So I’m sitting at an outdoor bistro of some sort with Drew Barrymore and a couple other people when, all of a sudden, Adrian Brody walks up in a long blond wig. He’s speaking in an obviously fake Swedish accent and presents Drew with a big plate of guacamole. Before Drew could react, Justin Long walks up with the largest bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen in my life. Justin grabs Drew and they start kissing; for the sake of comfort, Justin rests his butt on the table, inadvertently crushing Adrian Brody’s guacamole plate.
Tensions were rising, it seemed like a fight might break out, and then, from out of fucking nowhere, my Uncle pops up behind Justin and Drew and begins singing “Sunshine Superman” with alternate lyrics. The first line he sang was, “Hap-pily MARRIED, ya da da…” as if to say, “I don’t have to worry about this kind of drama because I’m happily married. I nearly shit my pants it was so funny.
My Uncle then took everyone on a bus tour of a nearby celebrity neighborhood. He sang the entire time, and it was awesome.
Another aspect of this dream involved me filling in as director for a high school play of some sort. All these kids kept calling me on my cell phone with questions about costumes and scenery and I just had no idea what the hell to tell them. I was more concerned with what would happen at the end of the play. Was I supposed to go out on stage and take credit for directing the whole thing? I really hadn’t done shit. I was quite the moral dilemma.
Ozzy Osbourne, as an April Fool’s joke, decided to announce a new flavor of Jolly Rancher entitled “Symptom of the Universe,” after the song he wrote of the same name with Black Sabbath. I’m not sure what set these specific “Symptom” candies apart from regular Jolly Ranchers, but Ozzy seemed to be endlessly delighted that he’d be pissing off his core fan base (in this dream, I was his personal assistant or golf buddy or some type of person who regularly hung out with Ozzy).
Sure enough, headbangers the world over were incensed when they learned Ozzy had sold his soul to Jolly Rancher. If I didn’t make it clear before, Ozzy was working in conjunction with the Jolly Rancher people to develop a new flavor based on his evil persona. It’s not like Ozzy just threw together his own version of the hard candy and put it out himself. He’s not that crazy. Anyway, thirteen year olds in black shirts were buggin’ out and burning Ozzy records on the news. The Prince of Darkness just laughed. Then I woke up.
In the dream that besieged me last night, Jim Varney (he of Ernest fame) had a secret past as an ace major league pitcher under the name “McGregor” for the Oakland A’s. This was revealed to me by none other than Tony LaRussa during a private moment in the A’s dugout (I was there to see the baseball jersey that held the Guinness World Record for longest name on the back). For some reason, it was entrusted to me to tell Jim Varney’s long-lost son, who was actually the kid from “Two And A Half Men.”
I get to “Two And A Half Men” kid’s house and briefly talk to him through my car window on his front lawn. It turns out he’s my second cousin, which in turn means I’m somehow related to Jim Varney. We never did figure out why Ernest kept his pitching history secret nor why he chose the pseudonym “McGregor.” It should be noted that in this version of reality, Jim Varney’s coke-related death is a closely guarded secret.
It should also be noted this entire sequence was preceded by a segment where I was trapped in a pool house with Arnold Schwarzenegger (in Terminator garb) as he fended off various evil doers and bad guys.
He was in this dream I had. Witness:
My friend John Piacquadio wanted to make some gonzo documentary about homeless people, but every time he found some to talk to they freaked out and tried to fight him. He called upon me for help; apparently, I’m some great homeless negotiator. We got into an SUV with his mother and started driving around our hometown in Connecticut. Unfortunately, I became totally preoccupied with a newly discovered version of Star Wars—one that predated the original 1977 release—which was showing on a giant drive-in movie theater screen next to some soccer field we parked near (the field was also adjacent to secret homeless ceremonial grounds).
The version of Star Wars in my dream was an entirely different movie. Same characters, same premise, I think, but completely different. It looked like it was filmed with a television camera. The opening scene saw Darth Vader chasing Luke Skywalker through the Death Star Three Stooges-style, firing an insane amount of lasers that Luke somehow avoided. There was one long shot from the perspective of looking over Luke’s shoulder in which Vader, obviously just trying to fuck with Luke’s mind, starts walking like George Jefferson. This shot seemed to go on forever. It was at least three minutes long.
The action then cut to the Death Star galley (which was more or less just some person’s kitchen from the 1970s). Don Rickles was there, cutting up, when someone suddenly threw a bowl of pudding at him. After a long take to the camera, Rickles retaliated and a food fight broke out. Around this time, someone walked past me and commented on how surprising it was that none of this made the final cut. That’s saying a mouthful.
I don’t think much happened with the homeless documentary after that. John and I watched a group of them standing in a shallow swimming pool for a while, and then I woke up. It should come as no surprise that the events of this dream left me curiously aroused.
I was at Applebee’s having dinner with Pamela Anderson and Barack Obama. As usual, the service was terrible. While waiting for our server, Barack Obama suddenly grew a patch of moderately sized dreadlocks and his shirt/tie combo transformed into a Florida Panthers football jersey. Then blood started gushing from the top of his head. I guess sudden dread growth can be dangerous.
Pamela started freaking out and telling Barack he needed medical attention. The Senator refused, instead stumbling over to a family of five and sitting down to eat with them. The funny part was this family had an infant with them in a high chair next to their table, and Obama just picked the high chair up and moved the kid over like it was old furniture. He didn’t even look at the baby. The child, of course, starting crying, but nobody really gave a shit. I mean, Obama, bleeding and with dreadlocks. In Applebee’s.
After Obama left our table, Ted Allen from “Queer Eye For The Straight Guy” showed up with a bunch of “Sesame Street” t-shirts he was trying to sell. I was slightly interested, but Ted was acting like he was filming an infomercial or something, just talking real phony-like, and that turned me off.
Dig this nutty vision: I went to see what I’m guessing was some kind of cult movie—numerous members of the audience were in costume. They all looked to be wearing Sherlock Holmes / Jack the Ripper garb. I don’t remember what the movie was, but I do know they showed a set of trailers both before and after the film. In the latter set, there was an ad for the re-release of some non-existent Dan Aykroyd movie in which the lovable comedian plays a private investigator whose twin brother accidentally turns him into E.T.
Literally: Aykroyd 1 & 2 are on top of a train going full speed, they jump off, Aykroyd 2 (who has blonde hair like Dan’s character in Neighbors) pushes Aykroyd 1, there’s some big messy ecto-plasmic explosion, and the next thing we see is E.T. in Aykroyd 1’s place. Debra Winger plays the woman who falls for E.T. Aykroyd. I remember feeling let down about this trailer in my dream, because it looked like the special effects had been updated a la the Star Wars Special Editions.
Cut to the parking lot outside the theater. I’m wandering around. Suddenly it becomes apparent that we’re at some kind of early eighties California punk hangout. A young Henry Rollins is sitting at a bench going off about the usual kind of crap he’d go off about. I focus my attention on Steve “Stevo” Jensen, the original lead singer of the Vandals. He seems a bit lost and depressed. He makes me promise him I won’t ruin the Vandals by letting them go on without him (which, in real life, they did). I’m a little weirded out, so I leave.
The last part of this dream involved a thrift shop, but I can barely remember what went on.
There was some kind of war game going on deep in the woods of New England that my friends and I stumbled upon. We got “captured” by these macho bro dudes who then decide they’re going to “hunt us for sport.” Not literally, though. We just had to go hide in the woods and if they found us, I guess we “died” and/or had to sit in their crappy little jail.
The game began and I ran as far as I could, jumping over logs and tumbling through bushes. I got to the top of a slight hill and realized I could probably hide out on the other side without anyone ever knowing. I was surprised to find on the other side a suburban housing development. A group of two story houses with kids and dogs and nicely manicured lawns…the American dream. I sat down on a curb and prepared for a long chill session.
Suddenly I heard a very loud harmonica. That’s never a good sign. A cargo van pulled up and my high school librarian hopped out with a group of pre-teen girls. They were the anti-war game unit, apparently, who rescued people like me. I guess the macho bro dudes were forcing a lot of area residents to participate in their fake battles and the cops weren’t doing anything about it. Thus, this traveling band of Miley Cyrus fans and a librarian.
I was too tired to ask questions. I got in the van and they took me to the first phase of “deprogramming”: improv comedy. I had to get up and, you know, pretend a bunch of stuff was in front of me and make jokes about it. How this was supposed to ease the pain of being in a war game is beyond me. Again, I didn’t have a whole lot of fight in me, so I went along with it.
What’s funny is I think these improv people made me wear some kind of costume or get-up like a cult member. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
Another interesting thing: in this dream, cars were able to drive through giant snow drifts with absolutely no problem. It’s like they were just giant piles of cotton or something.
Here’s a topical dream for you: I attended an advanced screening of the new Indiana Jones movie with my parents. It was at Steven Spielberg’s house, I think, and the movie was projected on a tiny screen on his back porch.
The opening credit sequence was thirty minutes long and bled into the first scene—Indy cleaning somebody’s pool while simultaneously looking for his famous hat. Right after that, there was this weird “Three Stooges” montage that hinted Larry, Curly, and Moe would be making an appearance in Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Said montage featured the classiest photo of Larry Fine I’ve ever seen in my life. He was in a tuxedo, bending over a table of dignitaries as if to say, “How do?”
Did I mention this was apparently taking place on Christmas Day? There was a Christmas tree and people were slowly exchanging presents as the film rolled. I think I saw Harrison Ford there. He looked very happy.
I don’t remember anything else about my dream version of Indy 4. I assume the rest of it was just as crazy as those first parts. I eventually found myself in conversation with a nearby friend about our favorite movies based on historical events. I offered The Untouchables. She said something like The Blues Brothers. Then I woke up.