In my sleep, my dreams tell me.

I was in the neighborhood where I grew up: a suburban midatlantic neighborhood, with lots of old trees, and big backyards, and short chain fences you could jump over easily if you were playing.
But I had just come back to the neighborhood, and it became a super-dangerous war zone while I had been away. Like, you couldn't show your face outside during certain hours, or enemy marksmen would shoot you full of holes with their AK-47s. We were at active war with communists, in my dream.
Next door in the dream lived a beautiful southeast Asian girl, I think she was Vietnamese. She wore a black uniform. The first time I saw her, I was running for cover as she raked my back yard with bullets from her assault rifle, and as I dove for cover behind a wall of cement bricks, I realized I was in love with this girl, and pretty sure she was in love with me. We had to hunt each other, see, because she was Viet Cong and I was American, but through the kicked-up dust I saw her smiling sweetly with one eye closed as she aimed her Kalashnikov. I was pretty sure she was intentionally not killing me.

Later on inside, as I was loading up my arsenal to go out in the family station wagon to hunt the Vietnamese girl, a hippie uncle, who does not exist in waking life, called my mother on the phone. I could hear him saying that, while he acknowleged the necessity, he was frightened of the kind of stuff my generation was into. I ignored him and went out to the car with my shotgun, pistol, and my own AK.
The girl and I would only hunt each other during the daytime, when it was generally safe to be out and about. We had an understanding about one another, both being off the beaten path as we were, and we were both deadlier than the average soldier.
I drove around all afternoon looking for her, with my rifle pointed out the window, and I never did find her. My alarm woke me up, and I was relieved because it meant I never had to decide whether or not to pull the trigger.

the end

TELL YOUR DREAMS YOU’RE SLEEPING
a story from the road
by Travis Stewart and Ben Engel
photographs by Brynne Mason

We all came down to DC from Brooklyn for a couple shows. Its only 20 bucks on the Chinatown, which is not the safest way to travel, but it is cost effective. We came down with a bunch of gear cause the night before “My Sister in 1994” was playing Wonerland.






On this particular night we were playing a double keg party at Mike Glick’s house. His basement was being renovated and we decided to play in the construction site (cause we’re edgy Brooklynites)




















Earlier on, I started talking to this older Indian guy named. . . uh . . . we’ll I forget his name, but he was weird. He told me that he was into monkey psychology, and furthermore that his relationship with monkeys has restored him from a deep pessimism in humans.

During the middle of this super-chuddy jam, the older Indian guy started having a bit of fun. We all started rocking out a bit.


Don’t get me wrong - I’m down for the fun - and so was this guy, he was lovin’ the music.

Every lick that Fichter played,

he was feelin it.

totally feelin’ it.

We just kept jamming. But after a while the Indian bloke looked a bit woozy. Jon is a guitar playing funk-master; so before long we know we’re gonna turn this party into a giant jam session, ripping licks and all of that nonsense. Then mid jam, the Indian bloke takes a huge spill on the metal rods lying in the middle of this construction site.



He just sort of sprawled out on the dusty floor, putting his hands behind his head in pre-nap position. We all thought it was hilarious when we realized that he wasn’t hurt . .



We just kept jamming of course . . .



Ben: I wanted to stop the jam cause this old Indian dude. . .




















And then we look over at the guy and he is reaching down at his nether region, touching his johnson. And then he unzips his pants and starts toying with the monkey.




The band tried to keep playing but this bloke is tickling his monkey. . .



Ben: This was hilarious but it needed to stop, so I threw both drumsticks at him. The dude just kept going at it. So I launched the splash cymbal at his chest. He woke up for a moment, slicked his hands through his hair and went right back to sleep.

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