Had a dream last night that I was riding in a convertible across an imaginary Mexico with a guy in his late 50s with a big beard, a leather jacket and an orange bandanna on his head — a guy I didn’t recognize at first, because nobody ever got to see him in his late 50s — Lester Bangs.
We drove past massive piles of old laundry on fire, whole villages burning mightily in the empty landscape. Finally, the road went over a cliff and continued down the almost-vertical cliff face. Lester said “Fuck, man, I’m not sure about this,” but we took the road. About halfway down, we stopped rolling and started free-falling thousands of feet into a gigantic valley.
Finally, a few hundred feet above the ground, the wind caught us and set us upright…and we hit the ground running at about two hundred miles an hour, blasting across the valley floor, both of us screaming our heads off with glee, the Stooges howling out of the stereo. I was happy, in my dream, to know that Lester was still alive — that he hadn’t died so young in his little New York apartment, but had made it out and was still full of rock and roll.
It was a good dream.