...which made perfect sense, since we both had pickup trucks with big tanks to fill. I had my ratty ol' GMC and he had a nice shiny bright red Dodge. I suspect he might have used it to pull the horse trailer to his daughter's horse shows. But I digress.
I was really enjoying our pleasant convo, but I had to admit to him that I honestly couldn't call myself a huge fan. It was all, "I mean, I like what you do and all, and I think you're handsome and well dressed, for sure, and most of all I believe you're a great lyrical storyteller! It's just that I don't actually own any of your records..."
He shot me one of those sly grins, which made me blush. Hot damn the man is charming.
It may have come up in conversation that I happen to know this really great recording engineer. Okay, it very strongly came up in conversation. I did the ol' pluggin' of the biznass.
So we fueled up our trucks and away we went after a few nice little hug-pats and take-care-nows.
What. There's time to develop a friendship while filling a pickup truck with gas. Trust me.
So far this dream is much more realistic than my usual subconscious disasters.
Well anyways. I drove around to the exit, realized I just blew a huge opportunity and Bruce Freakin' Springsteen is right now at this minute walking into the restaurant beside the gas station (it's one of those big highway rest stops) and darnit, I am going to go in there and talk to my new friend Bruce. Have I not read any of his lyrics? I need to talk to him, maybe some of that poet dust will rub off on me.
Huh huh huh, that'd be alright eh? Huh huh huh.
I see my new friend in a corner booth, talking with a producer/songwriter Jethro knows. I sidle up all confident and smiley, wait for them to notice me, and then we do the "Hey! It's you again!" routine. Then I start feeling like maybe I shouldn't have interrupted these guys, cuz they seemed to be talking about Something Important.
Right around this point a bunch of teenage boys wearing neon pink sneakers, jeans hanging off their butts, hoodies, and that stupid feathered forward hairdo came strutting by. "Oh wow," I groaned, "a pack of Biebers."
Then this is where I realized there was some crazy stuff going on over the sound system. I knew that brand of crazy! I ran for the DJ booth. Every franchise truck stop greasy spoon has a DJ booth, am I right!?
I flung open the door, but instead of seeing my expected suspect, a portly dude was reading a sports report. This left me both embarrassed and perplexed: first of all, oops, and second, why do all sports reporters often sport a paunch??? Third, why was this booth made of unpainted plywood? Cheap.
I apologized and yanked open the other door.
"BUCKY!" I roared. "You know you are not allowed to drive until you're sixteen! Now get your Dad on the phone and tell him Bruce Freakin' Springsteen is here and he should get here right away!"
Well when I got back to Bruce, my daughter was telling funny stories to the Biebers, which disturbed me, and poor Bruce was ready to leave. Not without a big hug.
Because it's just not a typical dream of mine until a Rock Star gets hugged.