Corrupted data, out of memory.

Ugh.  Sometimes I really hate the way my brain works.

Somewhere in the neighborhood of OH-mygawdit'sfrigginearly I awoke, fragments of a dream fleeing back into the darkness.  I caught one of the little cockroaches before it scurried out of reach.  The title of an obscure song from, I'm guessing here, 1973, or 1975.  I'll play with the Google and check the details before I wrap this post up. 

Let it go, roll over and go back to sleep.  You're tired, you need the sleep, it's a quiet Sunday morning.  The weather is nice, just roll over and go back to sleep.  Except my brain wouldn't let it go.  After two and a half hours of rummaging through the dark archives of ancient memories I dredged this up, I won't swear to it's veracity, I think this is close though.

The Night Chicago Died.

Paper Lace.

"Daddy was a cop in the east side of Chicago.

Back in the USA, back in the bad old days.

"In the heat of a summer's night,

in the land of the dollar bill.

The town of Chicago died

and they talk about it still.

When a man named Al Capone

Tried to make this town his own,

and he took his gang to war with the forces of the law."

*There's probably something else in here.

"I heard my mama cry,

I heard her pray the night Chicago died.

Brother what a fight the people saw,

brother what a night the people saw.

Yes indeed."

*There has to be more here as well, but I think it must have been lost in the beer flood and concussive event of 1980.  The only thing I can remember between this and the rest is something about a ticking clock, and maybe the actual tick-tocking sound.   

"...the shouting in the street

and the sound of running feet,

and the door burst open wide,

and my daddy stepped inside.

He kissed my mama's face

and he brushed her tears away.  

I heard my mama cry,

I heard her pray the night Chicago died.

Brother what a fight the people saw,

brother what a night the people saw.

Yes indeed."

*Following was a long string of Na-na-na's.

Fact checking 101. It looks like I hit the date almost spot on, 1974.  How?  No idea. Probably a semi-lucky guess.  

At least it wasn't Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods with "Billy don't be a hero."
Wait, didn't paper Lace record that one as well?  Ugh, I hate the way my brain works. 

Thanks.  You're welcome for the earworm.  My work for today is done.

See you tomorrow. 

 

Techies, take note.

Alright you technological mavens, wizards and superstars.  I have a project for you.  Design a dream recorder.  Perhaps wireless and easy to use.  I want to be able to record for playback the sensory information of dreams.

Fragments and remnants of a dream from early this morning.

Parties and fun on a beach, perhaps Jamaica.  That much is pretty easy to analyze and decipher.  It does get a little more obscure.  Cut to a vibrant, third world country.  Chef, author and television personality Anthony Bourdain, an unnamed third person and I are sitting in a little al fresco cafe discussing, of all things, donkeys.  The conversation went a bit like this.

"Mr. Bourdain, do you know anything about donkeys?"  Asked the mystery man.

"Yes, I have a donkey.  Did you know that all donkeys are female?"  Anthony replied.

"Tony, you're wrong.  Donkeys are a separate species, including both fertile males and females.  Donkeys have 62 chromosomes, Horses have 64.  A mule is a mostly infertile hybrid cross of a horse and a donkey with 63 chromosomes.   Bred one way, male donkey and female horse will produce a mule.  Bred the other, a hinny.  A hinny is rarer."  I said.

"Wanna bet?  I've got a thousand dollars that says you're mistaken Chip."

"I'll take that bet Tony..."

Looking around on the street, remember, it's a third world country, I saw what I was looking for, a heavily laden donkey cart.  I offered the donkey's owner $100 dollars for what was on the cart.  Then, using the third world donkey cart unloading trick; I pointed to the animals underside.

"Anthony, you see that, what is it?"  I asked.

"Ummmm, it's a penis."

"Yep, a donkey dick.  Female donkeys are lacking in that department."

He gave me the grand, I gave the donkey's owner the hundred bucks and told him he could have his stuff back.  I even gave the donkey an apple for his trouble...

Aside from all the questions one has upon waking from a weird dream, just think of the porno market demand.  Although I probably shouldn't mention porn dreams and donkey's in the same post...

See you tomorrow...

Postscript.  Something about this entry has been niggling at my old, addled brain since I first wrote it a week or ten days ago.  It dawned on me , literally at dawn this morning in the twilight between sleep and not sleep.

Where did my old, addled subconscious brain come up with the number of chromosomes for horses, donkeys and mules?  Which raises another more intriguing question.  Why are those numbers CORRECT?  I know they are, I've just checked them.