I was J Lo in my dream last night. As I was leaving the stage, a man staggered up to me and tried to say something in my ear. He was tackled but struggled hard and managed to get away. One of my bodyguards received a minor cut from a switchblade. The would-be attacker ran out the main doors, all of us in hot pursuit. From the top of the stairs, we watched him escape into the sewer system.
Police cars skidded up, men in bullet proof vests piled out. Badges, walkies, and dogs were in plentiful supply; a full scale manhunt was assembled. Suddenly I realized I had to pee and there was no time to go back to my dressing room. A sign led downstairs to the rest room. There was a long after-the-show line. Apart from the occasional double take fading to uncertainty no one recognized me. I finally got to use the end stall. It had no door, but was guarded by Kiko, a muscular Puerto Rican dressed in white satin vest and leather pants.
"I'll make sure no one takes any cell phone pictures, Ms. Lopez," he assured me.
To get to the toilet you had to climb a flight of stairs. As I sat on the literal throne, panties around my ankles, the wall on the far side dissolved. Members of a royal dress ball milled into the room, chatting discretely, and sipping champagne from the delicate flutes held in gloved white hands. Three people sat at the bottom of my stairs as I deployed the last square of toilet paper.
For some reason I had taken off my stockings. While I leaned against the toilet for balance to put them on, a white-haired woman in a russet satin ball gown and small half
crown took a seat, as if the toilet were a convenient chair.
The woman introduced herself as Edith, the duchess of somewhere-or-other vaguely german-sounding, and related a soft-spoken anecdote about her ex-husband that included historical references to Vatican edicts on marriage from the 1600s-1900s. She spoke in perfect precise syllables - the Queen's english. And she had questions for me - not about my singing career but about my relationships.
"How does one survive a terrible divorce?" "Is it possible to ever trust again after discovering your loved one with the maid?" "What do you do to cope with loneliness?" I was keenly aware of the Puerto Rican traces lingering in my answers.
I took her hand and kissed it before taking my leave, an awkward moment as I realized I had yet to wash my own hands; she didn't appear to notice or care. At the bottom of the stairs a young royal apprehended me and demanded to know why I was impersonating a celebrity. He refused to believe who I was, and left abruptly, after delivering a promise that he would return with the police.
I made my way through the banquet tables, feeling completely out of my element. I tripped on a chair leg and almost bumped into the real J Lo. She was a few inches taller, and thinner but wore a nearly identical outfit; I allowed a moment of pride - surely hers had taken hours to construct whereas mine had been hastily assembled during the 90-minute show - including time to pose and dress figurine dolls of her backup dancers - all from the vantage point of the lighting technician's balcony.
I flushed and stammered, "I love your work so much." She gave an uncomfortable smile and turned away, just as a police officer took my arm.
To get to the interrogation room we had to pass a long corridor where my father, a rabbi, was giving a reading from the Torah. His back was to me, so he didn't see me being dragged past, hand-cuffed and in tears.
The lead detective demanded to know the details of the conspiracy between me and the escaped man. I honestly said I didn't know; I just liked to make costumes and act out doll scenes of various artists' shows that passed through the concert venue. Clearly he felt I knew more than I was telling. He slammed the table. I woke up.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Prison camp for women
I spent the vast majority of my dream locked in a prison camp for "disobedient women". The buildings were made of rough unfinished wooden boards. There was no heat, electricity or running water. Time passed strangely; it might have been days or years.
It was unclear who was holding us or why. I had brief, secret affairs with two of the other inmates. It was frantic and intensely erotic as we believed that discovery would result in some terrible, unknowable retribution.
We made endless attempts to escape, each thwarted and derided as unoriginal, the prison guards' scolding accompanied by a soul-crushing litany of the number of times that exact strategy had been unsuccessfully deployed by a former inmate.
Finally, two of us managed to escape through holes we'd made in the outer chicken-wire fence, only to observe an extraction team descend on the camp minutes later and arrest our captors. The world we were released into was bleaker than we remembered, our victory over imprisonment entirely anti-climactic.
Later I was working in my lab. My printer broke down so I went down the hall to ask another lab group if they had any suggestions for how to fix it. A woman on the couch in the break room said I could use her lab printer instead.
On my way back to my lab, I was stopped by the head of a different lab, our direct neighbour.
She was flushed, her words clipped. "You have your fingers in everything, don't you? You walk around this department using up whatever you like even if it doesn't belong to you."
I stood there stunned, unable to think of an appropriate reply.
She moved closer, put her hand on the center of my chest, and pushed me back several times for emphasis. "This. Has got. To stop."
When I got home, my roommate had let her new Burmese kitten out on the balcony. Rather than play or explore, the kitten sat on the railing of the balcony staring at us with palpable disdain.
A dark shape in my peripheral vision. I looked up and saw my upstairs neighbour's pet, a human-sized flying demon, perched on the balcony above us. Suddenly it leaped into the air, and began a dive headed straight toward us. I barely had time to scoop the kitten out of harms' way. The demon's claws grazed my knuckles, a hot sulfuric wind burned my eyes. It emitted a frustrated shriek and slow-flap-flapped its enormous leathery wings to climb back up to its own balcony.
I woke with dry mouth and a headache. I need to drink more water.
It was unclear who was holding us or why. I had brief, secret affairs with two of the other inmates. It was frantic and intensely erotic as we believed that discovery would result in some terrible, unknowable retribution.
We made endless attempts to escape, each thwarted and derided as unoriginal, the prison guards' scolding accompanied by a soul-crushing litany of the number of times that exact strategy had been unsuccessfully deployed by a former inmate.
Finally, two of us managed to escape through holes we'd made in the outer chicken-wire fence, only to observe an extraction team descend on the camp minutes later and arrest our captors. The world we were released into was bleaker than we remembered, our victory over imprisonment entirely anti-climactic.
Later I was working in my lab. My printer broke down so I went down the hall to ask another lab group if they had any suggestions for how to fix it. A woman on the couch in the break room said I could use her lab printer instead.
On my way back to my lab, I was stopped by the head of a different lab, our direct neighbour.
She was flushed, her words clipped. "You have your fingers in everything, don't you? You walk around this department using up whatever you like even if it doesn't belong to you."
I stood there stunned, unable to think of an appropriate reply.
She moved closer, put her hand on the center of my chest, and pushed me back several times for emphasis. "This. Has got. To stop."
When I got home, my roommate had let her new Burmese kitten out on the balcony. Rather than play or explore, the kitten sat on the railing of the balcony staring at us with palpable disdain.
A dark shape in my peripheral vision. I looked up and saw my upstairs neighbour's pet, a human-sized flying demon, perched on the balcony above us. Suddenly it leaped into the air, and began a dive headed straight toward us. I barely had time to scoop the kitten out of harms' way. The demon's claws grazed my knuckles, a hot sulfuric wind burned my eyes. It emitted a frustrated shriek and slow-flap-flapped its enormous leathery wings to climb back up to its own balcony.
I woke with dry mouth and a headache. I need to drink more water.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Eggs, bacon and DUI
I went to see Ira Glass and Dan Savage in a DJ-off at the Showbox last night. Dan was chill in jeans, t-shirt. Ira wore a Beetles-era suit and danced around like a five year old on steroids, utterly winning the crowd over with his energy and innocence. He pulled the mainly female audience onstage to dance, tango'd with Dan Savage, conducted the mosh pit and crowd surfed. Twice.
I may not have been 100% sober on the drive home which, as I'm a child of the MADD era, always engenders guilt, even if I'd have most definitely passed the sobriety test.
In my dream, I drove a converted city party bus through the snowy streets of Philadelphia. I had twelve fairly intoxicated and animated passengers. Going uphill through a residential neighborhood at about 60 mph, I hit two pedestrians. It took forever to stop the bus and then it rolled back to the bottom of the hill where the cops were waiting. I opened the doors. An officer motioned me outside and handed me a plastic tube I assumed was a breathalyzer.
"I have never taken one of these," I said. "What do I do?"
The officer told me to bite the top and leave my saliva on the strip. It was a DNA test.
"May I ask how things are going up the road?"
"Not good," the officer responded.
My eyes welled up with tears and my voice was unsteady, "Are they...?"
"Both alive," he said, "one is conscious, just bruised, but the other is on his way to hospital in critical condition."
A crowd had gathered; it fanned out from where I and the police were standing at the door to the bus. I've never had so much evidence that large numbers of humans actually live in suburbia. It was like an impromptu bus stop at rush hour, with me as the first passenger, forever about to get on; behind me collected the rubber-neckers, playing weary commuters, sweating patiently in suits and briefcases.
I only had two drinks last night, over four hours, but I completely forgot to drink water. I'm going to go cook up a greasy breakfast and engage in some gratitude. First and foremost, that I've yet to run anybody over with my car.
I may not have been 100% sober on the drive home which, as I'm a child of the MADD era, always engenders guilt, even if I'd have most definitely passed the sobriety test.
In my dream, I drove a converted city party bus through the snowy streets of Philadelphia. I had twelve fairly intoxicated and animated passengers. Going uphill through a residential neighborhood at about 60 mph, I hit two pedestrians. It took forever to stop the bus and then it rolled back to the bottom of the hill where the cops were waiting. I opened the doors. An officer motioned me outside and handed me a plastic tube I assumed was a breathalyzer.
"I have never taken one of these," I said. "What do I do?"
The officer told me to bite the top and leave my saliva on the strip. It was a DNA test.
"May I ask how things are going up the road?"
"Not good," the officer responded.
My eyes welled up with tears and my voice was unsteady, "Are they...?"
"Both alive," he said, "one is conscious, just bruised, but the other is on his way to hospital in critical condition."
A crowd had gathered; it fanned out from where I and the police were standing at the door to the bus. I've never had so much evidence that large numbers of humans actually live in suburbia. It was like an impromptu bus stop at rush hour, with me as the first passenger, forever about to get on; behind me collected the rubber-neckers, playing weary commuters, sweating patiently in suits and briefcases.
I only had two drinks last night, over four hours, but I completely forgot to drink water. I'm going to go cook up a greasy breakfast and engage in some gratitude. First and foremost, that I've yet to run anybody over with my car.
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