politics, lube and motorcycles

last election time, my dreams got really weird. last night was no exception:

i was a junior level person in a big chicago ad agency. every friday, the whole agency got together to screen a few inhouse commercials created by staffers from old or lost client pitches. i worked for one of the big creative guys but secretly dreamed of striking out on my own. i give him his coffee one day and he says to me, 'hey, the next screening is yours. see what you can do with this lube client we never got.'

the friday morning screening arrives. the office is packed and chaotic. i'm losing my mind, organzing the logistics and freaking out that these very mean people are going to look at a commercial created by a glorified executive assistant. the woman who owns the agency (who looks like my old boss) snits at me and steals my seat. the lights lower and the commercial begins. it's dirty and funny, a weird piece of animation about a middle aged boss, his brown secretary and a bottle of lube, set to the Lily Allen/Mark Ronson song 'Oh My God'; the lady CEO and the creative guys want to know who made it, they're demanding who made it, they're clamoring for it then -

the dream changes and i'm in iowa, hanging out with a very angry michelle obama. barack is still out on his motorcycle and hasn't come back from the caucuses. his entire team is there and they all look like roadies for a jam band - bearded, sort of beer-bellied, older and boozy. the wife is angry, there's a strange woman no one wants to talk to hanging out with a cute young guy who's clearly biracial, and i have no idea what i'm doing there. barack comes back, looking very un-political in a leather motorcycle outfit and birkenstocks. he's smoking a cigarette.

he wants us all to come out riding with him, michelle is still angry (though she gives in later), the roadies/team love it, i don't have a motorcycle but that's ok. obama says i can ride with him. so off we go, blazing down a dark road, a political motorcycle gang. then barack drives his bike over a freeway, we dive into a pile of corn, and have an impromptu barbecue with some corn farmers and drink a load of Rolling Rock. while obama is off chatting with farmers, i'm hanging out with the cute mysterious biracial guy, michelle, the bearded campaign manager, and the strange woman in a nearby pub. in a gravelly voice, the campaign manager is about to reveal a big, serious, election damaging secret when -

the tension is just too much and i force myself to wake up.