Stupid Dreams I Have Had About Celebrities
I hate my celebrity-based dreams, because whenever I relate them I sound like I’m making them up. The celebs in my dreams are usually so obscure and the situations we find ourselves in so mundane that the following nocturnal encounters, dreamt while I was working as an entertainment columnist in Las Vegas, surely must have happened in real life. For all I know, they did.
I dreamt I was at a truck stop that was vying to break the world record for having the most urinals. The proprietor was Yoko Ono and teams of her acolytes were happily hanging new urinals on the walls like artwork. Eventually I grew bored with watching their efforts and walked to a speakeasy next door, where you could dust for fingerprints whenever you got the urge. My alarm clock woke me with the Art of Noise song “Close to the Edit,” played too loud, and it startled me into a hiccuping fit.
I dreamt my best friend was a young Steve Buscemi, and he liked to pick fights. He started a scrap with two made-for-TV gangbangers — ridiculous white guys with hairdos to rival Vanilla Ice — and they kicked his ass but good, and came after me with two-by-fours. I ducked and weaved as best I could, and when I saw an opening I pushed the both of them down a sharp concrete ravine into a dry river bed. I awoke with the biggest headache I’d had in weeks.
I convinced Jack Black to attend an awards banquet in his honor. It was held in the middle of a green meadow and looked kind of stupid. The only reason I thought he should go was because his publicist told us Nick Cave would be there.
“You both write killer ballads,” I told him, “and you’ve practically got the same name. It’s like one of those ‘meeting of the minds’ kinda deals.”
He acquiesced, and was bored silly. A bunch of music and movie industry people spoke about him (I didn’t recognize any), but all they could talk about was his grosses. They didn’t know him as well as I did — couldn’t see the sweet and sensitive poet inside. I began looking around for a guitar to give him so he could ‘fight his way out,’ but I awoke before I could arm him.
I discovered that jazz was the work of criminal masterminds — tall cool mothratruckers in fedoras, like the IRS Records guy. They were led by Sam Jackson, Forrest Whittaker and Miles Davis. I prostrated myself to the ruling board, begging for a job as a henchman, and they gave me one. I was measured for a dark suit and given an upright bass case which contained … an upright bass. Solid.
Cloris Leachman appeared in my dreams last night. I’m always happy to see her, and heaven knows she deserves as many roles as she can get. Don’t remember much else about the dream, except that (Las Vegas’ college radio station) KUNV was a rock station again, every building in town was connected by skycars like the one that crawls up San Jacinto from Palm Springs, and there was a terrible flash flood that washed away every car on my street. I watched them float away, took pictures, and said to Cloris, “Thank God I had the presence of mind to park my car in the garage last night.”
She rolled her eyes and said, “Your punchline needs work. We’re going to have to start the flood all over again.”
Suzanne Somers and me were looking for a top-secret, French-flavored nightclub called “Rose” in the industrial catacombs of the MGM Grand Hotel in Las Vegas. (I imagined that the MGM’s beige-colored employee hallways were dank, gray corridors with busted pipes and great piles of rusted hardware, like in the “Alien” movies.) Even the entrance to the club was secret — and we looked all over the damn place trying to discovered it. We even checked behind the refrigerators in an abandoned kitchen.
At one point, somebody called my cell phone and told me the club was run by Olivia Newton-John, so I ran off to find her. She was in one of the MGM’s conference rooms giving a seminar on the myriad ways to worship your mousepad. I didn’t get to speak with her, but I did encounter two absurd French stereotypes — a disaffected man and woman, in slicked-back hair and black beret respectively, smoking those little yellow cigarettes — who said to me, “We weel help you fahnd zees club. We are French.”
The three of us sauntered back to the catacombs (Somers had abandoned the search by then), and we began searching afresh. An old drinking buddy of mine joined us and said, “We have to face the possibility that we will never find this nightclub … that the whole of our lives will be spent searching for the Rose, and we will all of us die in the course of this pointless pursuit.”
I woke up annoyed. Stupid celebrity-based dreams; I hate the friggin’ things. I swear I didn’t make these up. Call Yoko Ono if you don’t believe me.