While we're not freaking psychologists, most everybody has that common-sensism about us that lets us take a dream and turn it into every pedant's nightmare. Meaning, we figure it out on our own. We all know a thing or two.
The great idea is posting your dreams. In Mike's case it was a result of his dreams never seeming to waver from his waking grind, so this was a prime opportunity, what with a rock band appearance and the bus/rollercoaster and travelling home, like "back in time" home, to the scary-car hybrid and the Dadenstein who created it. When something like that decides to invade your otherwise pedestrian dreamscape, why should one be wont to map it out on one's own when your fellow blogistas will mirthfully tell you everything you never realized you were thinking?
Seriously, instead of selfishly contrived reflection through diary-for-the-masses blogmotion, we should all offer up our dreams each day to the gods of wild speculation and cynichoanalysis[<-- NEW WORD alert]. We'll call it "Correct my Psyche!", ok Luke?