Nocturnal Concussion
One Jason Harper not enough for you? Check this out:
Despite what you’ve heard, the closest I come to being “dreamy” is when I wake up at 5 a.m. from a startling nightmare and spend the next four hours in and out of a sleep-dream state that plays out imaginary real-life scenarios, like what happens when I walk into the Mexican market down the street while it’s getting held up by a man with a gun (I would, of course, attempt to disarm him and get shot in the process, and as I was dying, I’d buy a tamale, because they’re so good there it might take the edge off, you know, death). I somehow doubt Dreamy Jason Harper — who in addition to being a Little Rock newscaster owns a “new music/coffeehouse ministry” — experiences this kind of thing.
One of the scenarios I’ve probably half-dreamed in the past month was meeting the girl who beaned me with a beer can at Doris Henson’s final show. Oh yes. I was rocking out down front to one of my favorite bands that Friday night, weeks ago, and I drained a PBR can and casually tossed it forward. It bounced off a monitor and rolled about a foot away from trombone player Mike Walker, who sort of kicked it dejectedly, but he was dejected the whole time because of the band breaking up, not solely because of my littering. It caused no disturbance, really, but it pissed off a girl next to me. She scolded me trashedly, and I waved her off.
