Celebrity Dream Cameo

I fell into the dream and was immediately in deep trouble.  I was Peter Jackson’s Wife’s assistant, attempting to help her get her four daughters ready for the Oscars.  I don’t even know if Peter Jackson is married or has kids, but this woman had brown hair in some sort of ridiculous hairdo, and a dress a color I can only see in my dreams.  In waking life, I would call it pink, but I think other people would call it something imaginary like magenta, fuschia, teal, cerulean, or lavender. I only ever saw the back of Peter Jackson’s Wife’s head because she was frantically trying to get her kids ready while they were running around the lobby and bathroom of this fantastically ornate Rococo movie theater.

In my dream, the stars arrived at the theater in their street clothes, collect their clothing and make-up bags from a baggage claim-like conveyor belt, and then struggle find a free mirror in the large bathrooms in the lobby of the theater.  Then everyone swarms the entrance to the theater and waits for the ushers to drop the velvet ropes.

Peter Jackson’s Wife is in the bathroom, trying to dress her daughters, and the kids aren’t cooperating.  The four daughters are 12, 10, 8, and 6, and all perfectly arrayed in height and range.  She is working on one at a time, and having trouble because I usually dress her kids.  Every time I try to enter the ladies bathroom/dressing room, Glenn Close yells, “Stay out, boy!”  Or Helen Mirren yells, “I know the Queen!  She can have you shot if you take one more step!”  I can just see these women’s faces in the mirrors, keeping an eye on the door for the paparazzi, and brushing their hair or doing whatever it is women spend four hours in a bathroom doing before a party.  Meanwhile, every five minutes, I can hear Peter Jackson’s Wife’s voice yelling, “Charles!  Help!  I don’t know how to put on these shoes!”  Or eyeliner, or skirt, or deodorant, or whatever.  So I keep trying to run to her aid, and keep getting yelled at by English Dames, or famous American actresses.  In the end, I just manage to keep the kids from running around the lobby screaming and yelling and hugging various stars.

By the time the kids are dressed and ready, they have each managed to get run over by golf carts.  Or something like that.  They have large black streaks across their perfectly shaded in various pinks (or magentas, or fuschias, or lavenders, or whatever fake colors women invent) from darkest and oldest to lightest and youngest.  Now with large tire marks, and grass stains all over.  “Um, Misses Jackson?  I think we need to change the kids again.”

At this point, the gong rings for the two minute warning of the opening of the theater.  Morgan Freeman runs past me, throwing elbows, and shoving his way to the front of the pack gathering at the velvet rope.  I see Brad Pitt wrestling with Leonard Nimoy, and Victoria Redgrave about to punch Mike Meyers, and then I am pulled over to a potted palm to help Peter Jackson’s Wife redress her children.

After the second gong rings, the stars all stampede into the theater.  I’m pretty sure Puff Daddy was trampled because I saw a zebra-striped fur coat flash to the ground.  I don’t understand how that indicates Sean Combs was in my dream, but I use the excuse of Dream Logic.  Now the bathroom is empty, but the ushers are locking it.  Peter Jackson’s Wife proceeds to dress her kids in another dress, their white piano recital dresses.*  While we are doing this, a paparazzo shows up and hides on the other side of the potted palm to take pictures of the Jackson family.  I crouch down with him on the far side of the kids and Mrs. Jackson and say, “You should know two things: these are not the Jacksons you’re looking for, and the kids are 12 and younger, so I can beat your ass senseless and no judge would convict me.” 

“They aren’t related to-“

“No.”

“And you’re threatening me?”

“Yes.”

“OK, no photos of the kids.” And he covers 90% of the lens with his fingers.

So we manage to get the girls in their new dresses, and then we hustle into the theater to try to find six seats together.  We can only find six seats up in the far corner, and then I get a call from Peter Jackson on my cell phone.  I whisper into my headset, describing the kids’ dresses, the location of our seats, and why we were late.  Peter Jackson yells at me until I explain that Helen Mirren and Glenn Close wouldn’t let me in the bathroom.  Peter Jackson accepts this explanation and tells me to watch for the cameraman who is a couple rows ahead of us with my friend, D. 

I really don’t have any idea what D was doing at the Oscars, but she was supposed to be assisting the Cameraman.  Peter Jackson was filming some sort of documentary about what life is like for the children of the second highest grossing director in the world.**  The production of the documentary had been plagued by a series of murders, and I had been attempting to solve the crimes in my spare time.

As I struggle to catch sight of the cameraman, I realize that D is sitting next to Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory and not the Cameraman.  At this point, I realize that the errant Cameraman is the murderer, and I warn Peter Jackson’s Wife never to be alone with the Cameraman because he is the murderer.  I then try to call Peter Jackson and warn him, but the lights go down in the theater for the start of the Oscar ceremony, and my cell phone service is blocked.  Then I woke up.

* I don’t know how I knew this, but dreams are weird.

** Avatar 2 was pretty good, and James Cameron went ahead and bought New Zealand.

CHUCKLES AMUSING BETRAYAL

GC writes in to us:

PP was home with me all excited that the 3B bus was coming to pick him up shortly. The in person 3B reunion was about to happen but he was most excited about the meat necklace that Jennifer had told him she made for him and was bringing to the reunion. He is going on and on to about how excited he is about this necklace and it is the best idea in the world because he can eat meat all night long off of it like a candy necklace but oh so much better. PP tells me that he hasn’t ate all day in anticipation of his meat necklace gift. I look out the front window and up pulls the 3B version of the Partridge Family bus. Jennifer gets out to come to the door and PP runs out to say hello and get his meat necklace. About 2 minutes later he comes back in the house fuming mad. I ask what is wrong and he says, “Jennifer shellacked my f&*kin meat necklace! WHY would anyone shellac meat? Now, I need something to eat because I can’t eat my necklace.” I told PP that I’m sure Jennifer put a lot of time, effort and not to mention thought into making his necklace and he still needed to be nice and say thank you. He was not pleased about this and went storming off back to the bus.

Allow me to add one tiny bit- in the dream GC said I wasn’t so much mad as frustrated and hungry, because I was so looking forward to my meat necklace. Who wouldn’t be?

Always in motion is the past, so it is not clear when the below occurred, save that it did, and it is awesome. Some deny Celebrity Dream Cameo. The truth of the matter is that it invades your unconscious mind. Do not taunt Celebrity Dream Cameo! Kathleen writes to CDC:

I had a dream about Celebrity Dream Cameo last night. For real. Celebrity Dream Cameo had a cameo in my dream!!!!! I can’t remember the details, just that I knew I had dreamed about an awesome celebrity and I had to write it up and email it to you. And then I was trying to stuff the pages I had written into a shoe box, but the shoe box was filled with random objects so the papers didn’t fit. And someone was telling me, just take out that stuff, but I said “No! Those things are necessary to understand the dream. I have to send this to Celebrity Dream Cameo”. True story.

This is an odd one, and fresh from last night.  This was one of those dreams that you have but don’t initially register upon waking up, but subsequently remember later in the day.  Some might not remember the big B, but it is to their discredit and possible harm, as he represents a particularly dangeral form of the college professor.  He was once an interesting and challenging practitioner of the web log, and while he had nary a cob logger, he would sometimes cob log himself out and about.

As an aside, I know Professor Berubé knows all, as is his dangeral wont, thus I expect him to find this page before either an Easterbrookian meteor or the Rapture render the point moot, but if he beats the ticking clock, I’d suggest some important things for the Prof. to increase his dangerous arsenal as I remain stunned that the hero of our subconscious lacks a RateMyProf chili pepper.  If I may offer this advice.

I really can’t think of anything more annoying than student evaluations.  We can, however, understand a little bit of the incredible danger involved in exposing oneself to Prof. B.:

Put your hand inside the puppet head indeed.

Anyhow, in my dream I was excited to receive a text message from my obviously good pal, Professor Berubé.  His message was about how he had just left a movie theater having finally gotten around to seeing Speed Racer. He was ecstatic about the colorful family fare.  My conscious mind was surprised at this evaluation of the film, but in my dream it seemed so obvious that he would love it as I did and as Kathleen did.

Upon waking and reflection I feel less sanguine about such harmoniousness of thought between our dear Professor and myself.  In all seriousness, Speed Racer, is a film that could easily be denounced or praised on a numerous number of fronts.  Compared to a wide swathe of the kid or family movie buffet, it certainly can be considered challenging.  I’d consider writing a bit about it, but the discussion would be amongst myself as no one I know has seen it outside of my subconscious and Kathleen.