But that's peculiar funny, and I really meant
You see, the past two nights have involved both the cast of that hideously mediocre sit-com cum soap-opera, the late and utterly unlamented Friends, and Homer Simpson and Mr. Burns, along with a sub-plot involving Harry Potter and Hermione. Oh, and my mum, dad and a member of the RCMP, and yet another sub-plot involving aliens and some sort of chocolate/kryptonite thingy somewhere near the end of the universe. (No, Doctor Who did not put in an appearance.)
Jesus, talk about a cast of thousands.
But I digress.
Point is - well, point was; this thing is really getting away from me - that two nights in a row my dreams have been so funny that I woke myself laughing; a rare and wonderful enough occurrence I mention it here now.
Thinking back on those fast-fading wisps of pop-culture saturated imaginings, the highlights are include the following.
- fondling Courteney Cox's surprisingly small and perky breasts;
- learning to levitate and then to fly at some urban version of Hogwarts - and no need for any faggy brown-stick, neither. Flying is fun!
- having the ability to fly stay with me when I morphed into (a much smarter and - dare I say it? - slimmer) version of Homer, when I found myself trapped in a maze-like, almost neo-modern edifice that is somehow hidden around the south-west corner of University and Spadina and found myself helping Mr. Burns rescue an unknown third-party. The cast of Friends also worked there, which was "how" they came into the dream(s);
- lying to my mum about whether or not I was reading a biography (of who, is now obscure) written by some combination of Jared Diamond and James Gleick - why I was embarrassed by that choice of material was a mystery to me in the dream and remains so now. However, I felt somewhat like a pubescent boy hiding pornography;
- an exasperated Laura, for some reason armed with piano wire, only party kidding when she stretched tight that almost-invisible length of cord and threatened to do him her mum.
- having a long conversation with the aforementioned RCMP officer, who was somehow acting on behalf of my dad!
Suffice it to say, the past couple of nights' dreams have been a lot of fun, by turns exciting, intriguing and - at times - very funny indeed (I doubt I have to make explicit that it was during the Mr. Burns episode that I laughed so hard I woke myself up).
I went for a couple of pints (and only a couple!) at Rhino's yesterday afternoon, 3,000 word Ignatieff essay printed out for editing purposes. There remain some structural problems and some inconsistencies of tone, but I am by and large pretty happy with it and expect to post it to my site this afternoon (and here too! Gentle Readers; never fear!). As I may have said before, it's not fiction, but it's real writing - and arguably of more import than, say, open letters to reactionary cardinals.
Gertrude Stein is still dead.