Last night I dreamt about land and money and primary education. Somewhere in there danjite tried to sell me a very tricked out low-rider. It was a lime green 1964 Impala with a hydraulic kit to lift the body off the frame. I wound up in a New Orleans bordello which was heavily decorated with Socialist Realist murals of the age of steam railroads. I was in a dining room with a hooker who looked remarkably like Anjelica Houston, along with six or seven other patrons. We were having a sort of Mad Hatter's Tea Party with the makings of Caesar salad, which we were preparing rhythmically to the sounds of "Rasputin." The Boney M version of that song. I missed the eggs when they went round on the lazy Susan.
My moral dilemma is, should I be ashamed that I recognized which release of "Rasputin" was playing?
Doubtful in Dallas