Last night I had the strangest dream. No, I did not sail away to China in a little rowboat to find ya’. You spoke naught of laundry, nor of anyone holding you. In fact, you weren’t there at all…
It started out kinda weird. See, I thought I had a vagina. I was sitting at home–or what looked like home, except I was in a recliner, a type of chair I covertly adore but which I’d never have the nerve to display in my own house–and I looked down, and I wasn’t wearing any pants, which is kinda strange, ’cause, like, personally I think wearing a t-shirt with no pants is just wrong. Anyway, I looked down, and there it was, plain as day: a big hairy muff. None of the equipment I’ve grown accustomed to seeing between my thighs over the past thirtysomeodd years. It was, to say the least, somewhat disconcerting… After the initial shock wore off, though, I took it in stride. I knew I was in a dream, and I was ready to have some fun. And I was all like, “Hot damn! I’m gonna go out and fuck me some straight boys tonight!” (Not like I can’t do that already with a quick trip to Bourbon Street, but whatever.)
So just as I was getting all revved up about the possibility of seeing the average American heterosexual male up close and personal, things changed. For some reason or another, I suddenly realized I wasn’t a woman after all, I just needed to whip out the clippers. It was like my subconscious said, “Hold up there, boss. We ain’t ready to go down that road just yet. Hey, Lenny! Change the reel!”
The next thing I knew, I was in one of the butchest dreams I’ve had in my whole life–which may not be saying much, but, you know, anyway… So there I was, same place I was before, sitting at home, when all of a sudden the manager of the Atlanta Braves was standing between me and the TV. He was hustling me out there door and into the car, and by the time I realized what was happening, I was in a bullpen–you know, like at a baseball stadium–and I was warming up my arm. The Atlanta Braves were playing in the World Series, and I was called in as the relief pitcher.
I played a lot of baseball growing up: left field, second base, third base. I was an all-star shortstop. But one thing I never felt comfortable doing was pitching. So all the time I’m in the dream, I keep thinking to myself, “Man, I throw like a girl.” Which, a few scans back in the R.E.M., I was.
And then I woke up.
My dreams never achieve closure, as the therapists and 12-steppers say today. It’s rare for them to have a plot. In fact, I’m surprised when I can even remember them. What does that say about me, Mr. Freud?
In other news, happy birthday to the inimitable Jeanne Moreau (not to be confused with the similarly inimitable, though lately deceased, Jean Marais.) Bonne fete!
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