I had a couple of vivid dreams last night, one of which was an eerie nightmare. Anybody care to interpret these?
The Gang has gathered for a fancy dinner at a nice hotel. We’re there the same night as a high school prom. I’m restless, so I wander the event, taking in the damage — gloating boys, girls in tears, etc. I wander up and down vaulted stairways (the hotel is very vertical), killing time between courses. Jeremy is outside smoking.
When I return to the table for dessert, Kris has her dander up. Some local television journalist has arrived. Kris loathes this woman for a hatchet job she did on the crime lab. Kris is complaining about her, and Joel and Dave are egging her on.
The high school dance starts in the middle of the restaurant, and the instances of emotional carnage increase. Through it all, Kris continues to rage. The television newscaster has a cadre of impressionable teenagers around her, and is holding court, laughing, telling stories.
After an interminable slow song (“Crazy For You” by Madonna?), Kris rises and begins to harangue this woman. Initially, she makes a strong case, has the woman on the defensive, and the audience supports her. Soon, however, she begins to loser her way, and with it, the audience.
“You’ve got to do something,” Pam says to me.
“Help her. The crowd is turning,” says Jenn.
So, I crawl — unseen by the newscaster — so that I’m at the base of Kris’ speaking podium. (Where’d the podium come from?) “You’re losing,” I tell her. “Go on the offensive. Attack her. Be confident. Speak with strength.”
And so she does. The audience is awed. The newscaster slinks away in fear, and then Kris begins to attack George W. Bush.
Then I wake up …
My second dream was a variation on the first.
The Gang has gathered for a fancy dinner in a nice hotel. We’re there the same night as a high school prom. To be precise, we’re there the same night as my high school’s Senior Prom 17-1/2 years ago. I am literally in two places at simultaneously in this dream.
There are a couple hundred of us, and we’re all seated at once. I’m seated across from Laurie Saxton, a girl whom I treated cruelly in real life. Only it’s the Laurie Saxton of now. She’s grown to be a beautiful self-possessed woman, and she’s forgiven me the wrongs of my youth.
We all chat for a while. Mac, Jeremy, and Joel begin complaining about the service. Only just then do the waiters appear to take orders. (For some reason this is not a catered event with a fixed menu; the restaurant’s entire menu is available, and there are only a couple of servers to process all of these orders at once. This, in itself, is a nightmare.)
Kris notices the problem and volunteers to help. She waits tables. She’s cheerful and professional, and makes the best of a difficult situation. I decide to help, too. I’m less cheerful and professional. In fact, I’m harried and curt. Kris tries to offer advice, but this only makes me angry.
“I know what I’m doing,” I say as I stalk away to take orders from the band that’ll be performing at the dance. It’s a popular band, but one I’ve never heard of. The bandmembers are aloof, and they want special food prepared in meticulous fashion.
I go downstairs to the kitchen to verify we can meet their demands. I can’t find the kitchen. I find a storeroom with thousands of bottles of ketchup, but no kitchen. While I’m there, lost, one of the ketchup bottles begins to ring. I’m puzzled, but I pick it up and speak into it. Sure enough: it’s a phone.
“Your alarm is going off,” says a man at the other end of the phone.
“Your alarm is going off.”
I’m very confused, but hang up the ketchup bottle and continue to search for the kitchen.
I find it, but it’s the kitchen of a Chinese restaurant. The cook is there, but something’s wrong. It looks as if he has been cut in half. Actually, he’s “phased” into the floor: his body has melted into the floor so that he’s only there from his shoulders up. He’s dying a painful death, the main symptom of which (aside from being stuck in the floor) is excessive vomiting.
I’m repulsed, so I leave the kitchen. I find the manager in his office. He’s suffering a similar fate. In fact, as I go from room-to-room, all I find are people stuck in the floor, dying.
I’m about to run upstairs to make sure Kris is okay, but then it’s time to get up and go to work.
OMFG! All previous skunk woes pale in comparison to the odor this morning. For once, I think we’re going to call in somebody to take care of it. You cannot possibly imagine the strength and intensity of this foul stench. This laptop, which sat in the office above the skunk overnight, has acquired the scent, too. Ugh.
The Cinnamon Bear doesn’t stink, unless his fur is wet. But his latest episode will have to wait until later today.