

After the first act, people didn’t disperse like I thought they would. The kid next to me turned to me and said “dude! Are you primed? I asked him if he knew who Robert Early Keen was, and he gave me an incredulous look, started trying to sing a song, attempted to knuckle me, and missed. I deduced he was a fan, but figured there couldn’t be many fans. After all, Robert Earl Keen was in his fifties, NOT a commercial artist played on the radio, so where would a twenty-something ever hear of REK?

The band came out, and the crowd went wild. I’m puzzled by the response, but pleased the band is getting a good reception. They started to play, and the entire audience was singing along. Every word. This went on through the entire show, the audience knew every song. I was amazed, but excited. It gives a person hope to know that people can seek out and enjoy music outside the realm of a Clear Channel corporate radio station. That they have the intelligence to recognize and appreciate a good song. It warmed my heart.

If our area can keep turning out good audiences to appreciate these musicians we’ll guarantee a good live music scene in the future. We have some aggressive and innovative bar owners booking music, like Terry O’Halleron, who will bring in a wide variety of artists, all great entertainment. All-in-all, Omaha’s a pretty decent place to live right now for a music lover.

It’s been a rough month, and last night was one of the worst. I dreamed I watched a man burn to death. It was horrible, I clearly saw the flames dancing around his body and face. It was someone I’d seen before, someone who had tried to catch my attention in the past. While I hadn’t snubbed him (I don’t think), I didn’t acknowledge him either. He was a biker type, and I have zero interest in motorcycles. I was talking to someone in a parking lot, and he shouted to me from the roof of the building right next door. It was close enough that I could clearly see him and recognize him. It was a flat roof, and he was sitting on his motorcycle holding a can of Coleman lantern fuel. He started to dump the fuel on himself, and I yelled at him “No! No!” He looked right at me and set himself on fire. I didn’t have my phone and I yelled at the other person in the parking lot to call 911. I could see the fire all over his body, and could clearly see his face beneath the flames – calm, but with a vengeful, determined look like he was trying to spite me. The guy got off his motorcycle and slowly and calmly started to walk. I knew he had started an irreversible process that would lead to a slow, painful death, and I was horrified. I looked in the direction he was walking, and it looked like there was a row of people also burning the same way, but I saw no detail on any of those people. It was then I woke up. Looking at the alarm clock I see it’s 3:20, and I tried to go back to sleep. Images flooded in of people who had burned, and it was horrible. I couldn’t shake the thoughts. At 4:00 I got up, and stayed up. That’s where I am now.

My wife says she feels bad for me because I don’t dream. She thinks I should be having pleasant dreams, and should be seeing Ryan in my dreams. I do NOT have pleasant dreams, they usually aren’t horrible nightmares like this, but are often disturbing. Some stick with me for a long time. I don’t want to become dependent on sleep medication, but when I don’t take it, like last night, this is what happens. I almost always regret it.

While I don’t have a bad life at all, it seems to get less enjoyable day-by-day. I really need to find something to get involved in, to be interested in. But any hobby I get interested in will eventually consume me. Some people take great enjoyment from little things – working in the yard, watching a movie, etc. I either become completely immersed in an activity or I don’t do it at all, there is no middle ground. I would like, for example, to begin bass fishing again. But eventually I would own another boat, I’d be fishing tournaments, traveling great distances to get there which would mean time away from work, and it would spiral. I would be good, but it would consume me. I would enjoy target archery again, but the same thing would happen, I’d need the best equipment, I’d be at the range day and night, and it would also spiral. Once again, I’d be good, but at a huge cost.

This is obviously a depression, with the bottom held up by my Welbutrin.

Ryan was a huge coffee fan, he drank it by the pot. Hot or cold, the stronger the better, he loved his coffee. So we put his ashes in a coffee can. Sounds disrespectful? Trust me, he would love it. But Karen decided it might be disrespectful, so she bought a very nice glass vase / urn. He’s resided there for the last month or so. But Karen ordered a very nice engraved shadowbox more suitable as a final home. We’re not so sure anymore that we’re going to sprinkle his ashes, it brings comfort to the family having him around, even to his girlfriend.

We moved his ashes yesterday afternoon to the new shadowbox. We put the old urn on top of our piano for the time being. Our newer dog, Charlie, saw that urn and went crazy. Barking, howling, hair standing up. Keep in mind he’s seen the urn before, it’s been in our living room for the last month. But he was very bothered by this.

Makes you scratch your head, doesn’t it?