Dippin’ Dots

While asleep on the couch, I dreamt I went to an eatery/snack stand, one I had passed before but never really looked closely at.  B and I went in to get Dippin’ Dots.

The guy working the counter was Billy Burroughs, of whose chaotic demise I read about earlier today.  It was taking forever to get the Dippin’ Dots — they were making them on-site.  But they seemed really melted, and it was a process to freeze them.

Outside were a bunch of picnic benches, reminiscent of a boardwalk atmosphere but not near the ocean.  Homeless people congregated there.  At one point, I thought about making a movie about this group—they were close to one another, and didn’t strike me as homeless right away.

But B was having a rough time.  I found her with her knees clutched to her chest, dirty, at the bottom of a big flowerpot.  I had the Dippin’ Dots with lots of chocolate syrup, banana split—and we were getting out of there.


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