In this dream, my friend the guitarist and I rode bikes up a mountain.
We weren’t very good, but that didn’t stop us from attempting increasingly unreasonable inclines. Soon, we fell to our deaths.
But being newly dead didn’t prevent us from attending the funk jam. We were still animate, but now, playing electric guitars in someone’s converted garage. Meanwhile, our hairstylists had done their level best to conceal the massive head wounds that indicated that we were so clearly not alive.
A Megan Trainor song played as we hit the mountain again attempting another nearly vertical incline. And, just like before…we fell.
Our zombie bodies were now even more throttled. But this was nothing our heroic hairstylists couldn’t fix: young Bieber comb overs covered our exposed flesh, just in time for us to grab our guitars, and head to that converted garage for another massive, brown wad of sharp 9th chords.
At that moment it became suddenly clear where the Megan Trainor song was coming from: It was us. We were now playing covers.