The Un-Joni Appears in a Dream

I had the strangest dream last night, and not about books this time.

I dreamed that I took Dave to South London to see a Joni Mitchell concert. We got to a dark little nightclub with candles and vases of lavender on the tables, and we ordered dinner. The crowd was standing room only -- and after I'd eaten I realized Dave had moved across the room, so I got up from my table and went to join him. Two people immediately grabbed our table seats, one of whom I overheard being addressed as "Ambassador." Before joining Dave, I decided to go buy a Joni Mitchell CD at a shop across the street. So I climbed some stairs out of the club and tried to cross the street, but in order to do so, I had to pass through the courtyard of a Tibetan Buddhist temple, and a guy sitting by the entrance told me I couldn't come in. Instead I had to follow more steps to go around. These steps were bright with ceramic tile and I slid crazily up and down them, forgetting the shop entirely. I decided I'd better stop playing on the stairs and just go back to the club before I missed the show.

When I got back, though, the crowd was down to three people -- one of whom was Dave -- and the Joni performer wasn't Joni at all, but a really bad drag queen singing Joni Mitchell songs in a kind of slapstick style. She looked like a long-haired Marge Simpson, with prominent, Simpsons-esque teeth. Everyone looked bored. The only audience sound came from a piped-in laugh track. I looked at Dave and thought, "Well, he'll never go anywhere with me again."

(Photo: A basketball court between Kilburn and West Hampstead. This is an enhanced HDR photo, which is why the colors are so intense.)