face it, you don't work here anymore

pot pie & grandma anderson's fried squash, water, some (but not much) halloween candy

I ride my bike from 2nd St, some ways south, into town and onto campus. But it's out in the middle of nowhere, very hilly, indutrial, fringe. I'm headed for the Art Museum, I get there, it's the Museum I've dreamed of, not the real one, and even bigger this time.

I head downstairs. I think Michele meets me and we walk around some exhibits, all in rather vast galleries with very very high ceilings. Much of the art incorporates electronics, many with flat screens. Somewhere along the way, Michele disappears and/or becomes my mother, somewhat alternately. And there are these two young women, one in a wheelchair. They are obnoxious and inarticulate, I largely ignore them, though I wish I could tour the museum without being on the same track as them. I try to change directions or pace, get some privacy & let them go their own way. No luck.

Eventually I go into a gallery that would correspond to the Print Room, but is yet again a giant warehouse of a room, this time with exposed concrete floors and coarse, exposed masonry walls. At this point in my dream I remember an integrated back-story: [in dream world] the staff had told me about a guy working on "giant signs" in an area under construction there in CFA adjacent to the museum, and these are his works. They had befriended him and offered him a show and now here it is. The works are billboard size, heavily neon, offset rectangular elements, many with text [my impression is that the content of the text is probably of a political bent that would cause a sycophantic, sanctimonious Democrat like LS to jump at the chance to hang them, but even so, the works are very impressive].

The dorky girls are in there, too. The one in the chair occasionally stands & wobbl for a moment, as if to prove that she can. They being touching things, and I flip out. I stalk over and tell them that they need to stop touching the artworks. They laugh in my face, who am I and what am I going to do about it? I step up on them a bit, stupid of me, and the wheel chair girl pulls out a can of mace. Aims it at me. Looks at me with loathing rather than alarm. She's just itching to see what I'm gonna do. Well, I'll tell ya-- and I walk over to the desk [print room!] and pick up the phone, dial the private line at the front desk, 7-7313 [don't recall if this is right or just close]. I tell the front desk guy what is going, on, and he should have us on his monitors, too. I don't try to pull the old "I'm a friend of so and so" or anything. The bugger has the temerity to tell me that he's not sure what I want him to do. I tell him to call the police and have these bitches ejected. He refuses and hangs up. I am shocked and a little humiliated.

I'm riding back to my car. This time it's all downhill. I am totally flying. I don't know what the speed limit is, but I bet I'm close to it, just cruising. Pretty scary but also exhililrating. I see a 65mph sign, and I know that I'm going 50. I decide I'd better use the bike lane, though, and it's cobblestone rather than pavement. I get going pretty fast again, but then suddenly the bike path curves off to the right, up over the top of a circular driveway, and empties back going the opposite direction. End of bike path. I stop and consider my options.