It all happened as I woke up to an unusually chilly morning of -30, somewhat shaken from a caustic dream. I urinated in the pot and it felt good and the sound of the stream hitting the water reminded me of my youth and of the girl with the flaxen hair. After shaking off the last drops that seemed to rid me of my dream I thought of coffee and walked over to the stove. I reflected on my life as I walked by means of manly, heavy steps (although I felt lighter after having relieved myself):
"it is hard to be cutting edge for a long time, yet my blade had not yet rusted or become blunt, yet blunt was my stride."
A little maxim for us revolutionaries of indifference. The coffee was ready. I sipped my damn hot and fine coffee and walked outside. It was summer. Not. It was only summer in my head as I imagined warm furs engulfing me. Summer by furs. So it went on this morning of minus thirty in all its psychosexual glory and it was these very small bursts of thought that brought my dream back to prominent consciousness.
My dream: I had dreamt of a fighter plane that after showering the land with fire collided into a mountain of hamburger meat and bone. The pilot was propelled out of his metallic husk of death-making and lay mangled and battered at a great distance from the once killing machine, near the base of the mountain. This all occurred in an exotic land somewhere between Russia and Germany even though it was most likely all in my head. The pilot was naked yet covered in fat, and as a moderately oversized, furry bunny attempted to sodomize the unconscious soldier, his body (the pilot) burst into many little boys at the moment the bunny's paws spread the ass cheeks hoping to facilitate penetration. It became clear to me as I sipped my damn hot coffee that the man of my dream was non other than Joseph Beuys (for those of you who may have trouble following my lightning fast and ultra sharp wit: boys = Beuys. That was quite obvious a giveaway; such are the workings of the unconscious. But there are other motifs that helped my epiphany).
After this politically correct and academically sound assessment of this dream and its connections to life, I can move on to presenting the song I had in mind to begin with. Ronald Regan is a character all too often left out of musical adventures, and we have Mr. Beuys to thank for not omitting him from a marvelous song that has inspired and proved most influential to many musicians, and still stands as a landmark of fine music, singability and just plain old killer groovin'."