It certainly isn't the first time I've been inspired by Craig Conley's unparalleled handiwork, but I don't recall ever having been inspired in such parallel fashion. Imaginary saints
are one thing; strange dreams
make it two.
Last night I dreamt about Saint Egolatría, patron of poorly planned head trips. In my dream, she held the map I had so carelessly left on my dresser while she chided me for being self-absorbed, and arrogant. She said my deeply flawed personality was at the root of many fiascos, and hoped I might get lost in a bad neighborhood, after dark, with an empty gas tank and no cell phone.
The night before, a series of dreams culminated in a pastiche of patrons, each wearing a color-coded robe to indicate his or her mood. Saint Añoranza seemed petulant at first, but this later turned out to be due to a wardrobe malfunction. For their grand finale, all the patron saints locked arms for a rousing rendition of Hey Bulldog.
Three encores later, a bikini-clad penguin brought the curtain down.