Whatever

I am walking down a street in a more posh version of Fremont, when we suddenly feel the approach of a wave of excitement and cheers, coming from around the corner. It reaches us and suddenly we are caught up in the massive crowd as a group of cyclists in a race fly past. Ariana is there, yelling in a very appropriate manner for Kris, and Kris' mother Julie is halfway between me and Ariana, about ten feet away, also yelling. I stand on my tiptoes, craning my neck to see the contestants, about to cheer with everyone else, but I decide against it at the last second, as I haven't actually seen Kris. In any case the finish line is just past where Ariana now stands with Alex, out of my range of view. The race has already ended, and I hear Julie tell Ariana that the final run is about to start from that point; Kris should be in front. A gun goes off and Alex, Ariana, and Julie all see Kris before I do, but the instant I catch of him, his hair flying back, we all gasp. He forgot to put his helmet back on.
I am first to yell "Kris stop!", but is comes out as a murmur. His mother's attempt is louder, and I join her. Finally he realizes he forgot his helmet and brakes in shock. My heart nearly stops, as he is in the center of a pack, but the other riders miraculously avoid him (I suspect some ride through him, like ghosts). He topples onto the sidewalk and walks over to Ariana and Alex, unharmed as soon as the last rider has passed. Julie joins them and I remain where I am, wondering how to approach the situation.
Then I feel a heavy arm placed comfortingly around my shoulders, steering me towards the small group. I look up to see Kris' dad, and he silently tells me I don't have to worry about causing tension, just to talk to Kris.
I feel less anxious, but when we get to the group and Kris turns around, what comes out of my mouth is, "I thought you shaved your head. I saw you on your bike the other day, and you had a hat on but it really looked like you had shaved your head. I guess I was wrong." And he says, "Yeah," and turns away, following the rest of the group as they leave.

Bald Men and Bikinis Do Not Mix

Sunnydale now sits in a large Californian valley, with grass spanning the distance to the hills behind it, and a small sort of hicktown/trailer park across the street. I run down the hill in the loping manner that one must on inclines and make my way towards the school.
I am in a panic. I have recently received word that one of my family members is in the Emergency Room, and I am trying to locate the rest of my family so that we can go to the hospital. Running pas the windows, I see my sister in her old Nationals outfit, dancing for a large crowd. I round the building and enter, passing through a dim, grimy linoleum corridor to one of the classrooms. I find my mother, applauding while my sister takes her bow. I tell her that we have to leave, it's urgent, Dad's in the hospital, but she says, no, we can wait till Kyra's finished. It'll take about twenty minutes.

Resigned to waiting, I leave the classroom to explore the school grounds. Wandering through the dim hallway, I find myself in a courtyard on the other side of the school. It is cloudy now, and the gray light turns everything, except the towering evergreens, a similar shade. There are scores of people here, and the air is filled with smoke and strange smells. I conclude that this must be the Addicts Anonymous meeting. Feeling disgusted, I try to hurry through the corwded picnic tables, but I am fascinated by these lowlifes. I wonder aloud, "why would you do something like this to yourself?"
A homeless woman and a dirty-looking man catch me by the elbow and they begin to explain their reasoning. They motion forward a thirty-something bald rocker (much like Chris Daughtry, or the guy who recommended Blades of Glory to us at the Metro) He pulls from his jacket something made of clear blue plastic - it looks like a combination between a flashight and a stick of deodorant. Holding it up to his face, he pushes a small black button on the side. Frightened that he is about to burn his face off, I try to knock the thing out of his hand. Before I can get to him, though, writhing threads of yellow plastic emerge and make contact with the stubbly chin. It seems he is addicted to the feel of synthetic tubes on his skin. I begin to understand.

Tired of waiting for my sister, Jenny and I journey forth into the valley on a quest. We are trying to locate something, a treasure, perhaps, or a famous artifact like the Ark of the Covenant or something. We run along the one road in the valley, surveying the area for anything that looks like it might provide a clue. As we reach the top of a hill above Sunnydale, we spy to large rocks standing alone amid the brown grass. We clamber up towards them. Reading the far side, they tell us something important, they tell us where to go. My vision blurs slightly and they mesh together to form an image or text. Something magical occurrs, and we know the next step in our quest.

My father drives a moped while I sit behind. His blue helmet matches the dated bike, and I'm sure we look quite the pair as we weave through traffic in a country suburb. We are looking for a place that is likely to give us our next clue to the treasure. We pass all types of ruins and run-down places. I see the Parthenon, and other Greek constructions. The roof has caved in on the dinosaur museum, and ivy has twined artfully up a fake T-rex's legs. A large warehouse has been turned into some sort of store. The garage door is open, and something about the upturned boat in the driveway seems familiar. Written on the side are the words "the rocks in the valley," jarring my memory.
"Dad! There it is!"
"What? Where?"
"There! That boat said, 'the rocks in the valley,' that's got to be it!"
Typical of my father he saw nothing, but he believes me and we shoot off onto a side street to turn around. It is getting dark, but I recognize where we are. An elementary school is nearby. Two boys on bikes obstruct our way, and I curse because for some reason we are in a hurry.
Entering the main stream of traffic again, night has fallen and it is rush hour. By the time we get back to the boat, it has been dragged inside and the shop has closed. We park the moped in the dirt by the shop and leave our helmets on the handlebars. We enter the shop occupying the rest of the warehouse.
The room is warmly lit by many lamps, and is some sort of tourist trap, selling useless keychains and with wall-to-wall racks of women's bathing suits.
"Why is this all they sell here?"
"Because that's all we wear."
A balding man similar to the first, except older and slighter, pushes his way through the bead curtain at the back of the shop. He is barely covered by a spangled turquoise string bikini. His daughter, behind him, is slightly more modest in a red halter top and boy shorts. The man I find slightly lecherous, but the daughter seems very normal to me. I barely manage to keep my father from buying a bikini for himself from the charming young lady at the counter. I tell him that we are here on an expedition, and not a shopping one. We manage to leave the shop with just a keychain as a souvenir of Bikinitown.

Anxieties

The band is putting on a concert that is the culmination of a lot of hard work. We have taken a bus to somewhere nearby, where we will wait for our turn to perform.

I join my friends by the buses. Anna and Micaiah say no, I can't come, and everyone leaves me standing on the sidewalk, mouth agape, to eat lunch by myself.

In the practice room, I am excited to prove to Matt Perry that I have finally found my mouthpiece. I pull it out of my backpack and display it proudly. I realize that it is almost time to perform and that none of my friends have concert attire on. I open the door and smugly tell them that they're late. It is good to one-up them, as I'm still sore at them due to the lunch circumstance.

We are onstage, ready to perform. My father is conducting. Instead of sitting in chairs, the horn section has small cots on which they can recline. My father raises his baton, and I realize I don't know where any of my music is. I have been given several books full of music, but unlike the rest of the band, I haven't taken the time to locate the songs we will be playing. I frantically shuffle through the pages as the music starts. I can't find any of the music I need. I throw the books to the floor and curl up on my cot to cry, furious at myself for not preparing properly. My father sees that I am distraught and cuts the band off, running to my side. I'm mad at him now, for placing me above the band, when they've all worked so hard to be here. As the curtains falls into place over the stage, I trudge out the back door, rather than face the wrath of the band and my so-called friends.

I am in a jungle. Rather, it is a very, very large room, filled with flora and fauna of an Indian climate. I have circled the premises once entirely and am now trying to find a way up. a large elephant swings his trunk over my head and back again; I try to grab it. However, it is smooth and I fall off every time. I know there's something else I need to find before I can climb the elephant.
Unfortunately, my failed attempts have set off a flood, which sweeps up all creatures in its path. I let it carry me along, aimlessly, until the waters have receded somewhat. I look around for a log or something to float with. Grabbing one, I tell my sister that it isn't floaty enough, we have to find something younger. I see a monkey floating by, trying to pull a large armored cart. It is not succeeding, and is pulled into a whirlpool. I lunge forward and try to save it as it goes under, but the monkey I come up with is only pulling a wicker basket, not a cart. I panic, those monkeys must be saved,
The jungle personnel clear the water away, and where the whirlpool was is a plastic bubble. Inside are the monkeys that were pulled under. I rejoice - this means we can save them - but the workers shake their heads sadly. They say they cannot save these monkeys; I do not understand. I frantically try to convince them that we can get the monkeys out before they run out of air, but the employees just stand there stonily. They say I saved one monkey, isn't that enough? I scream at them, no! but they gaze at me with their hard eyes and I see there is no hope.
I crouch in a corner, saddened and infuriated at the loss of life. I cannot tear my gaze away from the bubble as the monkeys run out of oxygen and slowly collapse.

The owner of the park is equally saddened by the loss. She says oftentimes she wishes the waters will not come, but then - she opens the front door and shows me the destroyed jungle, covered in a fine layer of snow - this happens, and she wishes she had not wished such things. I stand in her garage, trying to understand. She wraps her thin bathrobe sadly about her and turns to go back inside.

Postmodernism Prevails

We are slaves to a strange man, tending his vegetable garden in a place that looks like my old house. A stream runs through the backyard. We move empty, infertile soil around in a pretense of work.

It is night, we have been called inside. I play pool with a very attractive man, he resembles Andrew the Waiter. I am not sure I am playing correctly.

We escape, dashing across the plot of land into the stream. One slave is sucked underground as he runs, but the rest of us make it safely to the water. The sky is red, perhaps signifying sunset.

We find ourselves at a carnival. I locate the French festivities and seat myself across from Spencer. We are handed several different cheeses and some sort of ham. We are told not to eat them right away, but we do. We are hungry. Behind Spencer I can see children cavorting on an inflatable trampoline.

We return to the house where our master lives, hoping to rescue our fellow that was trapped upon trying to leave. We circle the house quietly, but risk discovery as our ex-owner sits in his study, looking out the window. We leave.

As the others walk down the driveway, I change my mind and turn around. The slaver is actually my respected mentor in many things, and I think it is worth it to pay him a visit. I enter the house, make my way to the study and crawl underneath a table in order to better observe his activities. He turns around, and it is the Andrew the Waiter-like man. He espies me crouching underneath the furniture and coaxes me out gently.
He gives me a guitar and makes me sit in his lap and play for him, like a father. I notice he is slightly fatter and slightly less well-groomed. but when I mention this to him, he laughs and says that everyone changes. I feel small but safe and secure, like a child. We sing a song together.