This piece fits best in the rarely utilized Fiction Friday category of Wood-stein.ca. I don’t regularly keep a dream diary, but I awoke with this vividness. Yes, it is indeed a dream, so it’s an incomplete work of fiction. My wife and I are going to Philadelphia to see The Dead Milkmen, F.O.D., and YDI on February 18, so who knows, perhaps reality will complete the story.  I’ve had Philadelphia and The Dead Milkmen on my mind since we acquired tickets months ago. It will be a busy weekend with visits to the Mutter Museum, The Edgar Allan Poe National Historic Site, Philadelphia’s Magic Gardens, Eastern State Penitentiary, and the aforementioned rock n roll extravaganza. And thanks to Happy Cow, eating on the road isn’t a pain in the ass for plant-based people like me.  I’m hoping to reward myself by trying some Disco’s DEAD fries and either the Fulci or the Argento sandwich at Monster Vegan after we roll up in Philly, but it seems like the city offers numerous choices for dining, so I’m not worried that my rabbit-food loving ass will go hungry.

On a dark and dreary night, I had to make a trip to Dead Milkmen Acres, a farm tended by the band members and their kin. I had to pick up a mysterious item. What it was, I knew not, only that it would be necessary for my attendance of their show at Underground Arts on February 18. Was it a ticket? I was not certain, but my attendance at the concert was incumbent on finding the mysterious item. (Editor’s note: Perhaps it was a passport. I had just sent mine out for renewal shortly before the dream. Do Dead Milkmen process Canadian passport renewals?)

I stepped out of my car, putting my feet on the fertile Pennsylvania soil of the unnerving homestead where the communal songwriting of the Secret Order of Deceased Deliverymen of the Udder Juices for Calves takes place. It is a shadowy land where the devil’s tunesmiths frolic.

Not only did the farm produce music for the masses but also delectable food; however, the farm’s main income was the Dead Milkmen merchandise box, as it was the primary global source for accessing the band’s music in this alternate dreamland. They had no music on any streaming services or in any record shops. There was a small barn, not much larger than a work shed, and that was the one and only source to acquire their sounds and t-shirts. These Dead Milkmen were a regular Fugazi force to be reckoned with. No merchandise was brought with them on the road, and they lived by a strict moral code that inspired generations of music fans and millions of people to grow their own farm fresh food. Homesteading – the Dead Milkmen invented that.

No one was in the small grey barn, but in the middle of the building was a lone milk crate with a sparse smattering of their hand-pressed records. There is no shipping their music to one of Jack White’s franchised record-pressing plants and 1950s-style fast food eateries for these hard-working musicians who make their flawed pieces of wax in-house, like counterfeiters.

In the crate were copies of their new single on bright green tennis ball-coloured vinyl and a clear vinyl EP. They were ready for any fan of these proud farmers who made the trek to the farm to place $50 per record in the cash box. The trusting souls in the Dead Milkmen sell their records on the honour system, just as they sell fresh Brussels sprouts, asparagus, and Methodist Coloring Books at their roadside stand.

I must point out that even if I could have pulled these rare discs out of the dream world into reality like the teenagers repeatedly try to do in the Nightmare on Elm Street franchise, they would have been unplayable. They were about 10 to 12 inches in diameter, but the hole in the centre hole was an undisciplined 4 or 5 inches. It seems like the design of the records was wholly contingent on the creator’s mood, and the moods were altered as the band worked the handcrafting assembly line.

Alas, this problem was not mine to worry about because it was empty when I opened my wallet. It contained no cash, no cards, and probably no license, although I had somehow crossed the border from Canada to get to the farm.

Feeling dejected, I left the shed and saw the lights of a vehicle approaching. Though visitors were welcome to visit the farm and purchase the merchandise, since the milk crate in the barn was the sole way fans could become familiar with the new songs the band prolifically released in limited editions, I jumped behind a car and hid. (Editor’s Note: This was likely, the most believable aspect of the dream because I’m uncomfortable meeting my heroes. I believe Pete Shelley hit the nail on the head when he sang, “I’m the shy boy, you’re the coy boy, and you know we’re Homosapian too.”)

The approaching vehicle was the tractor from the cover of the album Beelzebubba, with Rodney Anonymous driving. His father was leaning against the tractor on the cover art, and as Rodney returned from a hard day’s toil in the fields, he looked very much like his father had in that cover photo.

I cowered and tried my best to stay invisible, believing Rodney would be at the ready with harsh words to berate me for driving without proper identification or money to purchase enough gas to get back across the border. God forbid I should get stuck in Mr. Anonymous’s United States of America and apply for food stamps because I forgot to properly pack my wallet with all the modern necessities before I set out on my trip to the mecca of dead milk-dom. Perhaps he would have berated me for my taste in music, although being a fan of The Dead Milkmen, this probably would have been like some BDSM fantasy that would have brought me pleasure, not pain, but I’ll never know because the farm dissipated. I woke up, one of my cats snuggling at my side in my safe Canadian home.

As safe as I felt upon waking up, I was a little disappointed I did not hear the dream Rodney’s words explain any of life’s great secrets. For instance, he might have given me answers to big questions such as, “Why do so many conservative Christians harbour a perverted fondness for big pick-up trucks and other oversized vehicles?”

Consider supporting wood-stein.ca to keep the ideas flowing! Become a Patron!