Last night I had a dream. In it, I arrived at a favorite chicken and BBQ place -- which was in a strip mall so was basically an amalgam of Bullocks and Jamaica Jamaica out at 55 and 54. There was a boisterous line out the door like I had never seen before. It fairly quickly became apparent that they were out of fried chicken. Somehow I figured out that the huge crowds were Trumpists who were there to show support for the place because it had been disparaged in a snarky column in the Yale Daily News.
For some reason I didn't let myself get dissuaded by any of this and stuck it out in line, and ended up with a plate of some darkish but tasty BBQish concoction (actually rather like the stuff Mary brought home from Trader Joe's and had for dinner last night) and some sort of vegetably stuff, despite the fact that when I got to the front of the line there was no one there to take my money. I think the staff were just exhausted or something. Somewhere in there, the crowd forced me backwards and I ended up momentarily falling back to where I was sitting on an older Black lady's lap. I quickly got up and apologized. She was OK.
When all was over the place was more or less cleared out. I went back out to the parking lot and saw that some cars had been roughed up. My Prius was gone.
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