Monday, June 2, 2014

THE DREAM POLICE (PT. I): Sixx, Sixx, Sixx

Sixx, Sixx, Sixx

"'Cause they're waiting for me,
 looking for me. Every single 
night, they're driving me insane.
Those men inside my brain."

As the lyrics of this 1979 Cheap Trick classic suggest, I'm visited — often tormented at night by "those men inside my brain." Fortunately, I'm not always placed in starring roles of nightmares — running for my life from a host of villains, monsters and Liberals. Occasionally these cinematic-type sleeptime stories are quite wonderful. My mother often visits me from Heaven to offer words of advice and guidance. And after 35 years, Pat Benatar also continues to be a frequent co-star.

I never quite know what to make of these horrifying, mysterious and (often) downright ridiculous nocturnal visions. But typically, I can recall them in vivid, living color. As a result, I find sharing details of my dreams with others to be cathartic for me, and apparently entertaining for others. Simply put, I can't make this stuff up, folks. 

In this mini-series I will recount three of my wildest, yet strikingly different recent visions. DISCLAIMER: Today's first installment can get a bit sketchy. Hence, I've done by best to sanitize the story for our protection. Enjoy!

Sixx, Sixx, Sixx

"You've been under a lot of stress lately, Chris. Those writing deadlines sure can be overwhelming. So, I just thought that I'd stop by and help you get a little better organized around here."

At first, I couldn't imagine why Mötley Crüe bassist Nikki Sixx had popped up in my dream. I was further perplexed by why he was so interested in helping me tidy up my office, or why he was so eager for me to take a sip from the bottle that he removed from inside his floor-length, black leather trench coat.

"Here, take a drink of this," he urged thoughtfully, handing me a plastic container of Dasani. "You look really parched."

"Uh, yeah, I am. Gee thanks, Nikki Sixx," I replied unsuspectingly. Wow, what a nice guy!

I took a huge gulp of the room-temperature water, and in short order, I began feeling woozie — kinda like that time at the Blue Öyster Cult concert back in '81 — but this time, I hadn't smoked any laced dope. Then things started to get weird.

The next thing I knew, a voluptuous brunette walked into my house. What the heck? In my real life world, I was quite familiar with "Trista" and her husband, "Preston," from the local nightclub scene. They'd been two of my favorite people for some time, but why was she now suddenly here, at my house, and dressed in such a provocative manner.

BAM! We instantly were transported to the privacy of a back room in my house where Trista began immediately attempting to engage me in rather "inappropriate" dialogue. I was looped, to be sure. But I was still in enough control of my faculties to realize that I was being duped — set up for some unknown reason by an arena rock kingpin and the wife of a close friend. Then, it got really weird.

How on earth could Nikki Sixx be
involved in plotting my murder?
(He seems like such a good guy.)
As I stood there, explaining with great passion why I couldn't and wouldn't accept her seductive proposition, Preston came crashing through the door — with a loaded gun pointed straight at my head!

Apparently, while I'd been in the back of my house, spelling out my honorable intentions, Nikki Sixx was still trolling about in my office — texting Trista's jealous husband. "You better get over here quick," he messaged Preston. "There's some sketchy stuff going down at Chris Long's house — and you're NOT gonna like it!"

Clearly, Nikki and Trista were in cahoots — co-conspirators in plotting my murder. They wanted me dead, yet they went to great lengths to ensure that they didn't get any of my blood on their hands. But why? Had I unknowingly committed some grüesome offense — one for which I had to pay the ultimate penalty, and poor ol' Preston was simply the most logical fall guy? Or, had the hair band heartthrob secretly become involved romantically with the nightclub cutie and Preston needed to be removed from the equation — with me playing the pawn?

Unfortunately, we'll never know. Before I could offer the clichéd "it's not what you think" defense, Preston pulled the trigger on his nickel-plated revolver — and as the blast from the gun went off in my head, I awoke instantly, in cold sweat.

Like I said, I can't make this stuff up!

-Christopher Long
(June 2014)



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