Last night (well, early this morning, because Lea told me it was 4 or so when I mumbled something about the dream to her) I dreamed that in exchange for some announcing and DJ work I had done, I had been given four tickets to an ABBA concert in Birmingham. Yes, the boys would enjoy that, and it was a schoolnight, but surely this was worth it, blah blah blah.
Except I was also standing around having this incredibly vapid argument with a bunch of people about the nature of the power outage we were having. (For some reason this part of the dream was set roughly in the Martin’s parking lot, across from Quintard Mall, at 78 and Quintard in Oxford.) Nothing electrical was working, whether it ran on mains electricity or not.
“It’s the substation. They’ll have it back on in a minute,” some idiot looking over his glasses at me sniffed. “Then why did your car quit?” I replied. “Why won’t your cell phone power up?” “What happened to her iPod?” “Only an electromagnetic pulse would take all of this out simultaneously, which may well mean the country has been attacked with nuclear weapons,” I said. Laughter all around.
I shook my head, walked away, and pulled my ABBA tickets out of my pocket. I smiled, but then I thought “well, if there’s a nuclear war, then there probably won’t be an ABBA concert.” Then I woke up.