what the

Here Endth the Blog

2005-11-13T08:31:00.000-08:00

You know when you've got the kids in the nest and they're flying off ... wait, no ...

You know when you promise something and can't close the deal? ("I used to be in blogs. It's a tough racket." -chug-)

I'm just not keeping up on this blog and I've decided that the odd, random celeb dream can go on the second blog as an aside or something. But I'm one of those sentimental types. This was my first blog, it was the one where I learned how to change the template, the one I made my own ... and I have a hard time letting it go. So until I can figure out a way to move it over en masse to L'il Hateful, I'll leave it up for the odd walk down memory lane.

Cah ... I was so excited about the name too --- "What the?" With the url of ohfortheluvva ... it was the finest work I had ever done ... or at least in the top 20.

follow me to L'il Hateful.

Sixty-Eight: I don't see a problem, lads

2005-10-27T20:41:00.000-07:00

I'm on a space mission with Jude Law and Van Heflin. Our rocket [one quick digression: I don't know what shape the rocket was because we were inside, so none of that naughty analysis ... at least not yet) Our rocket is traveling through the atmosphere of Neptune and it's really bumpy. There's a weird layer of space dust and wayward planets circling Neptune (the rings, perhaps), which is making the journey a super drag. Instead we head on to Venus, because I've heard that the atmosphere on Venus is the same as Earth and maybe we can do some exploring.

Well, anyone who knows their way around sci-fi knows that Venus is run by women and we're immediately taken to their underground city. The queen of Venus [who is unrecognizable, but one would assume she'd be Linda Carter ... or thereabouts] tells us how it is on her planet: "Unlike your Earth, men are the servants here." Jude and Van are quickly clapped in irons, which they think is pretty unfair. Not only that, but I'm regarded as an Einstein that can instruct the women of Venus in the ways of physics, etc ... I've never felt so appreciated! I mean, I like Jude and Van, and I make a half-assed attempt at solidarity ("I'll see what I can do, but it's probably better to lay low for now. Don't you think?"), but the idea of going back into that spaceship to be treated as the token chick and then return to Earth! No way ...

The men are led away, and, in that weird time travel of dreams, it's suddenly days later and I'm called down to the "dungeon" where it turns out Jude and Van were caught attempting to escape. On top of this, the punishment for slaves escaping is they have to be scarred around the eyes with a thin knife. This is done, with some regret, by Liam Neeson. "It's the rules," he says. They look at me, the lines around their eyes starting to scar already ... it just makes my lack of action look really bad. "Sorry, guys," I tell them. "I just don't think it's a good time to leave is all." And I go back to my plush living quarters, wondering if it's a conflict of interest if they allow me to have Jude for a slave...

Sixty-Seven: Look, I am your father

2005-10-17T19:56:00.000-07:00

This is getting really hard to keep track of now that school is keeping me up nights [bumper sticker idea: I was a whiney little bitch on ohfortheluvva.blogspot.com]. I don't know how the kids do it with the drinking and the fratting and what have you.

This means I have only bits and pieces again. I know I KNOW ... I suck

- I spent an entire dream driving around some desert town with Obi Wan Kenobi and Princess Leia. We were trying to find a safe spot for Leia to give birth -- and before you all (all of you all) start telling me that it was Princess other-one-Natalie-Portman-one, I'm going to tell you right now that it was Carrie Fisher, okay. Not the other one. Although it was Ewan McGregor and not Alec Guinness [not that I wouldn't dream about Alec Guinness, but more often than not I happen to dream about Ewan McGregor]. But I digress. So we're trying to avoid Darth Vader, who's literally about a block away every time we stop, but then I start thinking ... if this is Leia and he's her father, but he knows about the baby, but he died at the end of the Jedi thing ... then maybe this is Natalie Portman, except that if it is Darth Vader than he's the father and maybe he has every right to be there at the birth unless it is Leia, but then wouldn't Han Solo want to be there and not Obi Wan ... or maybe Chewie ...

I woke up needing aspirin.

- Last night I was spending time at a Venice, Italy resort with Claire and Sayid. Turns out everyone is rescued from the island and Oceanic Airlines has settled big with the survivors, so there's a lot of holiday spending money. When I enter the hotel lobby Claire and Sayid (who have hooked up ... don't know what happened to Shannon and Charlie ... unless they hooked up) are at the front desk asking for a room with a jacuzzi tub, champagne and a lobster dinner. (Come on, with the monster and the button pushing, Oceanic Air owes these people.) Sayid suggests a movie projector as well, but I'm not entirely sure what he intends to do with it.

Sixty-Six: That's Why The Lady is a Tramp

2005-10-09T09:15:00.000-07:00

Damn school with the damn cold from kids living in the damn dorms sitting next to me in the damn classrooms ... I've got a bad habit of forgetting these now (along with forgetting that it's tu sei and not flippin' tu sta), but here are two from last night:

There's some kind of family reunion going on in a restaurant and I'm stuck at a table with Michael Douglas and J-Lo. Now J-Lo is dating Mike, but she's clearly uncomfortable with him, and I'm getting the impression that she's trying to break off their relationship, because he's kind of a stalker.

The waitress comes over and Mike asks for the check. "I think I want something else," says J-Lo, winking at the waitress. "What," says Mike in that static way he says stuff. "What. Do you. WANT?" (it's like he's studied under Al Pacino sometimes, ya know?) "I haven't decided," says J-Lo and she winks at the waitress again. The waitress is not getting it, so J-Lo reaches up and knocks the waitresses tray, spilling water on the table. "Oh no!" cries J-Lo, getting up. "I'm sorry," she says. "I'll be right back. I've got to go to the ladies' room." "It'll dry off," says Mike. "No, no," she replies. "It's all over my butt."

She and the waitress leave and I have a feeling J-Lo's going to skip out the back. Not wanting to get stuck sitting with Michael Douglas, I go join my mom a few tables over. "What was all that about?" asks mom. I tell her I don't know, but give her my break-up theory. "She's not really his type," says mom. "I mean, he's not great, but he can do better." Dude, I know! "Mom, she said 'butt.' Not backside or behind, but 'butt.'"

"Tramp," says mom.

--- One for the road ---

Francis Ford Coppola had a film festival and the winning director gets to go to the Philippines to build huts with the Peace Corps. It hardly seemed worth it. [I'm pretty sure this dream came from watching Bobby Pacquaio fight and listening to Steve Albert talk about how Bobby's family lives in a 1-room hut and they have to go outside to cook meals on a fire in a hole in the ground. Thank God there's the Coppola Film Festival to help out.]

Sixty-Five: Mutter Mutter Toil and Clutter

2005-09-27T05:13:00.000-07:00

It's getting harder to remember these now that my head is crammed full of Italian, the colonization of the Caribbean and the role of Creole on literature, and where my channel is in Tai Chi (BOW TO YOUR SENSEI!).

- Nicole Kidman was showing me how to find costume jewelry in a creek running beneath a train bridge -- "You wouldn't believe what gets thrown out of trains," she said.

- I was riding in a car with Vince Vaughn and Steve Zahn and we were painting the white center stripe on a road that ran from the beach to the second floor of a large house.

- Lance Armstrong was nobly defending himself against the steroids rap. His loud accuser was Dom Deluise, who was shouting out his statement in a crowded ballpark tunnel.

Hopefully by Saturday the use of an acceptable form of allergy medication and lots of sleep will produce better results.

Sixty-Four: Better Dead Than Red?

2005-09-18T09:25:00.000-07:00

My friend has rented a haunted apartment on the second floor of an old house.

So, of course, we have to bring in the "Most Haunted" team to investigate!

The room with the ghost in it is the bathroom and the energy manifests itself into a floating fire in the shower -- making it impossible to be clean on a regular basis. First we try a fireman, who has dragged a hose up through the house to the second floor and has trained water on the fire. It's almost working but there's still an eerie presence and the fireman soon loses his nerve and has to leave.

No problem, because sensitive psychic Ian is now on the scene to guide the "spirit person" to the "light", etc... etc... He's trying his best, but it's soon making him cry and then -- horror! -- he announces that there's a second ghost come into the room [the bathroom, by the way, not the biggest room in the house] and it's an evil one. That's it for me. I run down the stairs with Ian close behind, although he stops to explain to the "Most Haunted" camera that this is probably the toughest one he's ever had to face.

[I've got to stop watching that stupid show ... however it being television, I figured Ian Lawman qualified as a celebrity of sorts]

-----------

I live [or maybe I'm just working] in North Carolina and there's a war going on between blue states and red states. My little brother and I have tunneled out of a room in North Carolina and are making our way "across the border" [I guess states have merged or something] into Mississippi to do some spying. We're passing through a path in the woods, when we come upon a man with prosthetic legs. He's jogging and I start to mention how incredible that is, when he brings out a whistle and blows it loudly. The brother and I quickly part ways and run for it. I make it down to a university stadium where piles of clothes are set up along the yard lines. These are for the soldiers who are grouped together nearby, all of them wearing red armor. I try to blend in with the civilians as best as I can, and I even start to sing along on the pep song -- which sounds like a cross between a military march and an alma mater. Among the words are "Judge not or else you can expect to be judged" and other Christian ethics, which I can't remember exactly now. Naturally, the idea of soldiers singing such hypocritical lyrics soon makes me cry. My walk takes me around to the podium where President Bush is leading the singing. I take the microphone from him and stop the singing with: "What's the matter with you people! You're singing about Christian love and God and judgment and you're about to go out there and kill people who are JUST LIKE YOU and who live in this country JUST LIKE YOU! I don't understand it at all..." I return the microphone, but Bush gives me the eye ... he knows I'm from a blue state. Fuck it, I decide as I walk away. Come and get me, reds.

Sixty-Three: Cinema Veriturkish

2005-09-10T09:49:00.000-07:00

The dream camera swings back and forth: between the blue sky, down to rows of pale beige and brown army tents, and finally to shaded yellow grass, then up again. As it swings, and in the rhythm of the movement, a voice is singing "Swing Low Sweet Chariot" in Turkish. As the scene enlarges the singer comes into view as well as the method of swinging: The singer is Daniel Day-Lewis and he's swinging on a rope made of hemp and flags. It's a single rope with a loop at the bottom where his feet go.

I'm sitting nearby watching (and listening and probably napping). We're both dressed in Turkish military uniforms. [I'm also considered, apparently, to be a man, but since this is viewed through my eyes I can't see what I look like ... but I'm guessing they don't allow women into the Turkish army.]

A third soldier with dark hair [no celebrity, but maybe a little like the Colin Farrell look ... so for identification purposes we'll call him Colin for the rest of this blog entry] comes up, looks around first, and then points to a knapsack in his hands. Daniel stops swinging and Colin waves for us to follow.

Casually, the three of us walk through the camp and out to the bush on the other side. When we're out of view of the soldiers, Colin turns around and shows us the contents of the knapsack: golf balls, chocolate, two bananas, a bottle of whiskey and a roll of filament tape.

"It's for your shoulder," Colin says to me, in English. I have a sword cut on my left shoulder, but it's illegal to bandage wounds in [my dream version of] the Turkish army. "No one will know. This stuff is practically invisible."

While he's closing the wound -- and it stings like crazy! -- we're passing the whiskey bottle. Daniel nods ahead of us to a school yard. "Civilization," he says. "That's what we're bringing to this place, right?"

We move closer to watch a circle of children pass a ball around. A little girl with long, curly, red hair skips two players and, in dodgeball fashion, throws the ball at a smaller girl who drops it.

"Stupid! What's the matter with you anyway!" she yells.

"Hey!" barks Daniel, stopping everything. "That's no way to talk to someone. You don't want to grow up to be a bitch, do you?"

I'm stunned by the name-calling, but not the red-head. "I am grown up," she says. "I'm 25."

"Well," says Daniel. "I guess it's okay [!] to call you a bitch then."

We walk away and she follows, hooking up with Colin who gives her the two bananas from the knapsack. Drums can be heard in the distance and we stop. That means we'll be fighting again. Daniel is looking out over the fields of yellow grass to the mountains in the distance. I look back and Colin has gone off with his date.

What have they got to lose? I'm thinking, as I watch Daniel walk through the grass, letting his hands trail over the tops. He's humming "Sweet Low Sweet Chariot" again. By tomorrow we could all be dead ... even Daniel ... who always seemed too sensitive to be a soldier ...

Sixty-Two: 3 Short Films (that are not) About Glenn Gould

2005-09-07T04:55:00.000-07:00

What with the hurricane, school (I've almost finished the media textbook and with 2 weeks to spare!) and an incredible amount of overtime (according to my paycheck, August scored a record 21.8 hours ... dude, that's like 3 regular days ... sucks) I haven't really been dreaming much -- or, I have, but it's a be-otch to remember them in the morning.

Toy Story
I'm working with Nicholas Cage at a toy company. We're a prosperous company, but for some reason Nic and I share an office. As boss he has the big, fancy oak desk and I have a small portable cart in the corner by the window, but we're in the same space.

Kore wa taiso okikute akaru-so na heya desu, Flynn San*
Errol Flynn asks me to check his ears because he's having trouble hearing. I look in and, if you angle yourself the right way, you can see all the way into his head.
And it looks like an empty geisha house with rice paper walls and fluffy pillows on the floor.

This Old House
Dick Clark is taping an interview about the benefits of listing your house on the Historical Register. "That means the city owns it," he says. "And that means they pay for any repairs over the course of ... Shut up." He says that last bit over his shoulder because I'm in the next room interviewing someone else about the same topic and my subject doesn't agree with Dick. This is all being played back later in the studio -- one tape against the other, because you can hear him say "Shut up" on both -- and the camera crew and I are laughing our heads off.

*translation: This is a very big room and it seems light, Mr. Flynn

Sixty-One: Nothing a Pair of New Shoes Can't Fix

2005-08-23T05:16:00.000-07:00

It begins in a public bathroom, as dreams tend to do. And it's a busy bathroom, as dream bathrooms usually are. The difference this time is that I actually get my own stall for privacy ... although there is no wall on one side of the stall and if you sit just-so you can be seen in a mirror over the sink. Why do I need privacy? Well, there are the obvious reasons, but it's also because I'm being stalked by Stanley Tucci.

We're supposed to get married, but I know he's working for the bad guys [not Nazis this time, but something more like bad spies, like the agents of SMERSH in the Bond books/films]. Wanting no part of that, I sneak out the back (Stanley is out front; I can see his shadow on the door) and run across a field in the direction of the airport. [which airport? no idea.]

Halfway through the grass I see a very young ["Rawhide"-young] Clint Eastwood sitting in the driver's seat of an old red pickup truck. I get a psychic flash and yell at Clint to run for it. He decides to trust me and we both sprint for the creek [there's a creek ... because there's a meadow, there's naturally a creek] as the truck explodes.

"Thanks," he says. "You're the psychic."

Yes, it's true. I'm "the" psychic, which is why Stanley, who now comes on the scene, wants to marry me. I guess it's his mission or something.

"This is only temporary," he tells Clint. "Your days are numbered." And then he adds: "She's with me. Come on, my mother is waiting."

"I don't think so," says Clint. "She's coming with me." He grabs me hand and we run toward the hills, away from the airport, from Stanley, from his mother ... all the way until we reach the outskirts of a small city where we stop. "Do you know this place?" he asks me.

I want to say it's West Covina ... or Brea ... or one of those inland cities of Southern California, but I'm not sure. The good news is there's a shopping mall that I recognize from previous dreams.

We'll be safe here, I tell him. I know for a fact they have a large atrium court with a great micro-brew bar, and the largest, single-story JC Penney ever put on a dream map. Oh yes, I tell him [and he's got to trust me, because I'm THE psychic]. We'll definitely be safe here.

Sixty: Vive le Resistance!

2005-08-16T19:06:00.000-07:00

I'm in a high school gymnasium with a lot of other people. We're all sitting at lunch benches with our wrists lashed to the tops of the tables. We're there to be taught how to behave under the new Nazi regime.

We're instructed, in sharp German, to pay attention (ACHTUNG) to the screens hanging over the basketball hoops. The lights dim and a film starts up with the background music of The Carpenters. It's "We've Only Just Begun", which is kind of a cruel joke when you think of it, but that's the way of Nazis, isn't it?

The film is like one of those high school "what a great year we had, huh seniors?" films, with snippets of young people and the usual hijinks.

Thankfully one of my wristbands [the left one, actually] is loose and slips easily over my hand. I turn to Robert Urich, who is sitting next to me. He nods. Now's our chance! If I can loosen the band on his right hand we can get to the light sabers in our coat pockets and then FREEDOM!

Fifty-Nine: Can She Bake a Cherry Pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy

2005-08-13T09:59:00.000-07:00

William Holden (and this is the post WWII/pre Sixties Bill ... the "Bridge on the River Kwai" Bill) was the captain of a merchant marine ship that was harbored in a South Seas port.

He was looking for a wife.

The contest was between 3 beautiful model-types (Yvonne, Lorraine and ... erm ... the third one ... Elsa?) and me. Sure, they all looked great in bikinis and had really nice hair, but the big finale of the contest was cooking dinner for Bill. I went first.

I made pot roast with new potatoes, a berry (maybe cherry) pie with real whipped cream, and a small salad. [and this salad came from a week-old plastic container in my own - real life - refrigerator ... dude, we always seem to have a week-old plastic container of salad in our fridge ... but Bill wanted salad, so that's what he got. When I offered to grate cheese on it he seemed surprised that such a thing could be done. What a luxury!]

He was eating this dinner with a psychic/matchmaker, who told him that the one he picked would be named Yvonne [I guess the rules of the contest meant that he didn't know our names and would just pick us on "merit"]. I knew Yvonne -- striking, Italian woman with one of those stylish 60's scarves around her head -- and excused myself from the dinner table to kibosh with the other contestants and let them know what I heard. In consolation, since she knew it was in the bag, Yvonne gave out presents to the rest of us. I received a book on how to style my hair (in, you know, fros, beehives, flips -- the current styles).

I take my book down to my room, but before I can get to a mirror to try out the beehive, I'm stopped by Bill. "To hell with what that witch said," he tells me. "It's you."

I won't relate the rest of my ship experience with Bill [I have my reasons] and I don't think it's all that interesting to tell the rest of the dream in detail; in short, we escaped from the ship with some other sailors [why escape? it's a mystery] and ended up on an island with 2 giant Brontosaurus [brontosauri?] who were vegetarian and spoke with the voices of Jeff Goldblum and Harry Shearer. "This is my brother," says the Jeff one. "He's over three THOUSAND years old." "I don't think that's necessary," says Harry. "I just want them to know a little about you," says Jeff. "You could tell them something else. You don't have to tell my age," says Harry. And on and on and on until we all fall asleep in their giant warehouse apartment.

Fifty-Eight: A Star in Every Port

2005-08-10T06:07:00.000-07:00

And some port in every star...

I was playing tennis with Lindsay Lohan, but I was really bad at it. My serve -- and she kept making me serve the ball -- got over the net once and then it went out. She was getting impatient, and yet kept playing, even when two guys came over and asked if we could play doubles. (Neither one of us thought that was a good idea, and to prove it I served the ball into the net again. "We'll just wait for the court," they said.)

Finally I tossed the ball to her and told her to serve -- that maybe it would be better and there was more of a chance of my hitting one coming toward me than serving one out. She serves and I go back to hit it, but when the ball hits the court it goes through a hole in the wood.

Dude, that's not my fault. But Lindsay is now totally fed up with the whole thing.

But wait! As I'm reaching through the hole to retrieve the ball, I see that beneath the tennis courts is the wine cellar, and closest to the hole is a fine collection of 30 year-old port. mmmmmmmmmmmmm Tall bottles, short bottles, port from Spain, some from France ...

This catches the eye of Bill Murray. He was walking around trying to solicit interest in a screenplay he'd written about fishing. It was called "Big Fish". I said, "Hasn't that already been taken?" Bill, typical of Bill, shrugged it off. "It's just an idea."

He takes two of the small bottles and hands me what looks like a round, pillowed oven mitt.

"Try that," he says.

Lindsay serves the ball, and, sure enough, you can use the mitt as a racket. You slip your hand through the strap at the back, almost like a baseball glove, and hit the ball with the front, open-palm, side of the mitt. I'm still not doing well, but at least I'm getting the ball over the net. Lindsay tries one out as well and all is now happy-ever-after on the tennis courts of Dreamland.

Except that Bill still isn't getting anyone interested in his screenplay. "What if I call it 'Go Fish'?" (taken) "'Gone Fishing'." (taken) "'Fish Tale'." (that's just plain bad)

Fifty-Seven: I Already Know My Fortune. It's Partying!

2005-08-03T06:07:00.000-07:00

I haven't even started the semester and already I'm having the dream where I can't find my classes.

Not only that, but I run into Jake Gyllenhaal and we decide to give up looking for classes. Instead, we start looking for a place where we can have sex. Of course there are no empty rooms -- every door we open has a class in it. Even the Little Theatre, which is dark, but still has people in the audience (too bad, because it also had a couch on the stage).

We give up when we open a door to a large lecture hall and everyone turns around. Apparently class had been suspended and the students were all expecting the police to come in.

Why?

Because Party Boy, Chris Pontius, (from Jackass) had come in with his boombox and tear-away pants and had disrupted the lecture. He even had his bunny ears on ("I'm Bunny Professor" he said).

Fifty-Six: Get Thee Behind Me Damon

2005-07-28T18:48:00.000-07:00

I was in a small, cheap, dingy apartment in Torrance, California (near the freeway where my grandmother lives, but not in her neighborhood ... a little east of her neighborhood) and I was having a huge argument with Matt Damon.

He was trying to tell me that Bernard Hopkins deserved the lose the recent boxing match with Jermain "Bad Intentions" Taylor.

"You just don't want to admit he lost," he told me. "That's all it is."

Dude! Did you even see the fight? When has the showboat wild swing technique ever meant "winner" in any legit match? Hopkins waits and uses skill instead of theatrics and people call it bad boxing. It's frickin' SKILL, man.

Matt just shakes his head and waves it off.

"You want him to win because you like him, not because he's a better boxer. It has nothing to do with skill."

Dude. Did you see the fight?

Turns out Matt only saw parts of the fight and, in fact, missed the final round, the round the deciding judge gave to Taylor, therefore removing the tie and the title from The Executioner.

"I saw enough of it," he says in his defense. "You just can't admit you're wrong, that's all."

Totally frustrating. Never did like Matt Damon...

Fifty-Five: Guilty Pleasure

2005-07-26T21:10:00.000-07:00

I'm living in some remote South Seas island, and the whole island is a school that goes from childhood to adult. We're having graduation day and I'm sitting with the other seniors in stiff metal folding chairs near a stage. My friend Don is there and we're talking through the ceremony about television trivia [By the way, not to brag, but I defy anyone to top coming up with the name Johnny Whitaker at midnight; that and knowing who wrote the score for the original King Kong: Max Steiner a-thankyou. Jim Nardulli still owes me $10,000 for that one.]. But it's okay because most of the speeches are in Chinese and are delivered by old Chinese men in fancy dress.

Then, stop everything, the last speech is by the English Professor, Rod Taylor.

Now, I know he wears an ascot in The Birds, but you have to see him in The Time Machine. He's ... well, let's just say: if he had a whistle and a uniform I couldn't have loved him more. Had I seen The Time Machine before seeing The Sound of Music, Christopher Plummer wouldn't have stood a chance.

He's delivering his speech [and I'm totally hooked on every word], when Japanese fighter pilots start attacking the island. Everyone runs for cover and I run with Rod. True hero, he picks up this huge bazooka [Don't bother to comment on it ... I know already] and shoots two flares into the sky. As they explode you can see shadows of paratroopers dropping through the trees. Rod grabs my hand and we run to his apartment and lock the door.

Too bad there are other people already hiding in there. I've got no chance for the In-Case-We-Die Pick Up Trick.

I'm spared any additional embarrassment by waking up.

Fifty-Four: I fin'lly bagged me a Homerrrrrrrrrr

2005-07-16T09:01:00.000-07:00

(If I may just quote a little from country start Lurleen)

Nicole Kidman, my very dear friend, and I were spending the afternoon with Prince. Her kids and his were left under the charge of a nanny [they were given "Cheese n' Crackers" for treats) while we jumped into Prince's pool. I was in charge of the music and put on "1999", but when I turned around Prince shook his head.

"No," he said. "'Controversy.'"

Right, right ... of course he's right. The early stuff is definitely better. I change out the CD, while Nicole laughs at how in Australia they called it "Con-TRO-versy" instead of "CON-tro-versy" and how that seems to almost change the meaning of the word. But then the chorus of the song pulls out each syllable, like each syllable was it's own word, so that it walks the line between the two pronunciations.

The phone rings and the nanny brings it out to Nicole while I talk nonsense with the kids -- dude, they had the cutest kids. She hangs up and says "That was Brad. He said to be there around seven."

Brad is Brad Pitt, and "there" -- where we are suddenly, due to the quick-jump time style of dreams -- is this huge walled estate that he has in the middle of the desert. It's built in the style of a baseball park [like Wrigley Field, but without grandstands and ... eh ... it's in the middle of the desert instead of Chicago], and even if you get passed the outer wall, you still have to kind-of maze your way through 2 more inner walls to get to the fun in the center.

I enter with Nicole and Prince, but before the doors can close on the last wall, Homer Simpson (wearing his Dancing Homer cape, etc...) manages to squeak in.

"Pshew! That was close! Where's Brad? Ooooooooooh lobster."

Yes, sneaking through a door at the end of a garden path is a golden lobster. Homer runs after it. I follow. We both pass Brad, who's wearing swim trunks and holding a beer [I guess there's a pool in the garden -- it was a 2-pool dream]. I greet him, but still feel slightly like I might have been sneaking in, the same as Homer.

"Who's that guy?" he asks me.

"I, eh, thought you invited him," I say and continue on to follow Homer. But I hear Brad ask someone to "find out who that guy is."

Homer has gone through the door at the end of the path and I'm right there behind him. Inside is a room full of school supplies. Apparently, as part of Brad's charity work, you're allowed to pick whatever you want from this room: backpacks, pencils, pens, filler paper... I make a mental note to come back later to score some stuff.

There is a door at the end of this storage room and that's where I find Dancing Homer, still chasing that lobster. It scurries through a hole in the wall and Homer opens a door beside the hole. We both run out.

We're now outside of Brad's compound and have ended up under a freeway cloverleaf. The door closes behind us -- there's no doorknob on our side.

"Ohhhhh," moans Homer. "But where's the lobster? Why did it leave me? Why? Why?" Echoing through the cloverleaf: "Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?"

------------------------------------------------
Special Guest Star Dream (as told to me by Wendy):
Wendy and Ewan MacGregor were telling jokes to make a fat man laugh. She was trying very hard to remember the jokes -- since Ewan would say things like "Gude one" in his little Scots talk -- but woke up without remembering any of them.

Damn and fecking blast.

Fifty-Three: Tom Waits for No Man

2005-07-10T17:27:00.000-07:00

For some reason, not explained, the cousin/roommate had convinced me to move out of our nice neighborhood into a smaller house on a busy street.

I remember being against it, but when we arrived at the house to move it, we were already having the house-warming party. So, you know, might as well stay.

At the party was Tom Waits. He was in charge of the blender and was mixing up daiquiris out of ice cream, rum and lemonade. Turns out the blender could only make one drink at a time and we only had enough ice cream for the first daiquiri.

No problem.

Tom's found my laundry basket and starts throwing in socks, shirts, etc... And at first I'm a little concerned, since my clothes are going to be ruined, but the concern turns into curiosity. Socks + underwear + rum + lemonade ... dude, that's got to be the makings of a quick drunk or I don't know booze and laundry.

Fifty-Two: On Her Majesty's I-Can't-Keep-A-Secret Service

2005-06-25T09:05:00.000-07:00

I don't normally post the naughty dreams, but this one I couldn't resist because it's so involved and had really odd details.

I was a lover to both George Sanders and Ian Fleming.

Ian at the time was married [in my dream only, not real life] to a woman who, as it turns out, was *also* having an affair with George Sanders. George and I are going to their country house for some kind of nutty British dinner party [you know the kind, where everyone is doing something bad, but we all behave above it all in that witty British literary/film way] and when we walk in it's to interrupt an argument between Ian and his wife. She looks at George and says "I've told him about us." "Oh," says George -- and he's not sure if this is bad or really interesting or heading to some wicked fun.

For my part, I'm also a little surprised, not knowing that George and Ian's wife were fooling around, but deciding it didn't really matter since I was fooling around with her husband.

"Drink?" she asks. "I would love one!" says George happily, and they go to the bar. I follow Ian into the bedroom where he starts to pack a bag -- I get to hold his pipe [which leads to weird detail #1: I pretend to smoke the pipe in the dream, but I can taste it. Taste in a dream is one of the weirdest sensations ever: it was a clay pipe (light green) and empty, but with a trace of tobacco still coming through the stem]. Ian asks for it back, gives me a short kiss and walks out. At the front door he turns to George, Mrs Fleming and myself and says "See you," and leaves.

Well! that's that, seems to be the general reaction, although I'm sad to see him go. George takes up a comforter from a nearby bed and suggests we all go out to the golf links. Sure. Why not? But on the way [weird detail #2] "let's stop for Bluebeard" says Mrs. Fleming. Bluebeard is a black, shorthaired dachshund that she and Ian have housed in a kennel near the links. We put on our lovely English walking jackets, but when we reach the kennel Bluebeard is gone; Ian has taken him along. "I'll never forgive him!" shouts Mrs. Fleming.

Might as well continue out to the links, but we're having a hard time trying to find any spot with privacy. On the way we pass a small shop that is selling [weird -- and unrelated, but noted for it's weirdness -- detail #3] magazines that feature on the cover a German athlete from the recent (?) Berlin Olympics of 1936. She was dressed like a runner or field sport athlete, with the German logo on her uniform.

But her face belonged to Amelia Earhart!

Fifty-One: Spouting Off

2005-06-22T06:02:00.000-07:00

The cousin/roommate made me watch "Westworld" last night ("This scared the shit out of me when I was a kid"), which in turn made me dream that all of our neighbors were robots. Like, who would want to visit "Neighborworld" at $1,000 a day?

----------

I was staying with my friend, Janeane Garofalo, over Christmas holidays. [We were going to school together or maybe working together somewhere ... I don't know. I only know that we got off the bus at the same stop and she said "Come on. Meet the family" and it was Christmastime.] Her family owned this remote house on the side of a cliff, that, from the road, looked like it was in the middle of nowhere -- no other houses around or buildings ... nothin'; just this house sticking out over desert .. or something rocky and barren like a desert -- but once you were inside the house you could see that the back portion behind the kitchen was a restaurant overlooking a harbor. It was nice too, because she had all kinds of family and everyone pitched in at the restaurant. I was even allowed to fold napkins for the tables. [whoo hoo!]

Suddenly the restaurant and harbor area start to clear out, with people evacuating to the parking lot.

"It's just a water spout," says Janeane. "I don't know what all the fuss is about. You'd think it was an earthquake or something."

You could hear people shouting that they only had a few minutes to get out and to hurry up and some people were asking if it was a tsunami and I was thinking "cah, that's like the new popular disaster now" but there were definitely spouts forming on the water very near to the outdoor balcony area of the restaurant.

"There's a big one," says Janeane, pointing with her cigarette. "Ooh. That one might turn into" (in mock terror) "a TORNADO."

Should we leave? I ask.

Janeane looks at me sideways, squinty-eyed and says "No" like I'm an idiot.

Whatever ... she's the one that lives there. I guess she'd know.

Fifty: The Wild-ish Bunch

2005-06-14T06:13:00.000-07:00

I was stitching together pillows with Russell Crowe [by the way, I know he keeps popping up and I'm trying to sort it out. Clearly he represents some sort of male security figure ... although how the Thigh Master took on that role in my subconscious state is anyone's guess] so I'm stitching pillows with Russell Crowe and we're seated in this swamp down in Australia. It's a nice swamp, although at first I didn't want to go in because ... well, swamp water = polio water, and goodness knows what's down there ... could be pollywogs or crawdads. But then, when settled in, it was okay and fairly clean for being a swamp, so I stayed and Russell and I started stitching pillows.

[Good ol' Freud.]

We're interrupted by the arrival of The Wild Bunch. [For those who don't know, let me just fill you in: When it was rereleased, I saw the director's cut of The Wild Bunch at the Cinarama Cinadome in Hollywood. That screen is HUGE. Now, picture, if you will, William Holden, Ernest Borgnine and Warren Oates in a steam room on that huge screen ... yeah. It's not pretty, is it?] Russell and I join them -- I guess we're part of the gang -- and they're talking about a "job" they've got to do down at the local cineplex. This job involves collecting ropes for the purposes of hanging people, which leads Warren Oates to put his head through one and smile -- one of those little film ironies. I remember thinking, within the film within the dream, that it was probably a shot for the cutting room floor, but that Peckinpah left it in as a prophetic film irony.

The scout for our gang comes running up and tells William Holden that the guy we're looking for [Robert Ryan?] is in the cineplex and now is the time to ambush. This scout is played by a guy I work with named Darren. Now, Darren ... how should I put this ... he's not the action/cowboy type. He likes the Grateful Dead, visits his mom often and graduated with a degree in Environmental Studies [which is why he works internet retail with the rest of us], and he tells Bill Holden that he's not going with us to the cineplex; he'd rather stay behind because "killing isn't his gig." Bill thinks about it and agrees to let him stay. The rest of us walk off down the street.

As we're turning the corner and are far enough away from the swamp, Bill says (in that gruff Bill Holden way) "Somebody's got to go back and kill him. He'll blow the whole thing." Russell looks at me, I look at Borgnine -- who's shocked (in that incredulous Borgnine way) -- and he looks at Warren Oates, who shakes his head: No way.

"Well somebody's got to!" barks Bill. "Are you all sissies?" [well ... I am] "It may already be too late."

With that he turns around and starts walking again.

"I'll do it myself," he says.

We keep walking to the cineplex, all of us a little shaken. Who wants to kill a pacifist? It's bound to be bad luck.

------- Short Film -------

A few nights ago, after having a bacon-topped maple bar with some friends, I had a dream that I was in a supermarket and saw Tom Cruise drink from a carton of milk and then put the carton back on the shelf. Bad Tom.

Forty-Nine: A Little From Column A; a Little From Column B

2005-06-05T11:01:00.000-07:00

I'm not ignoring the blog. Honestly. It's just that for the past week my mind has been almost entirely focused on numbers and math. Why? Because I suck at math and that's got to change if I'm going to restart my edu-ma-cation this fall. Actually, it's a pride-thing: when I announced an intention to study theoretical physics I was handed back some incredulous comments from my cousins -- who know me and know physics and don't see the two of us going out for long, let alone making an academic relationship work.

That said, dreams have been filled with numbers, replays of scenes from work (because that has also really, really sucked lately)and only the occassional celebrity. Trouble is, they don't stay long, the celebrities, but here are some "snippits" of dreams from the past week:

- I was shopping in Toys R Us with Jack Nicholson. It was some kind of weird blind date and we were doubling with my cousin and her husband (who kept changing into Russell Crowe). Jack was his usual weird self, but more so -- maybe he was trying too hard in that blind date kind of way ... which isn't Jack-like ... and that was throwing him off -- so I spent most of the dream trying to ditch him.
- There was an F1 display on a plateau somewhere in Brazil (I had just read a disturbing article about the rainforests and that may have influenced the setting ... otherwise, I don't know what I was doing in Brazil). Lucky for me the car on display was Kimi Raikkonen's McLaren and I got to sit in it ... only there was no seat and most of the controls had been removed to keep overly enthusiastic fans from driving it off. It didn't matter to me; it was Kimi's and that was all that was important. I sat on the floor of the car and that was good enough for me. The celebrity touring with the display was Giancarlo Fisichella (and he looked like Jarno Trulli, but we talked about Renault and I called him "Fisi" and that seemed to verify that it wasn't Trulli) and he seemed (naturally) a little put-out to be showcasing a McLaren instead of his own car. But, in his Fisi way, he was polite and very nice to the fans (me).
- I was with Katie Holmes on a train (shhhh the Freudian connection had nothing to do with Katie Holmes) and we were talking about Tom Cruise. I remember saying to her "If this is just a publicity stunt, what hope is there for the rest of us? You're the golden love couple. There's a responsibility there." She appeared undecided, but happy ... so it could go either way.
- Ben Stiller and I were playing beach volleyball with some other friends and the dream is vague, but I remember him being very, very competitive.

Forty-Eight: I'm Still Not Sure What Happened

2005-05-24T06:01:00.000-07:00

I'm just going to lay it out like it happened -- sure, there are missing pieces, but I really can't fill them in. Why do it at all, you ask? Duuuuuuuude, I don't think I've ever had this many stars in one setting. I'll count them down.

I'm at my parent's house which is full of people. All of my relatives from mom's side of the family are in town for a wedding ... I think. It's usually a wedding. Anyway, as more relatives show up the house gets bigger. My mom has to share a room with two of her sisters, pop has the men in his room, and I'm downstairs with Madonna [1] and Judy Davis [2].

Judy is ranting about something and might be drunk or has been drinking. Madonna is picking out clothes to wear, but decides to put some music on the stereo to help her decide. It's her "Like a Virgin" album and she's got it on cassette [!]. As it starts up I say, rather artlessly, "Can I tell you something? I used to listen to this all the time. I loved this album." [Which isn't true. I loved her first album ... but maybe I was just trying to be nice.] "And it's really exciting to have you as part of the family."

Madonna smiles briefly and walks away.

And I feel stupid! stupid!

Meanwhile Judy is still going off about something in a highly dramatic fashion, and takes her ranting outside, which turns into my grandmother's neighborhood and it's night. Across the street is Warren Beatty [3] and he's talking through a window to Shirley Temple [4]. She's sitting on her bed, ignoring him.

"I did everything I could. What more do you want? Listen. Listen. I'll ... I'll go back tomorrow. Right? And I'll talk to him. How about that? Huh? And ... And I'll get him to ... to ... listen to reason."

Suddenly it's tomorrow and he's in a dance studio where Shirley is rehearsing under the guidance of Martin Balsam [5].

"I'm sorry, kid. She gets a part in the chorus. That's all I can do for her," he tells Warren.

"But you just gotta give her a chance, RJ." [I don't know what RJ stands for or where it comes from ... I have a feeling I've heard Warren Beatty say it in a movie.] "She can't show you what she's capable of if she's stuck in the chorus."

"No go, kid. She stays in the chorus..." etc... etc...

I'm stopping here because it's the end of the guest stars, but it did sort of drone on until I woke up.

Forty-Seven: Want To Pet My Beagle?

2005-05-18T06:06:00.000-07:00

Had a dream involving Jim Carrey, Will Smith (who was crying while being interviewed by Melvin Bragg, the host of The South Bank Show) and a double-decker bus, with a side trip into what my subconscious imagines socialized medicine would become in this country ("We only handle vaccinations here, and can only treat you for flu or broken bones.").

However.

The cousin had a better dream and I'm finally blogging it. This was told to me over a week ago, but I couldn't think of a good title for it ... I know, the title I chose is weak, but it's all I've got, people.

She [hereafter She or she = cousin] was on a boat with Carlos Santana [Fun Fact: in "Key Largo" the boat Bogart kills Edward G. Robinson on is called "Santana"]. Carlos has a pet beagle who can scuba dive.

It's short and sweet, but here's the fun part ... since this isn't my dream, I'd like to take a moment for some budget analysis:

- Water images, as we all know, mean sex. Let's get it out in the open. It's sex and there's no use denying it
- Beagles have long ears.
- Carlos Santana has a shaggy mustache.

In summation: My cousin clearly wants to have sex with a long-eared guy with a shaggy mustache.

Don't tell her husband.

Wait ... maybe that is her husband ...

Forty-Six: Somethin' For Nothin'

2005-05-06T15:48:00.000-07:00

It's not so much that there were celebrities in this dream ... or that you would call The Pixies celebrities ... because that's who it was ... I was walking through a flea market with The Pixies ... it's not noted for that reason, but because I want it to go on record that this dream was an epiphany and The Pixies are mentioned as a nod to the fact that this was a blog devoted to celebrity dreams ... because shopping a flea market with The Pixies doesn't give you much to blog about.

I was looking over retro items at one of the flea market stops and this little brown short-hair dachshund came running through the table. I picked him up and on his belly was the label that stated how much he cost and that his name was "Barry".

And I just want it noted that right now my only goal in this life is to get a brown short-hair dachshund.

And his name will be Barry.

Forty-Five: Speedy vs. MegaloMonster

2005-05-04T06:03:00.000-07:00

Just a snippet:

I was driving through this small city, like a cartoon city or a movie backdrop -- like the Man With the Golden Arm ... you know, how it's everything is REALLY close (like the bar and Darren McGavin's apartment, which are through an intersection that takes 2 seconds to cross) and the buildings seem to be REALLY tall because they're so close to the street. I made a left turn from a one-way street onto another one-way street, and I guess I cut the turn a little too close to the corner because the following shouting match occurred between the person on the street corner and myself:

Paris Hilton: Why don't you learn to drive, asshole!
Me: Why don't you learn to dress, slut!
Paris Hilton: Retard!
Me: Whore!

The significance of her hanging out on a street corner, explains all, I think. In the end she may have won the fight because I'm the one who woke up angry and Paris ... well ... I'm sure she woke up groggy and hungover as usual.

Forty-Four: Thus Spake Malkovich

2005-05-02T20:52:00.000-07:00

I was on my high school senior cruise [which my high school didn't have ... it was budgeted somewhere with the swimming pool] which was going around some jungle island. You had to be very careful cruising this island because if you were too close to the shore monkeys would jump aboard, but if you were too far away lions and tigers [a tiger? in Africa?] could leap onto the ship instead of going over it and into the ocean on the other side -- as we all know, lions and tigers can only jump one measured distance and it never varies long or short; know that distance and cruise accordingly.

Our captain was Spongebob who ran around the ship followed by Patrick. They were laughing and chasing each other around the deck.

My section I was standing in was filled with girls from my high school class, all of us in bikinis -- it was summer, it was a cruise ... what else would we be wearing? It being high school, most of us still could wear bikinis without too much embarrassment. We were sitting on pillows and deck chairs, and the only men in our group were John Malkovich and Mike Myers. Mike didn't say anything and is mentioned as being there primarily because he was Malkovich's only topic of conversation. I would like to add a description of Malkovich: he was wearing what seemed to be one of those '60's-style tunic-shirts made of white cotton, Blue-Blocker sunglasses and Hang Ten trunks.

He was saying:
"I grew up with Mike. I knew he was going to successful, even way back then. He used to make us laugh all the time. It's true. Isn't it true, Mike?" Mike Myers may have nodded. At this point I was watching the jungle island drift by and worrying about the monkeys. "Even when we were kids. He was the funniest kid on the block."

The boat tipped suddenly to the starboard and we all had to hang on. On the loudspeaker Rosie O'Donnell was paging Spongebob to the bridge. The ship settled out and I went upstairs to collect my bags, the cruise coming to its merciful end. At the top deck [storage, apparently] I run into John Cusack. This is perhaps the last time I'll see him -- this and graduation -- and I realize I'll miss seeing him in school every day. He holds out his fist and I meet it [like the Wonder Twins ... but without turning into an ape or ice block] and he walks away.

And I kick myself knowing that if I had been John Cusack's high school girlfriend I might have been interviewed for his E! True Hollywood Story.

Another 15 minutes of fame lost ... but thank God the monkeys didn't get on board.

Forty-Three: The Calm, The Wild and the Uncommonly Pretty

2005-04-21T20:14:00.000-07:00

I was going to a party with Sayid from Lost [yes, another Lost reference ... but he's so pretty]. The party was being held in two houses that faced each other across a small alley. The north-side house was the calm party, where people were mellow and talking about ... well, I'm sure they were talking about politics and the arts. The south-side house was the raging drunk party.

Sayid and I went to the north-side party and were in a back room with a few other people, all of us sipping our lovely cocktails, when Sayid says to me "Do you know who's hosting this party?"

I don't, but I assume it's one of his friends.

"Clint Eastwood," he says.

Suddenly I'm pregnant and feeling sick.

"Squint?" I say, and there he is, crossing the alley from the wild party and coming through the door to the civilized party. He looks at me and he's clearly drunk or stoned or drunk and stoned because he's not sure he knows me, but thinks he may have seen me before.

And, to my dismay, I realize on seeing him there that the baby I'm carrying is Clint's. I turn to Sayid for support, but he's walking away, turning back to look at me with an expression of disappointment.

Standing next to me now is that Terminator 2 guy [also in last night's repeat episode of Lost] who tells me that Clint invited me here just to settle our differences. "He wants to be responsible," says the T2 guy.

Clint mumbles something and leads me out the door to his Ford Bronco [is that Freudian? Why does it sound like it is?]. He shouldn't be driving, but shrugs it off when I tell him so -- in my condition there's no way he's going to let me drive ... I think that's what he says, but I'm not sure exactly how he says it. He then exits via the least safe of 3 driveways and cuts off 2 cars as he pulls out into traffic.

And through it all I'm thinking that there must have been something I saw in Clint once, although the spark is clearly gone ... and, even if he was in the Iraqi Imperial Guard, I'd much rather have Sayid's baby.

Who wouldn't?

Forty-Two: You Don't Understand. We're LOST, Dude

2005-04-20T06:07:00.000-07:00

I'm on the Lost island with Locke, Claire, Charlie, Kate, Sun, Jin and Hurley. Everyone else (including Sawyer WHY? WHY?) is either dead or on that raft in the ocean. It's hard to tell what became of them. There are the other people wandering around -- the Scott and Steve people -- but of the main cast not many are left.

The good news is we've finally built shelters and I'm in one of these huts hiding from the monster, or whatever it is that crashes through the jungle. One of the windows opens, scaring the bejesus out of me, and it turns out that there is a hut built onto the hut I'm in -- like a Sims spare room -- and in it are two Philippino men and a computer station. One of them is asking me "Hey! When are you going to hook up with Hurley?"

What are you talking about?! Dude, we're Lost! Our plane crashed here months ago! Where did you come from?

"Your fans want to know when you and Hurley are going to, you know, hook up, because you're both from the OC." [Jorge Garcia apparantly lives in San Clemente, according to my mom and the Orange County Register.]

I'm stunned by the mention of "The OC" in this place, but mostly by the fact that all this time we've been stuck on this island there's been someone with communication equipment!

However, when I run out to the beach with this information, it turns out I'm the last to know. Hurley and Charlie, standing in the ocean, shrug it off. "Yeah, we know about that," says Hurley. "It's a big waste of time, dude."

There's a crash behind us -- that monster! -- and it seems safe to assume that the communication station has been destroyed by the island.

Hurley says "See? Forget it, dude."

Forty-One: I Woke Up in Love This Morning...

2005-04-16T10:07:00.000-07:00

The first dream was about Liev Schreiber -- he was on the run from the law due to revolutionary political beliefs (and possibly some pamphlet posting) and hiding out in a fantastic warehouse loft apartment. This loft was so fantastic that when the police came to arrest him there were hundreds of places to hide ... but Liev wouldn't hide. "Let them take me!" he kept saying in that proud deep voice. "Let them take me!" Well ... what could we do? We let them take him.

The second concerns Owen Wilson, a film premiere about nature in the Sahara, and the city of Toronto. The Queen was not involved, but Princess Anne was there. [I blame seeing "The Life Aquatic" and reading Margaret Atwood's "Cat's Eye" for this dream ... although blame is the wrong word .. I *thank* ...] I will say no more except that the hotel rooms in Toronto are spacious and comfortable, and Owen knows how to pick out clothes ... and he wears briefs, not boxers.

The last dream, although not as boy-crazy as the first two, was really lovely and was a nice way to round out the night.

I was watching a lost Guy Maddin film, which hadn't been completed or shown before. It starred Michael Gambon as a weary banker whose only joy in life is the opera. His boss is an overbearing, vicious man played by John Hurt. Everything he says is venomous and insulting, to which Michael Gambon only stands and nods by reply.

When he arrives at the opera, the story shifts to the back story of the opera players. The transition has it going from his bleak, black-and-white life, with a woman passing him on the opera house stairs saying "What a waste the war was. Nothing good has come out of it. Nothing at all.", to the colorful -- that shaded with pastel, pencil color like an old tinted postcard -- stage of the opera performance. We move down onto the stage: it's "The Abduction from the Seraglio" with the actor playing Belmonte singing to Konstanze, but looking at another male member of the cast. As we move around the setting, into the cast, and then behind so that the focus is now from the opera to the audience, we see Belmonte showing to Konstanze, on the sly, a patch in his costume that says "Rosie" on it, and when she looks away to sing her part to the audience, Belmonte turns the other side of his coat open to the back and shows a patch that says "Robert" on it. This is for the male actor who smiles back.

After the performance, Michael Gambon is walking home in the snow. He's with a female companion (she's blonde - it's not an actress I recognize - and she's wearing a white fur coat) and we're watching them from behind. He's saying "There's nothing so beautiful as the opera. It takes all of the sound and pictures of a dark world and makes them shine, as though a painter had taken a golden brush to you or me and made us into immaculate works of art. There's nothing normal. No one is dull or average. They all rise to great heights. Even the villains are so enormously villainous that they go beyond what you and I know of evil and become something grand and impressive."

As we come around to face them, we see that he's not actually speaking. He's thinking it only, with the sounds of the opera still filling his thoughts. His companion is speaking about something, but we can't hear the words over his thoughts.

"When they love it's a grand love. When they hate it's a grand hate. It's a mountain in the distance or a star in the sky. It's a beauty which can never be obtained in everyday life. It's too great for that. We'll never reach it. But it's a beauty that we can see if we look for it."

And we turn the camera around to see what he sees ... and the black and white scenery is now tinted in the same colors as the opera.

Come Rub Up the Baby

2005-04-09T09:12:00.000-07:00

It seemed too cliched to title it "Turn And Face the Change" so I used my favorite assumed Bowie lyric instead. Although, since Blog connections will probably out my lie, I should add that I had already composed a blog entry with that title and Blogger apparently ate it. Knowing the Internet as little as I do, I have this vague feeling that if this entry gets posted the other one will mysteriously appear just to mess with me.

That said ... the following may sound like a broken record.

New color and layout: I wanted to try and prompt the celebrity dreams by giving them a nice green incentive. Since I don't have money, I thought changing the color in the blog might do it instead. Who wouldn't want to be featured in this pretty, pretty settnig?

We'll see.

The closest I've come to a celebrity dream all week has been this disjointed memory of playing Monopoly with Grampa Simpson. And he was cheating. He went through the entire Community Chest until he found the Get Out of Jail Free card. On my turn I landed on my own actual, real-time street and I wasn't sure if I should buy it. Would it be a nice, urban-suburban affordable investment like St. James Place? Or was it more like Baltic?

Forty: TZA JZA with RZA and GZA

2005-03-31T06:10:00.000-08:00

Somehow I ended up at a store for American History videos/books/doo-dads, like the kind they have in Philadelphia between the Liberty Bell and the Constitution.

The big feature in the store is a fountain in the back. It's located in a sunken amphitheatre with seats lining the outside -- those slab seats that can work as either steps or seats. Featured on the stage beside the fountain is an automaton of Thomas Jefferson. It moves and speaks over the top of patriotic music that is constantly running in the background. And the fountain will rise and fall with the music ["from sea to" higher "shiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiing" higher "seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeea" big finale, then back down again to small, flower-like fountains when the music's quiet and the automaton talks].

I walk up to watch this majestical representation of our country's greatness and I'm joined there by RZA and GZA, who I really only know from "Coffee and Cigarettes" rather than the Wu Tang Clan, but I digress. GZA (the Genius GZA) finds the controls and says "Hey, check this out. It makes him talk." He pushes a button to start up Thomas Jefferson on slavery ("That's bullshit. What else?"), on the founding fathers, on the Constitution, on the Revolutionary War, etc... GZA starts pushing all of the buttons in a pattern, making a mix of Jefferson's speech.

It's brilliant.

What makes it even more surreal is that each time Jefferson's speech changes, the music changes, and, naturally, so does the fountain jet.

-------

I had a dream last weekend that involved Darren McGavin. There wasn't enough plot to blog it [you know ... not like the RZA and GZA epic above], but I wanted to note it down here because he was dressed in the costume of Kolchak: The Night Stalker, complete with the crappy Instamatic camera and that tape recorder that was always hanging from his shoulder like a man-bag.

I'm sure it's because I blogged the Peter Falk story and rented the first episode of The Rockford Files ... all of my childhood heroes come back to say hello ...

Real Story Three - How Columbo Ruined My Love-Life

2005-03-25T14:50:00.000-08:00

It was Architect's Night at Rizzoli in Santa Monica and I was flirting with Frederick Fisher, easily the youngest architect there. Now, I don't say I like his design and, honestly, I wouldn't hire him to build a house (my God, have you seen the design for the Huntington Library gallery??), but he had a kind of Liam Neeson-thing going on ... and his table was within eye contact of my post at Register #1 by the front door. He seemed to be "receptive" to the look and, as the night went on, things were progressing in that high-school-flirting sort of way.

Toward the end of the event things had reached a level where I can honestly say I had a definite chance -- not a life-altering experience, but maybe drinks and a one-nighter anyway. He's packing up ... getting rid of the last fawning female ("I just love your commercial designs") ... coming to the front ...

"Excuse me," says something that smells like a fish sandwich. "You got this ... eh ... Newt Hanson ... Hudson ... Hamson ...?"

Oh God! how quickly I can get rid of him? I turn around and it's Peter Falk.

Now, here's the thing ... I was raised by two movies: The Great Race and The In-Laws. I think I know every word of every line in both movies. Peter Falk was part of my childhood; he was a role-model; he was an idol; he was a friend of Cassavetes; Wim Wenders would like us to believe he's an angel and that's probably true -- so how could I possibly give him the brush-off?

But, honestly, I have no idea what he's asking for. At this point in my literary life I had never heard of Knut Hamsun and the various spellings of his last name were not coming up on the computer search. "Hanson?" "Maybe it's Hanson ... or Humson ... Is there a Humson?"

Meanwhile, the architect is taking his time ... putting stuff into a bag ... milling around the front ... waiting ... waiting ... waiting ...

But I've got to take Mr. Falk back to the Books in Print, look up 4 different versions of the names "Knut" and "Hamsun", and come up empty on every single one (the man won a Nobel Prize and there was nothing to help me and no one knew who he was).

"That's alright, dear," Mr. Falk says. Because I'm really very, very, very sorry that there is nothing I can do for him -- nothing to make this diversion worthwhile; nothing to satisfy both my duty to Peter Falk and get it over fast enough to save whatever might be left of the flirting.

Not a damn thing.

And by the time I get back up to the front, the architect is gone.

The punchline: an hour after Peter Falk leaves (and we've made a photocopy of his signature from the credit card slip -- he still bought something ... I love him) one of my co-workers, who's been milling around picking up on teenage girls, says "Oh yeah. Knut Hamsun. I had to read his books in school. I know who that is."

Thirty-Nine: This Charming Man

2005-03-23T14:14:00.000-08:00

Just for the record, and I don't know if this will stand up in court, and, honestly, I don't care, but if I don't respond to stimuli (such as telling me that the machine is going to be turned off -- if I don't raise a fuss at that) cut the red wire and let me starve to death.

If I don't have enough life in me to laugh at the dopes who buy a vowel on Wheel of Fortune, it's really not worth hanging around.

That's all I'm saying.

Had a naughty dream about Jude Law awhile back, but I didn't blog it ... because my mom reads this (I think she does). But, I will add this, because 1) I haven't had anything else to blog in a really, really long time, and 2) it was kind of funny when I was relating it to my friend (who had a dream that Denise Richards and Jessica Simpson-or-Britney Spears were trying to kill her family ... with guns, Dr Freud. Guns. I was, clearly, jealous.): In the dream I was looking through a magazine that had an article on Jude. This article contained the bold print quote "I'm good at being charming" and a photo of him dressed as a woman -- a part that earned him the most critical acclaim of his career.

If that movie ever happens, Jude, I want you to know that I predicted it as your greatest success.

Real Story Two - I Recommend the Carol C Special

2005-03-17T15:09:00.000-08:00

Still nothing doing in the dream dept ... bad news is I went and used my best real-life story first, so everything else is down hill ........

Some Roscoe's House of Chicken & Waffles vignettes:

While waiting outside a limo pulled up and, perfectly timed, Little Richard came out the front door with a young guest. He's a sweet man. He popped up his great big moon face and asked me "How you folks doin' tonight?" just like that. Just like people.

On the same night, across the room, were Bel and Biv (but not Devoe). That girl is poiiiiiiiiiisoooooooooooon.

I think that was the same night my friend Glen got the Scoe's Special, biscuits and gravy, and finished everyone else's left-overs. It's *that* good.

Nothing beats a fried chicken breast and a big waffle with syrup and a beer. And, no matter what gets said, they don't treat you differently because you're white ... or maybe they do, but it really doesn't matter.

Real Story - One: Hurts So Good

2005-03-05T19:28:00.000-08:00

Seeing as how the dreams have dried up for the time-being, and I was telling the following story for the 400th time at work on Friday, I decided to post my real-life celebrity encounters. These were all years and years ago (since it's hard to encounter celebrities in Eugene), but they still feel like yesterday...

I was working at Rizzoli in Santa Monica, bookstore to the snobby art-types with disposable incomes. One afternoon, dead slow, no business, I'm working with our manager, James, who had some strange psychological (and/or drug) problems, but was a good laugh all the same. He was a bit queen, which made him great fun in discussions about celebrities -- one of his favorite sayings was "Well, when you're in the public eye..." and he used it as an explanation for everything. The date of this story is the same month/year that Demi Moore was starring in her really crappy rendition of "The Scarlet Letter". James and I were standing at the front of the store -- and here I'll set up the scene:

There were glass doors to the street that opened in on a stone-style entrance (stone with a big gold R in the center). Two glossy wood counters lined each side with two register stations per counter -- you entered your register station by lifting the counter door up; you would pass bags of heavy, useless coffee table books underneath the door ... occassionally small children would crawl in to bump you in the leg while you made change. James was on one side of the entrance and I was on the other, and we were talking across the gold R.

I looked out the windows and saw William Hurt across the street. I'd heard that he was starring in a film version of "Jane Eyre", and not only was he playing Rochester (cah! Americain), but Elle Macpherson was going to be Blanche (!). Keeping this in mind, I strike up a conversation with James about "The Scarlet Letter" and the rape of classics. William Hurt crosses the street, comes in and hovers around the front of the store -- the "impulse" zone -- while we're having this discussion:

Me: I just don't see why they have to take classics and reinterpret them for modern audiences.
James: Because they're boring otherwise.
Me: But why not just make a completely different film -- like "Clueless", which is great on it's own and is a fairly good version of "Emma".
James (forming the W): What-ever.
Me: Besides, I don't think "The Scarlet Letter" is boring. I don't see why they have to put indians in it, anyway, as some kind of wacky political statement.

William Hurt is now standing at the counter, checking out the impulse books near James.

James: Well, I don't see why she would make it if she didn't feel like she was adding something to it. Why do it at all?
William Hurt: For the money.
James: What?
William Hurt: Because she's a whore.

And with that he leaves the store. Fantastic! I pick up the phone to call my mom, but he comes back in and walks over to my station.

William Hurt: Do you know where the ATM machine is around here?
Me: There's one at the bank across the street. If you go out to the signal and cross the street it's right there on the side of the bank.

Now, I should note, that the bank is clearly seen through the glass doors of the bookstore. Not only that, but I'm gesturing wildly toward it as I talk. He's not even turning his head; he's just staring at me with those glassy blue eyes.

William Hurt: You know, everyone is pointing and I don't know what they're pointing at.

So I leave my station and have to walk him to the corner so that he can see the ATM machine clearly sticking out of the side of the bank. As we're waiting for the signal to change he thanks me and says:

"Good luck working with that guy."

Thirty-Eight: Lost in Translation

2005-03-02T05:53:00.000-08:00

It's the middle of the night/early morning and I wake up [in the dream of course] to the sound of two little girls across the street talking. One asks the other what she's doing and the reply is "I'm watching some girl sleep." My window is open and the blind is up to let in air, but all this time I thought that the shrubs in front of the house were blocking my room. Who knew?

The phone rings and the cousin/roommate answers it -- which means he knows who's calling, because he usually doesn't pick up if he doesn't recognize the name on caller ID. I'm busy closing my blinds and wondering if I should get some shutters and where to buy them, although I actually saw some in the window of that cute antique store on Main in Springfield and those very same shutters show up suddenly on the windows, which makes it all sooooooooo much easier to envision what they'd look like if I bought them, which I'm not decided about because they're dark wood shutters and should I paint them green to match the room and why are those girls still staring at me? Go away! ... so by the time I get to the kitchen this phone conversation has been going on for a long time. Mallory is clearly exasperated by it, so I check the caller ID.

It's Catherine Zeta-Jones.

He holds the phone out so I can hear what he's going through and she's on the other end barking through the static "WHAT?" "WHAT?"

"She's at Starbucks," Mallory tells me. "I don't know if she's talking to me or them."

He puts it on speaker and she's saying "Listen, I don't care how you do it, just get it done."

"Are you talking to me?" he asks.

"Look," she says, in this heavy sigh. "I'm tired of this bullsh**, alright? You said you were going to come over today" ("She must mean me," says Mal) "and finish it. I'm tired of the excuses. Just do it. Okay?"

She rings off and as he's hanging up I ask what he's supposed to be doing for her. He shrugs. "I have no idea."

Thirty-Seven: Come Fry With Me...

2005-02-25T08:43:00.000-08:00

It was a typical flying dream, not worthy of note, except that at one point I was flying through this mini-mall that had one of those Mongolian grill food places. It was pretty popular, since there was a line to get in. Standing in line was Alan Alda [I know ... it's really sad to have him in another dream] with his parents.

He was telling them all about how they make the food at "one of these places" and seemed put out that no one was recognizing him.

Which makes him doubly-put out when I cut through their place in line in my flight to the back to the restaurant. There was the stink-eye and the huffy "tsk" sound.

In a separate and unrelated foggy segment I was working with Jack Sparrow [okay, so it's Johnny Depp, but he's not Depp as Sparrow ... he's just Jack Sparrow] on his pirate ship. It was my job, as ship's doctor, to keep some rich guy busy -- tending gout, of course -- while the pirates raided the house. It was some fun while it lasted, tell you what. But, here's an odd touch, when back on the ship, the water we traveled on was only about 2' deep.

Light ship + Johnny Depp + gout + Alda ... what would Freud say?

Thirty-Six: The Dead Zone

2005-02-23T14:51:00.000-08:00

I can't explain it.

One minute I've got a Love Boat collection of appearances and the next it's dreams about work or family or vague things that may involve Steve Martin, but then veer off in some wacky direction that has nothing to do with anything. It's been about a week or so now.

I miss you, mlog. Let's not fight anymore, okay? Let's have some guest stars. Lost is on tonight. Surely that will lead to something. Maybe I need to watch some Star Trek. Come back, Shatner, all is forgiven.

And Steve Martin, he was hosting the Oscars, and the theatre had a locker room where you could change if you didn't like your gown. zzzzzzzzzzzzzz if I hadn't already been sleeping ...

Thirty-Five: It's a Dweam Wifin a Dweam

2005-02-11T09:57:00.000-08:00

I'm in a Las Vegas hotel room with my fellow spies Thandie Newton and Sissy Spacek. It's like a Mission Impossible thing ... or maybe more Spy v. Spy ... with our fellow spies in the adjoining room. Thandie, Sissy and I are busy going through our own drawers and suitcases looking for something. Maybe it's microfilm or a disk or secret plans, but why we're searching through our own stuff is a mystery. I start going through the closet, which is packed full of clothes, when I hear the room door open and everything gets very quiet.

That's bad.

I make sure my gun is loaded as I try and hide behind clothes. From around the corner comes Tim Matheson [you know ... Otter from Animal House ... I have nothing against Otter, but ...] and he seems to know I'm in the closet because he's peering in very carefully. Knowing as I do that hiding in dreams is pretty useless -- they always, always find you -- I open fire just as he sees me. I kill Otter in a horrible Brian dePalma way [murder = mess] and Thandie and Sissy recommend leaving him there and getting out while we can.

We go downstairs to join "the others" [nameless, faceless] all getting into the carpool at the door [what? spies don't carpool?]. That's when I remember my sunglasses are still upstairs. [This is the second time in 2 nights I've dreamt about forgetting my sunglasses -- the other one, involving Owen Wilson and a VW bus ... it's not worth blogging] I run up to the room, passing Angelina Jolie and Jonny Lee Miller. They're loitering in the hallway with what looks to be the loser cast of "Hackers" and they're trying the doors to the rooms, looking for one that's open. They're like spooky crack-heads. They get into the room adjoining the one I share with Thandie and Sissy and they're going through the drawers looking for stuff to steal. As I'm still armed, I aim the gun at one and tell them to get out. I even shoot a hole in the wall to show them I'm not kidding around. After I leave I lock the doors to make sure they can't get in again.

[Yeah ... I know ... what boring use of Jolie, but she's always worth mentioning]

This is where I wake up -- within another dream -- and I've been sleeping in the backseat of a VW beetle driven by Donald Sutherland. My cousins are in the car as is my cat ... it's a road dream. I'm asked what I was dreaming about and tell them the plotline adding "there were 2 sets of spies: the good spies, which were Thandie, Sissy and myself; and the bad spies, which included you" -- this last bit said to Donald Sutherland. He's shocked he'd be picked as a bad spy in my dream, but I reassure him that in the movies the bad guys are always the better characters to play.

He agrees.

Somehow we end up at the beach eating BLT sandwiches and drinking tea. Except the Cat who sleeps ... to quote Depeche Mode: it's a lot (it's a lot) like life.

Thirty-Four: Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa Priiiiiiiiiiide

2005-02-08T14:07:00.000-08:00

I was working for teen idol Lindsay Lohan at ... well ... what can only be described as a photo shop/snack bar on the second floor of an incredibly elaborate high school. The school had glass walls, lots of light, very quiet ... it was probably in Arizona or something.

Anyway.

Basically students come up to pick up their developed photos [available in the handy photo holders that you get at the usual Walmart/K-Mart/Quik-E-Mart photo counters) which Lindsay, myself and a team of about 3 other girls retrieve from sliding drawers under the counter.

Oh, and you can also order an espresso or soda while you wait.

It's my first day and I'm helping out, but it's really hectic -- there's a "rush" going on with a crowd of kids waiting to pick up their photos, etc ... The bell rings and the kids clear out and we all relax.

"Not bad," says Lindsay. "You did okay. Do you think you can go it alone for a little bit, while the girls and I go take in some rays in the tanning salon?" Who am I to tell them no? I'm the new girl. What authority do I have and who am I to get tanning privileges on my first day.

So I say "Sure."

It's slow and calm. A student comes up and orders a Coke and I can handle that ... although I've poured it wrong or something, because the student is not impressed and seems a little put-out. She walks off -- WITHOUT PAYING! -- and as she's going downstairs, she drops her drink on the floor below. She looks up at me and asks for a mop or something. Well, I've got to leave my post, don't I? But who else is going to get a mop?

I dash off to the janitor's closet, get the mop, come back and the counter is busy and Lindsay is FURIOUS. She won't even speak to me, just glaring with those mean girl eyes. "You weren't supposed to leave," says one of the co-workers. "You were the only one here. When we came back there was no one helping these people."

I start to speak in my own defense -- what the hell! it's my first flippin day! you left me on my own! i didn't know what i was doing! -- but that Lindsay ... "You could have told us you couldn't handle it," she says.

[It occurs to me this is the second time I've been in this job situation on the dream blog ... that's what I get for having a customer service real-life job ... and having pastrami for dinner]

Anyway, I'm fired, clearly, but as I'm walking off I see a poster (with accompanying music video on the tv beside the poster) for a concert with 80's 1-hit pop legend King. After the massive success of "Love and Pride" [That's. What my heart. Yearns for now. Love and priiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide] the band traded in the multi-colored Doc Martens for something resembling the popular Dexy's Midnight Runner sweaty overalls bum look. They're organic now, King is. I decided, job or no job, it was worth the cover charge just to hear him belt out the old tune.

Thirty-Three: Would You Like an Apple Pie With That?

2005-01-27T06:08:00.000-08:00

I'm working for a boss from 5 jobs ago at a company from 3 jobs ago. I don't mind working for Paul Gainer again; he wasn't a bad boss, but guys that throw things at your head probably shouldn't have too much control. That said, I trusted him on most boss issues. So, imagine my surprise, when I find out that due to a financial oversight my paycheck for that week hasn't been approved by the bank. Normally, this would be okay, but for the first time ever I've already mailed my bills on the assumption that my paycheck would go through [something I never --- no never? ... well, hardly ever -- do in real, waking life]. To supplement my income and earn a quick buck I'm suddenly behind the counter at Carl's Jr.

It's not a bad job. No one seems to be doing anything and most of them are mentally challenged in some way -- one man is using his forehead to press the buttons of his cash register -- but there's no stress, although the counter is packed with customers. One of those customers is Juliette Lewis.

She doesn't know what she wants to order, but no one in line really cares. Someone asks to see her current knitting project [who knew she was a knitter!] and she obliges: it's a sweater with black, yellow, white and pink ... erm ... I guess they're checkered, but it's almost more like a jagged waffle-weave pattern.

"Yeahhhhhhhhhhh ... I didn't really meannnnnnnnnn for it to beeeeeeeee like that ... ya know? But it came out that way?" [she ends this sentence in a kind of question sound, like she's not *really* sure, but thinks so] "I've got a long way to gooooo, but I think it's coming along okay. Hey, where is everybody anyway?"

She means both employees -- while admiring her sweater I've been deserted -- and customers, who are now outside except for one or two of her friends.

"Think they went to see the parade?" she asks me. I had no idea there was a parade, although it is Labor Day, and a pick-up truck drives by carrying people dressed in Russian peasant costumes. "Did you know there was a parade?" No. "I didn't know there was a parade. Hey. Hey. You know what you should do? You know? You should go on STRIKE." You're right, Juliette. I'm not getting paid anyway and I'm about to bounce my car payment. You're right! "Come onnnnnnnn. Let's go on STRIKE."

Which turns out to mean walking out the doors and smoking a cigarette.

Thirty-Two: Those Hobbits All Look Alike to Me

2005-01-20T13:36:00.000-08:00

[First of all, that show "Lost" is like crack, but at least I'm not dreaming about Star Trek anymore ...]

I'm in some small town in Washington state where baseball is popular. Everyone is playing it on fields, hills, grassy knolls ... Up one of those knolls is a family that consists of parental types that I don't recognize, Ben Affleck and Billy Boyd [that guy who was Pippin in Lord of the Rings -- thank you IMDB]. I guess they're brothers. [How that works out genetically ...?]

Anyway, I'm kind of flirty with Billy until people start running down the grassy knoll to get away from this ... well ... all I can think to describe it is a big, organic, grass monster. If you took Sasquatch and covered him in hair ... or, no! like the Moss Monster on that episode of "Kolchak: The Night Stalker". Anyway, the monster not only kills people, but, being organic, absorbs them into his grass-ness, thus making him larger. He has already absorbed Paul Newman, in revenge for killing a small pig many, many years ago on his (Newman's own) grandfather's farm. Don't ask. I don't know. It was a flashback within the dream.

Which means skipping a bit, past the flashback, to Billy and Ben's house, which is just a big old mess: papers -- mostly unopened mail -- everywhere on the floor; clothes not put away; everything except piles of food-trash, thank God. The monster chases us through the house until we decide to hide ... okay, it's Ben's decision ... to hide in the bathroom at the back. For some reason, this is only a good idea for me [boys are going to fight it and keep me safe; it's not as safe as they thought and I'm sucker ... the reasons are endless]. Of course, locked bathroom doors don't stop the monster. He breaks through and drags me out and it's really hot in his grassy arms. As I feel myself start to faint I see Affleck holding a rifle, aiming at the monster's head.

"My mom's going to kill me," he says, and I can only assume it means because blood and grass stains are never going to come out of the carpet if he shoots.

No, not even with Oxy Clean.

I don't know how it works out -- or even if the flirtiness moves on to something at least beyond flirty with Billy -- because I faint in the dream ... which means waking up in the bed.

[of course the grass monster is the big unknown thing on that stupid "Lost" island, Affleck is to Jack what duck is to goose, and, honestly, one hobbit actor is very much like another when they get into my head, so ... Lost + McVitties Chocolate Digestives + humidity = well ... equals the above mess]

Thirty-One: But is it Worth the Chicken (or Fish)?

2005-01-16T10:17:00.000-08:00

There's a banquet being held for celebrities who have been jilted on their wedding day. It's some kind of award show/reality series/dinner being held in what looks like a church annex at the back of an office building [bland decorations, rows of folding tables with uncomfortable chairs, etc...].

I show up in my designer outfit -- black pants, silver lame top, black jacket -- only to find 3 other attendees wearing the same thing: Nicole Kidman, Faruza Balk [I love "Island of Dr. Moreau"] and someone I don't recognize. They're being interviewed by some gossip columnist about the situation -- "Who's going to go home and change?" like it's some kind of celebrity game of Who's the Bigger Star -- but Faruza is wearing a white jacket, Nicole doesn't have a jacket at all and I just button up. What's the big deal?

Nicole takes my arm and leads me inside so that we can have girl talk away from the gossip writer.

And it strikes me as odd that she's even there, having never been jilted, that I'm aware of ... who would do that to Nicole Kidman??

"I can't believe this show," she tells me. "It's so horrible. I have no idea what they want us to talk about. What are you going to say?"

I tell her I don't know what to say because I'm still not entirely sure what happened. One minute I'm marrying Terrell Davis and I have the dress, relatives in town, my hair done and all, and the next I'm holding a note written by Colin Farrell that says "Terrell has decided he doesn't want to go through with it" and I'm stuck trying to return gifts and write embarrassing Thank You cards for stuff that can't go back.

We look across the tables and there's Colin seated across the room, winking and drinking shots of whiskey.

"Look at him," says Nicole. "He's like a crocodile. Didn't the government give you some story about it?"

Of course they did: Terrell left on a secret mission to Iraq and couldn't tell me about it ... couldn't tell anyone about it ... blah blah blah. "All I know," I tell Nicole, "is he had his bachelor party with that guy" [Colin I'm-Too-Sexy-For-This-Show Farrell] "and I never saw him again. So, they can say what they want, but I know it had something to do with that party."

We look over again and he grins.

"What an arsehole," Nicole says.

I'm so glad she's my friend.

Thirty: King Caan

2005-01-05T05:56:00.000-08:00

I'm going home from work. I live in an apartment house in Santa Monica, and as I get closer I realize that 1) it's over a bookstore and 2) my apartment has an ocean view. I don't know how I got so lucky or how I can afford it, but knowing this is a dream I decide to go with the flow. [Who says you can't live nice in your dreams? Who?] To get to my apartment you go up 2 escalators from the main floor of the bookstore and walk through a nightclub (which is, it seems, in my living room) where everyone knows me -- "Are you coming in later?" "Yeah, yeah ... I'll be right over."

Inside is an artist's studio -- with my easel and canvas ... even though currently I do not own an easel or canvas, but the flow ... you go with the flow -- and on the left is the sitting room with a gi-normous picture window that looks out to the sea.

What? No one to share it with?

I watch out the window [and then with x-ray eyes or something, because I can see down to the bookstore below] as Owen Wilson comes running up. He's wearing a turtleneck sweater -- not a sweater, really, but those turtleneck pullovers that the race car drivers wear in Formula 1 ... so he's sort of a blend between Owen Wilson and Kimi Raikkonen [Can it get any better?]. Apparently he's being followed by someone who wants to kill him. Well, I can't allow that. Dude, this is my dream. You can't kill off the star attraction just when he shows up. It's unheard of. So, I say they'll have to shoot me first. An action that the Wilson calls "stupid".

Maybe he's right.

We walk out of the apartment into the nightclub, which is now deserted except for Sigourney Weaver, who's making breakfast [that's the second time she's been associated with Owen Wilson in a dream ... odd that] and James Caan, who's playing with an electronic device that makes rain fall in the conservatory area just outside of the nightclub [the smoking patio, if you will]. I realize that he's the one that wants to kill the Wilson, but he's decided to hold off on that for now. We're to be considered his guests, and I notice now that we're all wearing white bathrobes ... it's like Dr. No without having to go through the radiation showers first.

James Caan beckons me over to show me how he can control the rain in the conservatory/patio. He's using a small dial centered on a black box, like the controls of a train set. He's proud of this. I think it's a waste of water; it's just pouring down until he switches it to a wave. "See?" he says. "You try."

As he's handing me the controls I catch him looking down my bathrobe. Being James Caan, it's not totally unexpected. Honestly, he's Sonny Corleone. I'd be surprised if he didn't sneak a peak. I look up and he says "Does that bother you?"

"No," I said. "I was a flattered ... and maybe a little scared."

"Good," he says with approval. "Good answer."

Twenty-Nine: Tinker, Tyler, Garner, Why?

2004-12-26T10:17:00.000-08:00

It starts at James Garner's house. My family is visiting Maverick, but it also turns out we're there to work for him. He wants us to change the brick path that runs through his front lawn. He's got it in some weird circular thing and he wants it straight down to the street, which means digging up grass. While sizing up the job, I notice that on the other side of the street is a creepy cemetery -- it's one that's figured prominently in a dream I had years ago: there's a lake in the middle with bronze cranes that shoot water up through their beaks(like the one at Forest Lawn ... Hollywood Hills ... I think)and, behind the lake, in the back left corner, is a children's cemetery.

It's not really connected with Garner, but I'm hoping that by putting it down I can lose this image from my head, because it creeps me out to keep dreaming of it.

The children's cemetery is haunted with something evil -- I never see anything, but I can definitely feel it ... like despair, but closer to hate mixed with depression. Anyway, the first time I had that dream I didn't sleep the rest of the night and the fact that it was across the street from James Garner's house ... well, once I saw it I immediately switched over to a dream about a city with a lovely park and odd, Jetson-style freeways up in the sky.

I was looking at the freeways and not watching where I was going, which causes me to run into Steven Tyler of Arrowsmith. He takes affront to this ("Hey! Watch where you're going! Don't you know who I am?"), although I swear I said I was sorry, but maybe he didn't hear me. He's actually pointing to his chest as though I've knocked some important accessory item from his outfit. Because I'm turned to defend myself ("I said I was sorry.") I run into Bono from U2. Or maybe he ran into me, because he's not as irritated by it.

"Don't worry about that guy," he says, nodding to a retreating Steven Tyler, who is STILL shaking his head at me. "He'll get over it."

Twenty-Eight: It's De-lightful, It's De-licious, It's Dafoe

2004-12-23T06:16:00.000-08:00

I was shopping in what may have been either a large department store or a large mall -- I say that because they had hardware as well as clothes, although the greater portion of the store was focused on fashion.

It was crowded and I was trying to make my way to the women's section, when I was stopped at the shoe department. Shannon from "Lost" was asking me what size a pair of pink shoes was. She wore a 6 1/2, and they looked like they were 6 1/2, but the label said 11. What did that mean? Were they 6 1/2 and should she get them? They were super cute. I pointed out on the incredibly involved label on the back that "11" was the European size and, dude, she should totally get those shoes.

I left her and continued on with the intention of looking for Willem Dafoe, who was wandering between the men's clothing and the women's. I think he was looking for Christmas presents, but you never know with Dafoe. I decided I wanted a purple shirt (they were on sale), but all they had was short sleeve. Willem kept recommending green -- BRIGHT green ... like neon lime green -- which he also thought was very funny.

I'm sure it had something to do with being that goblin person in SpiderMan and told him so.

That wasn't as funny, turns out. At least ... he didn't think so ...

Twenty-Seven: Maybe Just Happy

2004-12-14T13:01:00.000-08:00

I'm on the tour bus with Nirvana -- well, so far just Kurt and I because we're picking up Dave and Krist. The bus is an old school bus refurbished into living quarters and it's incredibly run-down, but it runs and that's what's important.

Kurt's in high spirits and incredibly childlike, which is good. We've cranked up the music and we're bouncing around the bus like Muppets.

We pull up to Krist's house and he's on the front lawn dancing like a marionette.

This is absolutely hilarious for so many reasons.

Unfortunately things turned dark suddenly and we're downtown in some city [it looked a little like Portland, around Pioneer Square]. The bus pulls up to an office building and they let me off to go talk to the "record people". Nice plush offices with soft carpeting and red sofas ... guys in suits ... recessed lighting ... and it depresses me to realize that this kind of environment brought the band down. It's also a huge drag realizing that it's apparantly my job to deal with this end of the business. Being a Muppet on the bus was so much more fun.

[So, if you take watching the start of the crappy "documentary" Kurt & Courtney ("it leaves more questions than answers" like why the BBC dropped their standards), burning Nirvana songs for my God-daughter, and recently watching The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert ... you get the idea where this dream came from.]

Twenty-Six: Let's Keep the Love in Love

2004-12-12T09:59:00.000-08:00

I'm working for a seaside resort that resembles Santa Monica, except that the only attraction on the boardwalk is a carousel -- no roller coaster, etc ..., just the carousel -- and an auditorium where bands perform.

I work at the auditorium booking office and my desk is in the middle of the entranceway. The auditorium shifts between resembling a large, empty warehouse space and a high school gym (the seats come down bleacher-style from the walls, but they're not always there), so the doors to the outside open right into the main room, no vestibule or anything. My desk is the vestibule, I guess, because once you pass it you reach the seats.

The Beach Boys are playing [I have never liked the Beach Boys and it may be due to living at the beach for most of my life and hearing that crappy '60s beach music over and over and visiting Jan and Dean's house and just being tired of the whole scene. I don't know. I can appreciate the influence and genius of Pet Sounds, just don't make me listen to it.] and they show up on their bus, old and tired, but still in their matching light blue Hawaii shirts. There's some irritation at the sight of fans waiting to see them as they enter the auditorium, and I think this is from reclusive, shy Brian Wilson, but no! it's Mike Love making the faces and growling under his breath. He's walking next to me and I point out that most of the acts we book at the auditorium love their fans. Why, just look over there!

It's Mick Jagger, surrounded by everything from children to elderly people just off a tour bus. Mick loves the fans and has frequently told me -- as I tell Mike -- that if it wasn't for the fans he wouldn't have a job, so he's only too happy to meet and greet them.

Mike shrugs it off and we go inside. Maybe he's just happy that Mick took the heat off by drawing the fans away. Dunno.

Inside the roadies are setting up and the band and I are waiting on the bleacher seats. When it's all set up, Brian suggests a run-through and everyone agrees except Mike, who stays where he's sitting. It doesn't matter because they crack into "Good Vibrations" without him. I try to appreciate the song and hide my irritation, but not so Mike, who grumbles "I'm too old for this shit."

-- an earlier dream had "Der Kommisar" as background music, and while the dream itself was not worth mentioning [what is the significance of shoe trees falling off the wall and an aerobics class in my parent's backyard?] I wanted to say that never before has a soundtrack been so clear [all ist klaar herr Kommisar] in a dream. --

Twenty-Five: Send Robots, Guns and Money

2004-12-06T06:17:00.000-08:00

I'm standing in a group of people, lined up like they used to make us do in P.E. class ["self-control, people"] in rows of 20 x 20 ... or near-about. Why we're all herded in like this becomes clear as robots start coming down from the sky, dropping from bomber airplanes [I blame the Book of World War II Airplanes that's been left in our bathroom for the last 2 weeks ... I think the planes were Messerschmidts]. Instinct tells me to get the hell out and I break for the fences, dashing like a cockroach in a mouse-maze through the open gates, and I'm wondering why no one is following me -- especially when I hear the announcement that the robots are going to make the people slaves. Dude. That would totally suck. And the crowd has fear and all, but no one's following me through these fences.

I get to the last fence and I hear the motorcycles behind me and I know they're equipped with machine guns ... and I know that's bad, even in a dream. Luckily I find one and hop on, hoping it's as easy to drive as that scooter my grandfather used to have on the farm [which wasn't all that easy and frequently took my head off]. There is a machine gun mounted on the handlebars -- which makes it a little hard to steer, sure -- and two more guns are mounted on each side of the back wheel.

I get over the fences on the 'cycle and come to an aqueduct of some kind -- it's built in this wacky Frank Lloyd Wright style, with angles all over the place [form follows function], so I've got to slide the motorcycle up and then jump it over the water [no sharks]. Not only that, but after the jump I've got to land on my feet and then haul the motorcycle through a diagonal-designed opening.

The good news is that once I'm through that opening I'm in a different part of the world, where people are still living fairly normal lives. I'm not out of danger yet, however, and I hide in a warehouse where two people are working:

Rosanna Arquette and Eric Roberts.

I know, you wait this long for the celebrities and ... well ... that's who they are. What can you do?

They make clay pots.

Rosanna makes me a deal: she'll hide me at the warehouse, but I've got to give up the bike and the guns.

It's a little chancy, but I don't have much choice, so I agree.

I'm walking around town later and policemen are checking "papers" and I realize that I should have kept the motorcycle ... but if you can't trust an Arquette, who can you trust?

--- Two-fer, because it took so long to blog this down:

Last night Donald Trump's big idea for The Apprentice was to task the teams with shooting raccoons off the roof of his winery. They had to use air guns. I was awakened by the sounds of the beasts fighting on the roof of the carport. For the want of an apprentice, the dream was lost ...

Twenty-Four: Trusting Al Pacino

2004-12-02T10:44:00.000-08:00

I don't know how the theory goes, because I'm sure I have it backwards, but for the past few nights I have not been able to remember much detail about the dreams. Does that mean I'm mentally stable or unstable? I thought it was better to remember them, but I'm actually thinking that that's a lot of bunkum ... or maybe I'm just fooled into thinking I'm currently mentally stable, but I'm really unstable, or I spend the rest of the time unstable, but ... it's a gaggle.

The bits and pieces I remember concern Al Pacino, as well as Princess AND Kitten from Father Knows Best [but, oddly enough, no Bud]. It was a weird mix of Scarface and Mildred Pierce, in that Pacino was in a bad suit and barking orders at everyone because Kitten had somehow cut her arm open while trying to climb a fence [so, yeah, it made me think of Mildred Pierce because the youngest daughter dies ... of the flu ... no other connection though, really ... it's a mystery, sure]. And Kitten died from the wound for all Al's yelling.

The dream about the Japanese movie with the Bugatti made out of bamboo ... and a shopping mall ... in the middle of a rice field ... it's just not worth jotting down here. Honestly. Except that I dreamed I was in a hotel room with Japanese friends, and we had to leave because housekeeping came to make up the room.

The maid thought we were all very polite.

Twenty-Three: Slog

2004-11-27T19:40:00.000-08:00

Unfortunately the mlog-blog was temporarily suspended because I was away from the security of the umbilical cable for 5 days. The parents only have AOL dial-up and, honestly, that's like watching cars rust.

That means at this point all that remains are the bits and pieces of 4 dream-filled nights -- one of those nights, however, was under the influence of Vicodin and there's no telling what happened then; I only remember waking up.

To summarize:
Night 1: Gregory Peck + military uniform + Italian wedding soup
Night 2: drug night
Night 3: Some man asking me if I preferred slow torture to Catherine Zeta-Jones and me not knowing how to answer. [It was one of those situations where he was insinuating a threesome (cover your eyes, mom) and trying to make me say I would rather do that with him and Zeta rather than have my fingernails pulled out or something painful ... but she's just not nice people. I have no idea who the man was ... ack I hope it wasn't Michael Douglas. No wonder I've blocked it out.]
Night 4: Something to do with either Hal Holbrook [as Barney Miller] or Dennis Franz [as Det. Sipowitz] ... or maybe it was Hal Holbrook in that Dirty Harry flick ... or Hal Sparks in a wide tie ... I just don't know. We were working on a crossword puzzle and kept getting interrupted. [Art imitated life later that day when I found myself working on a crossword puzzle with my grandmother; we were trying to figure out if SKEP was a straw beehive. It fit, but really don't think it's a word.)

well ... I'll be ... from http://members.aol.com/ljludes/BeeSkep.html

BEE SKEP Materials: Straw, or wild grasses, or herbals, water, spray bottle, towel, large needle, binder twine, raffia, waxed linen, twine. Horn, or guide, (Can be PVC, or piece of tubing) so the grasses can be kept at an equal coil width.

hmmpf ... go figure

Twenty-Two: I Married Mozart

2004-11-19T13:55:00.000-08:00

[I didn't think last night was anything to blog, but the roommate/cousin saw it differently.]

It started with Kirsten Dunst getting married to Jake Gyllenhaal [finally!] but with her evil twin, Mary Jane [the whole thing was clearly a Spiderman knock-off, since I've only just seen Spiderman at the sticky-foot] trying to delay the ceremony. Things were getting tense and irritating so I ended up somewhere watching an ad on television for Mozart Summer Camp.

As with dreams the ad turned real and I was still watching ... Now Voyeur ... ["Oh, Jerry. Why ask for the moon when we have the stars?"]

The ad featured a little boy dressed as Mozart -- pale blue velvet jacket and pants; white wig -- running with a little girl through the Martian landscape we know as the state of Utah. Suddenly I was as this campground/dude ranch place, where people are sitting at picnic tables having lunch. It was a large group of people and I got the distinct feeling they were 1) all vacationing together and 2) all part of the same religious sect -- they had that "nice" behavior ... you know the kind. Everyone talking about nice things and very simple things. I don't want to say they were stupid, but ... for example:

One guy was microwaving a can of Coke because when it explodes it's COOL ... and, although everyone seemed to disapprove of this, no one stopped him.

I left that area and made my way over to the rows of volleyball courts. The courts were placed on a sloping hillside, so not really fair to the folks getting spiked at the bottom, but since it was nice play no one spiked anyway.

There was a loud boom and two men fell over. Turns out someone was shooting at them with a shotgun. "Who would do such a thing?" One man was standing higher on the hill than the other one, so when the shot passed through the first man's chest it hit the second one in the leg. And, in yet another Star Trek reference, they were being attended to by Dr. "Bones" McCoy who's only aid was to bark out "Isn't somebody going to call a DOCTOR?"

boring.

Twenty-One: BlackJack Lennon

2004-11-18T07:54:00.000-08:00

Short and lost somewhere in what felt like a 5 minute nap instead of a 7 hour sleep...

John Lennon was working on "Imagine" ... and it was a helluvalot darker than the version that made it onto vinyl.

It's probably because he was composing it while watching a hockey match on television.

["The Kings are a finesse team." "They're a bitch team."]

Woke up with "I'm soooooooooo tired/I'm feeling so upset...." in my head.

Twenty: Uneasy About Kesey

2004-11-16T08:21:00.000-08:00

Turns out Ken Kesey wrote a play for silent films -- I'll bet y'all didn't know that. Sure did, and it was being performed by the AP English class of the local junior high school.

I know, because I was backstage with the author, who looked and acted a little too much like Dennis Hopper.

In fact, it was Dennis and we all knew it was Dennis, but he insisted that he was Ken Kesey.

Working with me on the play was the music accompaniment -- a wind-up Victrola -- "conductor", who resembled Robert Louis Stevenson, and Enid and Rebecca from "Ghost World". Enid and Rebecca had just come in from outside -- which was bright and sunny compared to the dusty shadows of backstage -- with cups of ice cream [the kind you can buy from the 7-11 with the flat wooden spoon]. This annoyed Ken/Dennis, not so much because they didn't bring him any [which they didn't], but because kids will be kids on a summer day. It's a hard concept to explain, but he was clearly agitated and muttering in that "kids don't give a rat's ass" kind of way. "There's no respect for art, mannnnnnnn. It's like ... like ... like some ... extra credit project, you know what I'm saying? Like it's like nothing, man."

Turns out I was Dennis/Ken's assistant, and it was my job to keep him even-keeled and calm while the film/stage production was going on.

Great.

Enid and Rebecca didn't mind him much and stood in the wings watching the show, swaying back and forth to the Victrola music.

Robert Louis Stevenson, meanwhile, was tired from churning the Victrola and decided to let the handle churn itself out while he took a rest. As it slowed down, I reached forward and took over -- anything was better than dealing with Ken/Dennis.

RLS thanked me silently as he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. It was then that I noticed he and I were wearing the same style of plaid pants.

And this made me very happy.

Nineteen: Springtime for Easter and Kennedys

2004-11-13T10:07:00.000-08:00

[Just so's you knows ... the last few nights have been without the usual celebrity appearance, and, since I don't personally believe that dreams about family members looking for work and high school band trips are interesting to other people, I haven't posted those dreams down. In fact, family dreams in general are usually a big ol' bore unless your family name is.............]

It's Easter and the family has all agreed to meet in someone's Sonoma County mansion for the holiday. The house -- to digress briefly -- is old on the outside, to keep the vintage appearance, but inside it's like a shopping mall with the main entrance warm with natural light, a circular staircase to the rooms upstairs, and incredibly comfortable and large bathrooms: polished tile, a huge shower -- the kind with the large, central shower head -- clawfoot tub and, what I will have one day in my own bathroom (I swear), a small gold and white settee.

We're the Kennedy family.

The really great thing about the reunion is everyone is there -- J.F., Bobby, Jackie, and even John Jr. We're playing softball until the Easter egg hunt is announced, and everyone gets to participate, not just the kids. The strange thing is: I keep finding eggs, everywhere. Pink ones, blue ones, green ones -- every time I turn around I see another one in the grass. In fact, I'm running out of places to carry them [no basket] and part of me thinks that the ones I'm finding are really ones I've dropped because I can't hold them all in my hands.

I look up to tell the other kids that the eggs all seemed to be hiding in my part of the field, and I realize I'm the only one participating in the hunt.

Shameful moment: "Are some of these eggs plastic with money tucked inside?"

Eighteen: Bond, James Bahhhhhlaaaaanmmaaaahhhh

2004-11-10T06:17:00.000-08:00

There was no coherent story in last night's dreaming, and I blame that on the decongestant I took before going to bed. That and hitting my head on a metal shelf at work (I wanted to cry, it hurt so bad. But there's no crying in the warehouse). And the Taco Bell dinner we had because I wasn't in the mood to cook anything.

To sum up: every time I would close my eyes to sleep I would see zombies. 9 times out of 10 the main zombie was Clive Owen.

Now, I like Clive Owen. Always have. He's incredibly good looking, but, more than that, he's got a voice that just sinks right into you. In fact, in that British Airways commercial with the beds in business class, it's his voice I hear saying "Good night" and "Good morning" -- whether or not it actually is Clive Owen is still a mystery. Not that the new (hopefully) James Bond wouldn't shill for British Airways -- honestly, we've all got to pay our rent -- but it's just too hard to tell who it is going to bed in business class. I just know whom ... erm ... I'd like it to be.

What I'm saying is, how he turned into a zombie that's anyone's guess. And my struggle with love/repulsion ... I'd say that was pretty transparent. Technically it was a nightmare, but I didn't necessarily mind going back to sleep.

Seventeen: ... it's a river in egypt ...

2004-11-09T07:18:00.000-08:00

No post yesterday because ... eh ... I'm ashamed. I'm not a Trekkie. Honest. I never liked the show. It just didn't have the impact on me that, say, The Wild Wild West did. Spock vs Artemis Gordon ...? There's no comparison. It's apples and oranges. Artie had a full understanding of the classics and an incredible arsenal of accents and disguises. Spock played chess and could sing an occasional ballad about the dregs of wine, but ... I don't know. It's different, that's all I know.

Anyway, in the traditional Catholic fashion, I had to begin by seeking absolution for that which will follow:

I'm on the bridge of the Enterprise [I KNOW! It's my second Star Trek dream ... I know ... I blame the cousin/roommate for taping the shows from television), but it's a bigger, better Enterprise -- more like the lobby of the Lincoln Center. Bad news is: I am a red shirt -- well, a red dress, but it means I'm one of the expendable crew members. Red shirts always take the bullet/phaser.

We're landing/docking/whatever they do at space stations and Kirk and Spock are looking forward to meeting someone friend they've known for a long time. I don't know his name, but when "the friend" comes on the monitor to welcome them I see it's Martin Landau. [and, not to be a complete geek, but I actually did watch Space 1999, as opposed to Star Trek.]

When Martin [by the way, second reference in as many nights to "Crimes and Misdemeanors" which I've only seen once ... about 3 months ago] goes off the screen and we're preparing to "beam down" I get the feeling that something is not right about Martin. I turn to the captain and tell him that their friend doesn't really like them and is planning something bad. How I know this is a mystery. I suspect -- almost immediately -- that it's merely a plot twist, but I have to explain it to the captain somehow: "You don't know this," I say, "but I can hear what he's thinking."

I'm quickly hustled out of the bridge and down to the transporter room; we're taking back hallways to get there -- "The crew can't know about this" -- passing rows of laundry carts and food trays, the REAL Enterprise, ladies and gentlemen. It's not all about the bridge and sick bay.

While Kirk and Spock are discussing the "plot twist" I'm passing the food carts thinking how nice it is that someone in the kitchen still makes scones the old fashioned way.

Sixteen: If It Bends, It's Funny.

2004-11-07T09:55:00.000-08:00

Turns out there was a glitch in my high school record: I didn't take enough "elective" classes to merit my diploma. The only thing I can do is go back and take one of their adult elective classes.

I end up in Hip-Hop Dance I.

Taught by J-Lo.

And that's cool, because I figure she probably knows a little about it. The only problem is I have to take it with Richard Gene [ahh.... that commercial for "Shall We Dance" ...], Christopher Walken and Alan Alda.

In fact, I have to share a step prop and dance mat with Alan Alda and he keeps attempting to stand on his hands -- per J-Lo: "We all have something that we can do with our bodies, and you can use that talent in hip-hop. Anything can be turned into your own, personal dance move." -- but he's not very good at it and keeps falling over and hitting me in the head with his stocking-feet.

Walken and Gere are, of course, doing very well on their mat: Walken adapting some soft shoe moves and Gere using a position derived from Buddhist meditation.

I try to stand on my hands, but every time I get up and steady ("Good," says J-Lo), Alda falls and knocks me over. He thinks it's funny.

I decide to leave at the first break.

No diploma is worth this.

In a subsequent dream I'm betting on horses, so who needs a high school diploma? There's good money at the track.

Fifteen: Chopsocky

2004-11-06T09:49:00.000-08:00

No celebrities last night. I blame the flu and ... erm ... due to watching what I vaguely remember as "The Master of the Guillotine" or something like that followed shortly by two episodes of "Jackass" ... so it all merged into a fever dream of kung fu fighting in a large department store.

You'd think Johnny Knoxville would have at least put in an appearance, but instead it was all strangers in kung fu pajamas fighting in the soft toy department.

why Why WHY?

That said, I'm still having a really hard time accepting this election. Call me a whiney liberal (how many of you just called me whiney liberal? own up) but the more I deal with co-workers, etc. who actually supported this "president" because of his "morals" (read: he mentions God when he talks) the more fearful I get that we're going to start building large cement walls around the shores to keep out all of those ungodly European-Communist-non-English-speaking anarchists. Free thinkers? Get out.

And I was told at work "now you have to take that sticker off your car". That sticker = Kerry/Edwards, A Stronger America. You'll have to pry it off my cold, dead bumper, citizen comrades.

..... I would have settled for Steve Pontius or Bam even. In the dream, I mean. Maybe even for President.

Fourteen: 1-2-3-4! Heh! Hot Tub!

2004-11-05T10:21:00.000-08:00

Well, in the 2 hours of sleep I got last night -- between the cat pulling down various articles from my dresser and my brain doing its utmost to pop out of my right eye -- I could actually forget for a moment Bush's pathetic attempt to solicit my trust and the fact that people in other countries assume all Americans are morons ..... and I had some brief moments of dreaming.

And, as if to soothe these troubles away, I dreamt I was in a hot tub. With Sigourney Weaver. It was good to sit and hang out with Sigourney. [We had clothes on, you naughty readers. But not fully clothed, you fetishists, just standard swimsuit stuff.] We were watching television and a commercial came on for a remake of "Smokey and the Bandit" ..... starring Owen Wilson.

Both Sigourney and I shook our heads sadly. "I used to like him," she said.

Yeah ... me too ...

Lucky Thirteen: In Guinness We Trust

2004-11-04T09:11:00.000-08:00

[This is the result of one pint too many followed by watching The West Wing -- which I never watch, but mom told me that Leo had a heart attack and I was concerned because I like Leo -- followed by the beginning of Law & Order ... I love Sam Waterston]

It's a new television series focusing on a group of lawyers: Toby, Josh and Donna from The West Wing. There's a contest every week where fans of the show get to write the next episode. The winning entry not only gets put on the air, but the writer gets a guest spot on the show that they wrote.

All I can really remember -- aside from the fabulous gimmick -- is that I played a secondary character, a public defender, who had an office on the floor below Toby, Josh and Donna. Basically, I had one case a month because I always had time to visit with the lead characters. There was a lot of walking through well-lit, black and white speckled marble hallways with brass railings and antique fixtures on the ceiling lamps.

Come on ... who can design a dream interior as well as I can? Who? Nobody, that's who.

There were some other dreams going on ... but it's all Guinnessed away (I don't think that I can take it, because it took so long to bake it, and I'll never get that first dream back again ... oh noooooooooooooooooooooooo)

ach me puir heid

Twelve: Pesky Politicians Produce Prison Perks

2004-11-03T06:08:00.000-08:00

I dreamt that America wasn't filled with mindless sheep; people who understand that "saying" the economy is better isn't the same as balancing the budget by spending our future; that telling us we're all going to be a lot safer isn't the same as actually doing something logical about the threat. That giving us $300 three years ago isn't the same as keeping jobs in this country.

mahhh ... as it turns out. I dreamt I lived in a country also known as Ground Zero for you bombers out there. Thanks for keeping them flying, people.

Then I was in prison with Kate Winslet [ala Heavenly Creatures, because, though we didn't kill either of our mothers, we had certainly been caught killing someone -- I didn't dream the death, only the arrest ... perhaps it is only the death of idealism =sigh=]. So, a chick prison dream, but it's not what you think [and I know you're thinking it!] because it was a co-ed prison and we were actually competing for the affections of this new guy on the cell-block: tall, dark, curly hair ... you know the type. Like Charlotte Church's dad, but with curly hair. Ever see her dad? Wow. He's the most uhhhhhhhhhh, to quote Judy Jetson.

But I digress...

I was asked by an elderly guard -- whose hair we had just dyed red for some reason -- if I prefered dark hair over, well ... say ... red hair. Having just dyed his hair and getting the feeling that he thought this meant we were somehow "an item" ... erm ... I retreated instead to my cell, which had a lot of lovely art projects and was actually pretty roomy.

Maybe it was Martha Stewart's cell...

Eleven: Do Svidaniya Rush-ian!

2004-11-02T05:46:00.000-08:00

I'm taking a class on Russian ... sorry ... Soviet literature from my friend, Hugo. [I should point out that I have not seen Hugo in about 10 years, but this is the second time he's turned up, so I should describe him: he looks like John Lennon.][Maybe that's why he's teaching this class ... Lennon = Lenin ... no? oh well.] The book we're reading is "Darkness at Noon" and I'm a little disappointed because I've already read it, and then I realize that this is good because now I've got that academic leg-up on the rest of the class. The really good news is we get to watch a film of it and the film stars Geoffrey Rush.

It's one of those films that you're watching and the plot is different from the way you remember the book being, but as it goes on -- Rush thrown in prison, tapping on the wall -- you start to recognize the source material. Typical Hollywood adaption, really.

Following the film -- which was all of 2 minutes in length [I have ADD even in dreams] -- is a snippet from a talk show featuring Geoffrey Rush and some other people who look like they've come right out of the early 70's, as far as talk show fashion goes [am I watching The Mike Douglas Show??]. It turns out that not only do guests on the show have to answer questions about the film/book/tv series they're plugging, but they have to participate in an improv routine set-up by the audience ala "Who's Line is it Anyway". Incorporating his recent acting gigs the audience decides that Geoffrey Rush needs to be Chekov (from Star Trek ... somewhat Russian) impersonating a Peter Sellers character. Of course he chooses Dr. Strangelove and it's brilliant.

I woke up when the other guests started getting involved. Who could top Dr. S.?

Chapter Ten: Mustard + Catholic + Newman = Halloween

2004-11-01T06:21:00.000-08:00

No post yesterday because nothing really made much sense Saturday night.

Or last night for that matter.

All I can say for Saturday is that I remember 2 cans of mustard yellow paint, a Daisy Duke-style jeep, Richard Burton and the parking lot of a Catholic church. I was dumping out one of the cans of paint, but whether we were finished redecorating or just starting is a complete mystery. Richard Burton was driving the jeep. He wasn't a priest, no. Maybe he was an interior designer ... like a stodgy version of Graham Wynne from Changing Rooms.

Anyway, how I ended up going from that scenario to looking for a bomb with Paul Newman is even more mysterious. I only know that the bomb was attached to a dam and if it went off the Willamette Valley would be flooded and it would end up being my fault somehow. At least, that's what all the cops were saying. I think Paul was their chief.

Paul, I should add, never questioned my innocence. He's good people, that Newman fella.

Last night involved riding my bicycle from my parent's house to high school [which was about 10 miles away in a different city, but not up hill in the snow], something I'd never even conceive of while I was actually going to high school. Later in the dream I was defending my Schwinn La Tour from being stolen from the bike racks by some Protestant, public school boys. Jerks. I couldn't clench my fist though -- you know how dreams are -- but I could karate kick and that seemed to help. Anyway, mention should be made that on leaving my parent's neighborhood, before turning my bike onto the big main drag, I walked part of the way with Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen. It's true. They were only about 7 or 8 years-old and were walking to the elementary school across the street.

When it came to jay-walking across the road [always easier than going the 3 blocks to the crossing guard ... it was also a really good dare, because when you're 7, trying to cross that street before the cars came ... it felt like a big street ... but when you're 7 everything is kind of big ... now I'm off the track ... oh yes] when it came to jay-walking, Ashley walked right out there as if she owned the place. Cars were coming and everything. "They'll stop" she said.

And, sink me, they did!

Chapter Nine: There Oughtta' Be a (Jude) Law

2004-10-30T09:12:00.000-07:00

Mom and I are back in Philadelphia for my friend Don's wedding [which happened 3 weeks ago, but because I was watching "Murial's Wedding" right before bedtime, Don's wedding was the quickest, personal link to replay ... does that sound right? Whatever ... anyway ...]. Mom and I are staying in someone's brownstone house this time, and not the hotel, and we're sharing a large sitting room/converted bedroom. We're getting dressed -- my dress is bright red -- while Gabriel Byrne sits nearby watching television. Lots of aimless chit-chat.

Someone comes in and says that they need a priest for the church. Turns out there are 4 weddings going on at the same time and they're short a priest, do we know anyone who can fill in? No one wants to answer, but Gabriel Byrne finally owns up and says he used to be a priest and would do it, but only this ONE TIME. He'll need an assistant, so we go outside and someone calls over Sterling Hayden [not "The Godfather" Sterling, but the earlier, "Dr. Strangelove" Sterling]. Gabriel asks for his i.d. card, which Sterling hands over, and suddenly it's as if Sterling is hypnotised. Gabriel states the duties for the day and Sterling repeats it in a brainwashed fashion until his i.d. card is returned and he's back to normal.

"He works at the factory," says Gabriel. And that seems to explain it.

At the church everything is in pandemonium because the 4 weddings are not only going at the same time, they're going on in the same place. Mom and I take our seats and watch. Don and Meg get married in the aisle between the guests, amid all the noise, etc... but it's hard to tell exactly when the ceremony ends. Don shrugs and looks around with a "that's it" expression, so we feel it's safe to applaud.

Back in the room, it's 6 am the next morning. I get up and go out to the bathroom [it's not in our room] and take a long shower -- when I wash my hair sometimes it takes awhile ... this time it takes 4 hours [there's that number 4 again!]. It's 10 am and the bathroom is crowded with people talking about the day before and how nice it was and chit-chat of a general nature. The door pops open and it's the same guy who was looking for a priest earlier [may have been Don's best man, Paul... but I'm not certain]. He says:

"We're having an English-style hunt and we don't want to use words like 'damn' or 'shit'. We need some English words and phrases. Can anyone help?"

Jude Law can help! He's sitting closest to the door and suggests "blimey", "bugger" and "i-mouth" before following the requester out the door to the hallway.

Leaving the rest of us to ponder the meaning of "i-mouth".

[yeah ... everyone else gets to dream about Jude Law in much more exciting ways. Me? I'm in a towel with wet hair and in a bathroom with 10 other people, including my mom ... it's a crime]

Chapter Eight: Earnest!

2004-10-29T06:58:00.000-07:00

The main portion of the dream involves going into the bookstore I used to work at -- Rizzoli -- which is now located inside this incredibly elaborate mall -- it looks like the inside of the Opryland Hotel [don't ask how I know what that looks like ... God knows I've tried to block it out] -- and most of the associates working there are new except for Bob, who "cuts" me as Bob liked to do because he thought it was somehow stylish, and two men who were fired for stealing: Hugo and Clay. Hugo is actually the manager now. "It makes it easier to take from the top," says Hugo. "Lots of perks."

To prove this he gives me 2 free tickets [perks!] to a show playing in the theatre attached to the mall. It's a musical version of "The Importance of Being Earnest".

No. Really. A musical.

The stars are Derek Jacobi, as a somewhat seasoned Jack -- but he's one of my favorite actors, so I'm willing to suspend the disbelief a little ... and he's got that young-ish face -- and Rupert Everett reprising his film role, albeit musical now, as Algy. Oddly enough, Frank Finlay [recently seen on television getting killed by Christopher Lee in an incredibly bad Dracula flick from the 70's] plays a servant. Even more peculiar is that the plot now involves a murder mystery.

Those nutty Broadway producers ...

I get as far as Jack phoning Algy and a quick song about doing so, when the alarm goes off and I have to go to work. why Why WHY?

Chapter Seven: From Monkey to Man

2004-10-28T05:54:00.000-07:00

No celebrities again last night, unless you count King Kong. I'm not saying he's got no merit on the basis of being a claymation animal. I've got great respect for claymation animals. Grommit for one. Some of my best friends are claymation animals. I don't want to devalue their contribution to society. I'm just saying that on the scale of celebrities, King Kong isn't really up there. Sure, he was in a few movies, even one with Godzilla, but you'll never see him sipping a martini at Barbra Streisand's house ... although the chances of seeing Peter O'Toole sipping martinis with Barbra ... I don't know ... maybe ...

So, barring the coming attraction dream of King Kong chasing me through the streets and tearing off rooftops to try and find where I'm hiding, I have nothing to offer today. The main dream involved a pool party at a friend's house -- and maybe that whole sexual/water thing in interesting to people with nothing else to think about, but honestly, the action was limited to drinking cocktails, jumping in a pool and waiting for other guests to arrive. "So-and-so, have you met ...," and so on.

Que es mas boring:
being told about a party you didn't go to (and wasn't invited to)?
or
being told about a dream about a party you didn't go to (and wasn't invited to)?

Really. It's a toss-up.

By the way, the whole thing with Amish people buying Chinese sugar buns in Chapter Six ... if anyone can tell me what that means I'd appreciate it. It's got me completely baffled.

bye for now.

Chapter Six Six Six for My Sorrow

2004-10-27T09:18:00.000-07:00

No celebrities. Can you believe it? Nary a one available for a guest appearance last night. And to make matters worse I had a complete and total nightmare ...:

It's my first day of work at this small, corner store. I don't even know how I got the job in the first place, but I'm willing to go with it. A job's a job and the people there are very nice, although there only appears to be about 3 other employees: manager, assistant manager and the produce guy.

I'm shown around the store, get to know where things are, when suddenly it's starts to really get busy and I'm asked to go on the register.

The cash register is some broken down piece of junk from 1972 and you have to manually enter EVERYTHING. Not only that, but it turns out that there's sales tax on the canned goods and packaged items, but not the bulk items. Not only that, but the sales tax has to be worked out manually on scratch paper with a pencil!

Math! Who said there would be math?!? Didn't I explain during the interview process that I suck at math! Dear God! But I didn't even interview for this job, so how would it be possible to explain about my fear of math?

And people are buying these Chinese sugar buns. I don't even know what they're called. And are they bulk items? How much are they? And they're being bought by these Amish people who give me $210.00 (two $100 bills!) to pay for a purchase that's only $3.50 and I've got to count back change because the cash register not only doesn't do tax or add correctly, but you have to pull the receipt from the paper roll because it doesn't feed correctly!!

And - wait! where are you going, manager and assistant manager? It's 5:00 o'clock? I'm on the what? the mid-shift? I'm doing this until 8:00??? With only the produce guy to help? He can't even run the register! He doesn't know if Tylenol is a taxable item and the man buying the Tylenol has a cold and is impatient and is also handing me his prescription! Are we a drugstore as well?? Am I authorized to fill a prescription? I don't even know where the pills are!

When I wake up, in a cold sweat, I realize that not only was the dream devoid of celebrity stars, but everyone in it was a complete stranger. No one even slightly resembled someone I know.

dude.........

Chapter Five: Kimi Raikkonen Does Windstar

2004-10-26T05:53:00.000-07:00

Some Words of Explanation:
For those reading this and don't know me, my obsessive behavior or Formula 1 racing, Kimi Raikkonen is a Formula 1 driver, and it's not surprising that he turns up in my dream, having just watched a tape of the Brazilian Grand Prix last night. The title refers to the "Donkey does F1" website ... erm ... wait ... that doesn't really need to be explained. Kimi is not a donkey ... although he's been done by "Donkey" ... It's totally innocent. donkeydoesf1.co.uk

Unfortunately for Kimi, the dream involving him was not the main feature of the night. He was the opening act for a subsequent dream involving high school and a boy I had a crush on there(ahhh Keith ...). Sadly, there were no celebrities featured in this second dream ... although ... was that Tom Hanks policing the last day of school rally? Anyway ... since Kimi was the opener, his dream is incredibly fragmented now -- especially since I took advantage of the dream environment and acted on my high school crush (By the way, Keith is now a happily married history professor, or so says Google, and I have no intention of following-up in real life). (But if dreams aren't for acting on the unimaginable real life impulse, well, gosh darn it, what's a girl to do?) (But, I digress...)

------

Kimi has just raced the Long Beach Grand Prix and I'm driving him back to his hotel in a Ford Windstar. Someone else is with us, but I can't remember who it is (Juan Pablo Montoya?). We're parked in a large, concrete parking structure and before we leave it we need to put gas in the car. Kimi hops out to do it -- I should add, for descriptive purposes, that he's in his driving jumpsuit, but no helmet. He gets distracted by something and the gas pump falls out of the car and catches fire at the nozzle [a little something for you Freudians out there]. The unknown Montoya-esque passenger and I get out of the car and we all make for the harbor just beyond the parking structure. Just as we jump into the water the gas pump and mini van explode into flames. Oddly enough, the structure remains intact.

... lots of fun for the analysts ...

Chapter Four: To Kirk, With Love ...

2004-10-25T05:59:00.000-07:00

I'm in the ballroom of a cheap hotel -- I'm at one of those seminars they always advertise in the adult education/learning annex newspapers -- and I'm attending a class on criminal investigation. This class is taught by William Shatner as Captain Kirk [I know, you'd think it'd be T.J. Hooker, but I was watching Star Trek yesterday and the dream-Shatner came out as Kirk].

I haven't really been paying attention, but it doesn't really matter because the test we take is incredibly easy. Basically on page 1 is the crime and you have 3 subsequent pages of clues; your answer goes on the last page. By clue 3 I'm done, but when I look around at the other adults at my table, they're really struggling. One has asked Mr. Spock, the teacher's aide, for assistance. Naturally I think I've done something wrong and I raise my hand to ask the captain if we're allowed to make assumptions based on executive decision, when this woman at my table starts to talk about knowing someone is guilty by when they have to use the toilet. This makes me suddenly have to pee. Badly. The class is almost over, but I can't wait, so I leave my test on the table and rush out to the restroom. Wouldn't you know it? The line is out the door [it always is in dreams], but there's no line for the men's room. I think about it ... but decide to wait, because the line is moving pretty quickly. I get in and get out, finding that I still have to pee, but I need to get to my next class, Marketing 108, which starts on the heels of the Shatner class. I get back to Shatner's -- sorry, Kirk's -- classroom and everyone has gone except for Kirk, who is sitting at his desk, and one other student, who stands beside him. As I gather up my notebook, etc ... I hear the student speak, but I don't hear what he says. Captain Kirk responds with "Daphne? Of course I know Daphne. What's your business with her?"

[At this point the dream breaks and I wake up, because it turns out I really do have to pee. Badly.]

Chapter Three: A Tool for O'Toole

2004-10-24T09:55:00.000-07:00

This is a period dream, set in the mid-19th century; lots of wood, gas lighting and it's incredibly cold. I'm taking an Algebra class from Peter O'Toole and I'm noting the lists of numbers he's got written on the chalkboard, but just as I think I understand it I realize I have no idea how to solve the problem. I can divide 130 by 5, but how does that eventually mean that 12,448.3 = C? Class is dismissed and he calls out "Don't forget to read chapters 3 and 4 from 'Algebra in the Home'. There will be a test!" I'm still shuffling papers into my bag when I hear a woman say "That's the worst book there is."

The woman is my aunt and she's standing at the doorway of the classroom. She's a short, Earthy-type and resembles a cross between Julie Walters and Alice Krige (if you put Alice Krige's face on Julie Walters's body). She walks into the room and hands me a letter while Peter is talking in that O'Toole way: "And what makes you say that, madame?"

"Because it is," she says simply. "It has nothing useful in it and yet comes across as being extremely useful, but try and put any of it into practice and you're sunk."

"What exactly would you know about it?" he asks. And she erases his problem on the board and starts to re-write it -- BACKWARDS.

Meanwhile I'm reading my letter. It's written in pencil on cheap paper and it's from everyone who lives with my aunt. Turns out she's one of these women who takes in orphaned children and raises them (me being one) and I was the only one lucky enough to make it to a higher education. It's at this point that I realize I'm dressed like a boy and the whole thing is one of those Yentl situations. I look up and my aunt has completed the problem to the admiration of Mr. O'Toole. She smiles at him and reaches for my hand. "Come along," she says. "Let's go down the pub."

At the pub we have some kind of weak French onion soup and I tell her that O'Toole appears to have a crush on her. She receives this with an "oh now" attitude, but I can tell she's flattered. And, as if to prove it, here comes Peter O'Toole -- "Well, fancy meeting you here!" -- and he sits down at our table.

Suddenly I'm feeling a little feverish and the dream shifts to my small room in a drafty old house. The room is set-up like so: It faces South; beside the front door, on the left side, is a window into the room; when you enter, my bed is to the left, directly under the window. On the right is a bureau, then the sink, and around the corner there is a window to the gray and bleak southern landscape [moors?]; just to the left of the window, cornering again, is a small stove and a wooden chair. The room is cluttered with books, paper, and clothes. I'm in bed feeling woozy and ill.

There's a knock on the door and before I can do anything in comes Peter O'Toole. I'm frantic because not only am I in bed, but I'm not dressed as a boy any longer, seeing as how I'm feverish. "Can I get you something?" he asks. "Port," I reply, and he take the bottle from his pocket. While he's talking he pours the port, sets it in my hands and relights the stove. He says:

[I'll come as close to the O'Toole cadence as I can.]

"I know you're not a boy. In fact. You never were. A boy. But I don't mind it. Your deception does not make any difference to me. However. You do not belong in my class. Do you understand? You are not. A mathematician. Not by any stretch of the imagination. And I don't think. I'm telling you something. You don't already know. Am I?" I shake my head. "Good. Now. I'm willing to help you. But you must be prepared. To help me. In return. I want you. To give this." He hands me a letter. "To your aunt."

Of course I will, because not only do I need to pass Algebra, but because I really like Peter O'Toole.

Suddenly I'm at this seaside club, walking up a grassy lawn toward a large white pavilion, which is doubling for a tea house. My aunt is sitting at a table on the veranda and across from her is Strother Martin (I can hear his voice and he's talking in that weird accent that can only be Strother Martin). As I pass I'm reaching to hand her the letter. I see Peter O'Toole inside, loitering by the counter, waiting for me to do it. I'm just reaching into my pocket when I hear Strother say "I love you. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?" Everything stops. I look up and Peter has heard it too. The crushing blow comes when my aunt enthusiastically says "Yes!" Peter O'Toole leaves the tea house and I slowly follow ... not only have I lost my education, but now I've got Strother Martin as an "uncle" ...

oh cruel, cruel world ...

Chapter Twofer the Price of One

2004-10-23T10:04:00.000-07:00

I work at a large, warehouse style Toys R Us with David O'Hara [the Irish guy from "Braveheart" - the "my island" guy - I had poured pints of Guinness for him in a previous dream (not noted here)]. We're somehow connected - I think we're living together. A customer comes in and asks for our dining sets -- two large bowls and two spoons -- and wants one with Dr. Suess characters on it. On the shelf we have Spongebob and one with Muppets, but no Dr. Suess. "I know we have them," I say, "because I bought one for David." He looks up from the mess of plush toys at the end of the row and he's got one of those proud yet embarassed yet pleased looks on his face and I think "has he been working out?"

-- wake up ... cat extricated from mini blinds and expelled from bedroom --

I'm watching a movie. It's set in the posh, big house section of Silverlake, CA [on waking I realize that there isn't really a section like this in Silverlake, but we had one in Los Feliz ...]. A brother and sister - college age - are home alone for the weekend. The sister is played by Reese Witherspoon. The brother and his friend are actors I've never seen before, but seem to fit the teen-movie mold.

Reese is going to a fancy dinner downtown with her sorority sisters and has an expensive dress to wear, possibly borrowed from her mother's closet. Brother's goofy friend has brought over a hooker -- she's "street" but with a heart of gold. "She seems to be really nice," says goofy friend. While Reese is in the bathroom, hooker tries on expensive dress and ruins it. "Don't cry, honey. You can wear one of my things." Cut to downtown hotel/ballroom - zombies, by the way, are coming up out of the manhole covers in the street, but no one notices them because everyone is commenting on poor Reese in her V-shaped (and it's a sharp V at the bottom) leotard, sheer black nylons and sequined circus ringleader-style jacket. This natually leads to "the judgemental rich folk against the slightly odd but sincere people" story-line, but, thankfully, the exchange "Well! I never!" "Well, you should" does not happen.

Back at the house zombies are crashing in through the large windows into the living room. One of them is played by Adam Sandler, which makes me wonder if this is one of his first movies before MTV and Saturday Night Live made him popular. He's a pizza boy zombie, by the way. Goofy friend tells the others to hold their fist out and shake it like a rattle, that this will make the zombies stop. It doesn't work and the brother suggests cutting off their heads.

[I haven't seen "Shaun of the Dead" yet, but I saw a behind-the-scenes film of it last week and that has probably contributed heavily to the above dream. That and seeing a coming attraction for that wacky new version of "Vanity Fair" where Reese plays Becky Sharp ... you know, the low-class "hooker" type trying to make her way in society.]

bye for now

Chapter One: John Edwards and the Angry Inch

2004-10-22T10:32:00.000-07:00

I'm staying at my parents house and my mother has picked me up from the airport in a blue Mercedes convertible [they used to drive one in the early '80s]. We pull into the driveway and mom opens the garage door with an opener [which they don't have on the real house] and starts to back into the space -- except there's this white Cadillac Escalade already parked there.

"That belongs to John Edwards," she says. "He's staying with us for a couple of days, during the election."

There's not enough space in the garage for the Escalade in the first place, but mom's sure she can fit the Mercedes in as well. She backs into the Cadillac, ever so slightly, bumping it inch by inch into the garage until she's parked. "A little damage won't show on that thing."

In the family room is the complete Edwards clan as well as Chelsea Clinton. John Edwards and his wife are sleeping in my parents's bedroom, mom and pop have the older brother's old room, Chelsea gets my old room [why? why? how does she rate??] so I'm left to sleep on the couch bed.

Pop comes home from work and suddenly we're at the polls and Edwards is making a big deal of being seen with my dad -- because pop's an old-school Republican and what a major coup to have turned this man into a Kerry voter! So they pose for the press, and it turns out that Edwards isn't supposed to be in the polling place, being that he's a candidate and all and is not allowed to glad-hand where people are voting. "No problem," he says. Why don't we join them later at the victory party? They've reserved 9 tables at the Sheraton downtown. [the significance of 9 eludes me, but there you are] Off he goes to the limo and I turn to grab my cousin, who is nearby stumping for "Billionaires for Bush". She's busy doing a photo shoot for the press, but at the idea of a reserved table at the Sheraton, she gives the press a snappy, Billionaire-esque pose and we leave.

The last I remember: we're all in a taxi driving through downtown Los Angeles, which is a lot prettier -- and a lot more rundown in a pretty sort of way -- in my dream than in real life. We drive past a lovely art deco building, with black and gold arrow features around the gold-framed front doors. Hidden in the black marble, in still legible grimy gray letters are the words: "Phillip Morris USA"

exposition - party of the first part

2004-10-22T09:38:00.000-07:00

This is my story, this is my blog ... or mlog more like, since it's really a dream log (that would be mlog, right? no? whatever).

People have told me that someone who dreams about at least 1 celebrity per night should keep a record of it. That's me. Sometimes I have 2 celebrities per night, as was the case when Angelina Jolie and Prince (they were starring in a TV movie; I often watch television in my dreams).

Anyway, since I'm a better typer than penner this is where they're all going to go.

All dreams will be put down as-is, which means I'm not responsible for sudden shifts of place or characters coming and going without notice. I'm also not responsible for adult material, so if you happened in here and you're looking for something naughty, just know that I'm not responsible for it.

I'm just going calls them as I sees them. However, in the case of explanations, when necessary, I'll add them in with brackets -- ie: [this may have been caused by the curry I had for dinner].

This is by no means an accurate account of celebrity behavior. Any similarities between people living or dead is purely accidental or the cause of ... well ... curry, for example.

xxoo