a sexist cult leader
I'm really angry at a man because I think he's sexist. We're in a big light-colored room with other people, and I confront him. He's the leader of some group that I think still holds some gender roles as molds for people and their behavior. The man seems to be a sports coach of some kind, for he's surrounded by many athletic, jockish, college-age women. When I confront him, telling him he's sexist, they all jump to his defense.
looking at a menu
NEXT, I'm with Noli, and we're at Water St. near the railroad tracks and the lumber mill. We're sitting on the sidewalk but technically in a sort of restaurant. I'm looking at a menu which has a laminated page of color photographs of different meals. They're kind of Southern and sound really good to me. One shows a big plate with cooked brussel sprouts, a mound of cooked meat, a pool of beans and a little cup of blue cheese dressing. I wonder to myself if I can get the plate with a baked potato instead of the meat. Each photographed meal has a number. All of a sudden we have to go and don't have time to order. We dash off somewhere in a real hurry.
Toy 'n' Joys, poetry & pink knee-highs
NEXT, I walk into a big circular room that has huge glass candy dispensers lining the walls. They're like the Toy 'n' Joy $0.25 machines in supermarkets -- just much bigger. They also look like the bulk bins in Cantwell's or the co-op. I walk around. There are other people here too. I only see one person who works here, an elderly white-haired woman wearing a red apron. I sneak a handful of chocolate-covered peanuts to munch and hope the woman doesn't see me. There's an arcade game, a car driving game where you sit and steer. I see a bald man playing in it. Then I'm with a different group of people. We're reading our poetry out loud to each other. I look down and see that I have a stack of folded, connected computer paper on my lap. It's a printout of poems I wrote. Almost everyone else has already read theirs. I don't want to read mine, but I still want others to hear them. There's a young woman with frizzy, honey-colored hair sitting on my left. She says she wants to read them. I hand the stack over to her and she begins reading. Yet it's frusterating because she's not doing a very good job. She's not enunciating very well and is choosing the poems in a weird order, breaking up sets. I point out which ones I want her to read. There's a really short one. In fact, it's just a question. Something like, "Isn't it true that seceding seats only make (blah, blah)...?" She totally mumbles it, and I know nobody heard what she said. I take the paper and carefully pronounce the main words, seceding seats. Everyone says "oh!" because they're impressed with the question. It is pointing out some valid political congressional hypocrisy. Jordan is here, and I know it has impressed him and made him think. Then we get on some treadmill device. I take off my pants. Now I'm just wearing my tee-shirt, a pair of '80s-style running shoes, and 2 different toned pink socks pulled up to my knees. Jordan & I laugh about something.
FIN
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