Last night I dreamt that Dominic Monaghan wouldn't be my friend. The nerve. Seriously. I mean, in real life, there's no reason why an up-and-coming young film and television star would want to be my friend, but within the confines of my brain, he could at least come out for sushi or something.
The whole non-incident really bothers me. I'm afraid it could be symptomatic of a failure of imagination on my part. If I was at my full fantastical strength, I could bag any number of imaginary friends. But last night I behaved exactly as I would have in real life: I was self-conscious, I said ridiculous things, I was dressed like a ten-year-old boy and I think I may have spilled a drink on Dom. You'd think that, given the relative limitless ability of the brain to conjure up dreams depicting everything from talking dinosaurs to underwater cities to unaided flight, I'd be able to carry on an intelligent conversation with another person. But no.
In his dreams, Eric regularly hangs out in record stores with Paul Weller, as the two of them buy armloads of inexplicably discounted, rare imports he's spent years looking for. I, on the other hand, have recurring dreams about packing suitcases.
There's always some impending disaster (volcano, fire, stampeding herd of wildebeests [incidentally, why isn't this spelled "wildebeasts"?]) and I'm forced to pack up all my irreplaceable belongings, get in the car and GO. Instead, I spend the whole dream engaged in a prolonged effort to define "irreplaceable." My diaries? Sure. The cats? Certainly. A particularly well-fitting pair of jeans? Hell yes. The list gets longer and longer, until I'm packing duplicate copies of paperback novels, my favorite pair of knee socks, my Tempur-Pedic pillow and a box of tea bags. Luckily, the lava and pounding hooves never manage to reach my door before I wake up, but what the crap kind of way is that to spend an evening of otherwise potentially promising REM sleep? Please.
So last night, when Dom and I could have been holding court at Jones or Cafe du Nord, keeping our friends entertained as the Sapphire and tonics flowed freely, I completely blew it. I'm just hoping I don't have a similar dream tonight, thereby setting the stage for a 2005 marked by an unsatisfying sleeping life filled with grocery outings and visits to the podiatrist.
Well, Happy New Year, anyway. Wish me luck.
Because I am a freakish fan of traditional English Christmas carols, today I give you this, from "To Drive the Cold Winter Away."
All hail to the days that merit more praise
Than all the rest of the year
And welcome the nights that double delights
As well for the poor as the peer
Sweet blessings attend each merry man's friend
Each does but the best that he may
Forgetting all wrongs with poems and songs
To drive the cold winter away
Whoa.
It seems as though New Yorker staff writer David Grann and I have the same news-item fixations. Remember my last giant squid post? Well, Grann wrote another article I read about this kiwi marine biologist dude who hunts baby giant squid. And what about that little tidbit about the leading Sherlock Holmes scholar who was found garroted? Well, Grann went and wrote an article about that, too. Right now, only a Q&A about the article is online. But it's in the most recent issue.
Oddly, this is the second time this week Sherlock Holmes has made a cameo in my daily listening/reading life. NPR's Weekend Edition ran a story about Norton's New Annotated Sherlock Holmes.
Does this mean I'm going to run out and buy the book to devour all the Holmesian goodness contained therein? Probably not. But I am fascinated by "the great game," in which Holmes scholars "adhere to the premise that Holmes and Watson were real people."
Why haven't, say, Jane Austen scholars spent more time looking for the letters of Elizabeth Bennet? And wouldn't Shelley fans just blow the lid off this whole stem cell thing if they could find Dr. Frankenstein's notes? Personally, I'm looking forward to reading the complete lectures of Jim Dixon.
Or...I could just buy the latest Thursday Next installment from Jasper Fforde. Can't believe I let that one slip by...
Oh, woe. I don't know what to write for this entry, yet I feel compelled to write something since it has been nigh past a fortnight since I last updated the olde blogge.
I think I shall begin by saying Go Ukraine! You guys rock. Your president was elected in a blatantly fraudulent manner and what did you do? Did you sit around and cry into your dry sparkling wine? Did you play Halo 2? Did you watch "Desperate Housewives?" No! You took to the streets in sub-freezing weather and demanded justice! Now your Supreme Court has ruled that there must be another run-off. And you deserve it. Because of your plucky "doing something" philosophy.
Now, where's that remote?
I wanted this blog entry to be accompanied by a photo of the Michael's craft store shelf on which someone had rearranged a set of unpainted wooden letters to spell out "STUPIDASS." But wouldn't you know it, my fancy new camera phone was out of juice. Damn you, Nokia 6600! Damn you all to hell!
In about ten minutes I am going to leave work and drive to the San Jose airport to pick up my friend Nancy who is coming to visit for the weekend. Do you hear that, all you SoCal "friends" of mine?! Nancy wins the Who Will Visit Eric and Bronwyn First? Award. But we've still got hospitality to spare. So don't let me down. Come on. Seriously. We have a pull-out couch. I'll drive you to Napa. We can go wine-tasting.
Hello?
Anyone?
You can find more of the interesting word usements I structure on Apple.com.
Read my article, Better Writing Through Design, on No. 242 of A List Apart.