I suppose this is properly speaking a dream. But it’s a cryptic note from the dream world. It was mostly just a “graphitic content” warning for the dream to come. I’m excited by what that means. My guess is some of those neat charcoal-sketch animation like you see in Disney cartoons from back in the 70s that nobody cares about, or cared about when they were making them. I like the aesthetic.
I’m busy dealing with a thing at work where something that hasn’t changed in a year-plus and that I didn’t know was being used for anything suddenly stopped working quite right, and looking over the project I can’t figure out how it would ever have been working quite right based on the now not-quite-right scheme. So instead let me share this with you: It’s an Estonian blog dedicated to characterizing all the appearances of pigeons in movies and TV shows. Yes, it includes discussion of the pigeons’ symbolic import and relevance to the plot. You’re welcome.
But I fear is: a lengthy dream in which I am trying to finish an anecdote about some very slow women carrying tiny dogs who were extraordinarily slow in getting on the bus. A small bus, the kind you use to get from the airport terminal to the car rental place. And there was something about their slowness in getting on that was leading to some real killer of a punch line, but I couldn’t get to it. My audience was, I suppose fairly enough, thinking this was a boring story and wasn’t willing to trust that I was getting somewhere. If there is a lesson from it, I suppose it’s that I must be ready to issue subpoenas to demand people wait for me to signal the end of an anecdote before judging it.
And, in fairness, I will need a way to signal the end of an anecdote. I’m considering getting a small flag reading “END OF ANECDOTE”, or perhaps a highly portable musical instrument on which I could play a distinct note. Or perhaps something in a dagger, held close to ready — but not actually pointed at anyone on purpose — and set down when my story is done. Maybe I need another opinion. How do you folks signal when you’ve reached the end of an anecdote and that the audience may now have a reaction to it? Bonus points if it’s something that can be created using only things that could be found around the house. Thank you.
Renowned playwright Christopher Shinn recently twitterwrought this:
Last week’s dreams would do pretty well for that: “Suspension Ping-Pong” is a viable play title. And “The Insincere Seagull” swings too. But last night’s? That was one that just didn’t have any disturbing elements, really. There was just a lot of shuffling up and down cramped stairwells and a lot of confusion on my part about why I was involved in the process of picking a comedic weather reporter. It also featured overnight news polka artist and all-purpose comedian Barry Mitchell explaining to me that a joke he’d used when he got into the business of comic weather reporting was a good one. “The kind American audiences like, that’s funny but that the more they think about it makes less sense”.
I remember that in the dream I also found the joke amusing, but all that’s left of it is the punch line “dog whistles”. (I mean literally the thing used to get dogs’ attention, not the thing where you insist someone’s crazy for hearing a racist comment when you say something racist.) Probably I thought too much about the joke. I had no idea why I was part of any of this. But I haven’t known why I was part of anything I was part of since my undergrad commencement. And that I knew was going to on whether I was part of it or not, but if I was part of it, I would hear a speech by Senator Bill Bradley. I guess that’s what I needed back then. So even not having any idea why I was there in the dream wasn’t disturbing. It was just what I’d have expected.
As I say, though, there’s not any disturbing elements in this dream. Just shuffling around stairs and pondering what kinds of jokes really sell.
So you know that extreme ping-pong sport where the competitors and table are all suspended from a beam extended from a skyscraper, far above ground? Sure, we’re all interested in that. OK, so apparently the dream world wants me to see a documentary about the crews that set up and test the harness and frames to make the game safe and playable. Including some daring footage of how they lasso a steel beam to get the first elements installed. And I’m not all that bothered by heights, but you want to see people tossing cables out to grab a steel beam 400 feet up some North Korean(?) skyscraper and I’m starting to get nervous.
The dream also included some relevant segments from one of those odd little 20-minute making-of documentaries narrated by that deep-voiced guy which they used to make for 60s and 70s films so that … decades in the future Turner Classic Movies would have some filler. I don’t know what their business model was. Anyway, they included clips from that because a lot of the fundamental technology for skyscraper-suspended ping-pong was developed for the famous(?) zipline sequence of John Wayne’s Chisum, a movie that I will now go my entire life without seeing, thank you very much.
I understand it might be odd to make a life choice, including a small one like whether to ever see Chisum, on the basis of a dream like that. But it was a documentary in my dream and therefore must be accurate.
So to the seagull in my dream who was trying to apologize by delivering a fully functional rocket to my backyard: I appreciate the gesture. It’s a most impressive gift. And I do appreciate the work gone in to getting a Saturn I — not a V, not even the more hip I-B but an actual Saturn I as used in flight testing and development from 1961 through 1965. It’s a true connoisseur’s choice of rocket vehicle. Nevertheless, while I’ll accept presents as tokens of reconciliation they are not, by themselves, reconciliation. It is harder to deliver a simple “I’m sorry” from your own beak, but it would mean something that no present ever could, and I promise to accept it with as much grace as possible given our history. And I do thank you for the gesture.
Still, on another level, I can’t see any way to launch the blasted thing from my backyard, what with how the goldfish pond isn’t nearly deep enough a water trench for the necessary sound suppression. Not to mention not being deep enough for the goldfish to come out well afterwards. Plus who’s got a launch gantry in mid-Michigan anyway? I’ve got too much stuff just hanging around to show to accept something that hasn’t got practical use.
So It was something of an anxiety dream, all the frustrations of running around the house packing our rocket ship with everything we’d need after the end of the world. It’s hard enough getting ready to move, and when you figure you’re going to have to leave stuff behind and never get it back you know there’s going to be no end of double-checking that you have all eight hundred kinds of USB connection. I mean, once the world comes to an end when do you expect to visit a Best Buy again? Plus there’s getting my parents’ cats to behave and not go running into debris piles. And then the tension just ratchets up and up until the moment comes where we launch, escape the end of the world, and then it turns into a road trip to Baltimore. Which is its own kind of hassle because, you know, I’ve been to Baltimore and I’ve never been to the Udvar-Hazy Center and it would be so easy to go there, wouldn’t it? Why can’t we go there instead? But I’m too shy to insist, even in my own dreams, because of course. There’s no justice. I leave behind my camera’s USB cable.
It was your typical sort of dream, by which I mean typical for me. One of those long, rambling, confusing dreams shuffling back and forth between offices as cramped and overstuffed as a used book store’s aisles are. I was doing the best I could to help a friend interview for a job he wasn’t actually qualified for but could probably get up to speed on fast enough that people wouldn’t catch on. The way all of us do.
But dragging me down was one of the people with an actual job there, who kept demanding I explain how it was Ogden Nash wrote such a fantastic book explaining nuclear fusion. And to be fair it did look like a great book. Even in the ancient, falling-apart copy they had, all the illustrations were still animating very well. Had to agree the publisher had a lot of confidence to publish a book quite that lavish. She wanted to know when Ogden Nash was going to publish another science book and I had to say, I was pretty sure he had died. Even found in the preface that the book hadn’t been quite finished as Nash died just after turning in the first draft in December 1956. I felt like a bit of a heel dashing her hopes for a follow-up book on brane theory. In the non-dream worlds, Nash died in May 1971, so my powers to accurately pluck dates out of nowhere seem not to extend to writers of amusing verse.
I have no evidence that Ogden Nash wrote any science popularizations of note.
So I was having this pretty nice standard-issue dream when I suddenly got a text message from The Left. That’s unsettling since I don’t really text-message and I’m not sure how I would get it. But then I had to get up and go to the bathroom. I guess that’s fine; I’m not sure what I would say to The Left. “I love when you work on stuff that tamps down the brutality of life?” I bet they get that all the time.
Meanwhile like a week ago my love dreamed we were in the San Francisco zoo and couldn’t think how we got that far away. The dream me couldn’t offer any answers. My love, looking for a rational explanation of why we’d be there, asked, “Have we been to any amusement parks this trip?” And the dream me answered, “No, I don’t think so.” And I love that the dream-me, like the real me, takes so much edge off anything he says that he’ll leave room for plausible doubt on the question “have you been to an amusement park on this trip?” That’s so me.
OK, OK, dream that seemed like it went on for two hours or more. I will take your advice. Never again will I try to sneak out naked to the mall’s movie theater with a bunch of archeologists. While there’s probably someplace I could get some respectable cover there, I wouldn’t have any place to keep my wallet so I’d have to watch the movie from the changing room. Also there’s so many venues for embarrassment with the archeologists, especially when people challenge their key findings and they have to fly, cross-country, to Seattle by way of Los Angeles, which just makes for two hecks of long trips. I don’t even know why the movie was controversial to the archeologists. Maybe something in it presented the Nuditarians in a light not generally accepted by current research.
I know I haven’t had many dream-world updates lately but that’s just how these things happen. There was a pretty detailed one this week, though. Apparently it was some sort of long-form documentary program about the differences between North American and Pacific Asian giant monsters. Turns out, it seems, that there’s a tendency for North American giant monsters to have many more sets of limbs and wings than their East Asian counterparts. And this apparently reflects longstanding cultural practices. Lest you think that’s an unchanging fact of life, though, apparently the Asian giant monsters are looking to add more sets of claws and wings to become more competitive in the world market. And somehow this documentary didn’t describe any of this as a new arms race.
It means something and I don’t know what.
It was a perfectly nice flying dream right up to the point that the swan or whatever it was decided to land on my back and freeload on the ride. I can’t blame the swan for its decision. It’s a sensible enough decision on its part. It’s just that swans turn out to be pointy in surprisingly many places. The narrator did his part to shoo the swan off, but the swan was paying no attention. Maybe the narrator was added in post. I don’t think it was Morgan Freeman narrating. I suspect I was doing the narration myself, since I got to talking in my sleep loud enough that my love nudged me awake and expressed concern about what I was going on about. I don’t know what the swan made of it all.
I spent a considerable part of that dream trying to work out exactly which crazypants episode of Star Trek: Voyager it was. It was yet another episode where Tuvok comes down with temporary insanity. This time I’m pretty certain it was meant to teach an endearingly sincere but klunky message about toleration. It just did it in the form of Tuvok being caught in a quasi-hallucinatory state where he shifts between the starship and being maybe in the past, maybe shifting back to Actual Planet Vulcan where he’s gradually realizing he’s too enthusiastic about hunting down the packs of cyborg Vulcan kangaroos rampaging through the endless desert. I think the cyborg Vulcan kangaroos might have had antennas, which suggests they might be an invasive species, possibly from the Andorian worlds. No, they didn’t display any ice powers.
Anyway, the cinematography on this was just fantastic. I mean, this was clearly the episode of the year where they were trying, with a deliberate color design and on-location shooting with deep focus so you can do stunts like have the attention on some tiny thing in the distance and have someone walk in the near foreground, crisp and sharp. I think they might’ve been using 70mm film for some of it. So I’m a little disappointed I didn’t see how it all turned out, but I’m going to go ahead and suppose that Tuvok came to decide he didn’t want to be prejudiced, but rather wanted to come to hate people individually and for his own reasons, not those he picked up from society.
I think it was an episode from before Seven of Nine joined the show. I’m pretty sure they rescued Neelix from the cyborg Vulcan(?) kangaroo mob, unless it turns out that he only died in a hallucination or something like that. That’s to be expected I guess.
I’m sorry to go back to the dream-well so often but there’ve been a bunch of updates recently. So, suppose I have some vaguely related young kid, the kind that’s at the age where he communicates mostly with enthusiastic shouts or muttered words barely coaxed out. I admit that’s kind of how I talk too, although without the enthusiasm, because I got over enthusiasm when I was in college. Anyway, the kid’s question is, “if I had a brother how would I know which to choose?” It’s important enough to be repeated until I give an answer. And I don’t want to put any pressure on you all but I kind of get the sense that if I give the wrong answer the world may end. So, you know, any advice you’ve got, I’ll consider, but if it does end the world I’m naming sources.
I had a disturbing kind of dream. I mean, the dream was thrilling enough. Near as I can make out, it was a modern remake of Back To The Future. It was pretty good in its way, more sarcastic than the original and more built on making a complicated time-travel plot instead of the character and charm and amused irony of the original, but still. If it hadn’t been a remake it would’ve been unquestionably a likable, though not lovable, movie.
Then I realized: why hasn’t there been a remake? And before you start giving me any excuses at all remember that they remade The Secret Life Of Walter Mitty two years ago and Footloose four years back. The only rational explanation for why the remake of Back To The Future hasn’t arrived yet? OK, it’s some stupidly complicated time-travel thing where they went back and released the remake in 1934. Shut up. I’m taking this explanation: they’ve made one in secret and they’re going to surprise us with a release of it on whatever the heck day the 2015 sequences in the second movie was.
Well. I know that’s unsettling. Sorry. If my dreams are right, though, South Park is about to do one of those surprisingly insightful episodes. In this one they explain the Crimean War. So that’s something to look forward to.
Another night full of a strange dream. Part of it was about dealing with flooding in my parents’ basement that included waves with whitecaps huge enough Popeye was having trouble with them. Part of it was having to testify before a Congressional committee about how Fantasy Island‘s commissioned-LARP business model made more sense than learning the secret desires of the fabulously wealthy and blackmailing them. I wasn’t sure myself but speculated — clearly marking it as such — that the Fantasy Island project was partly in support of local theater programs. I’m not sure that it was, because the economics of it didn’t seem to make sense. But, I mean, the alternative is that Ricardo Montalban’s Mr Roarke was secretly one of the fae folk. Does that really make more sense than trying to work out the Fantasy Island project’s books? Yes, probably so. Everybody’s had that idea too. But for some reason you can’t just come out and say that in front of a Congressional Committee. A Joint Congressional Committee, maybe. Really, I wasn’t at my sharpest while dreaming.
Oh, it may have been one of those slightly frantic dreams, re-creating the experience of my parents moving out of their home, with all that running up and down the long corridors and that weird state of affairs where stuff needs to get done but somehow none of it can be done right now. You know the way things get.
Anyway, my mother had the right comment to sum it up. She’d explained to the guy in the gift shop that while there really was a lot of merchandise — and there was; the gift shop area of the house was easily thirty feet by thirty feet with counters and shelves filling the area — none of it was ever quite interesting enough to buy and take home, to the room outside. So it is. I know the gift shop in my current non-dream home is terribly under-stocked. I can’t blame the staff for the low sales volume. Has anyone had better luck with their homes’ gift shops?
It was a thrilling-looking game show starting up in that dream. You could tell just from the introduction of the contestants. One was the returning champion, of course, and one was from a place I had lived. Seeing someone from somewhere you know is always thrilling for absolutely no good reason. And the final contestant was the collective of world-famous architecture by the renowned Hugo Gropius. And I’m sorry that I woke up at that point and couldn’t get the dream back because I was eager to see if it would figure into gameplay at all that there was no such renowned architect. I’d love to know whether it was actually the work of Walter Gropius or of Hugo Grotius. Certainly Gropius’s work would be a formidable contestant in any general-trivia quiz show. Meanwhile, Grotius’s work was more about establishing the foundations of international law and for freedom of the seas, but no body of architectural work of any note I’m aware of. Maybe I can catch the reveal in reruns.
I’d like to point out I realized it was just a school stress dream. It had that classic form where I remembered in the midst of helping somebody or other move somewhere or other that the professor said we didn’t have to turn anything in by any particular time. That’s plausible enough for grad school, since the only actual requirement of grad school is “eventually, you have to leave”. It’s the best. But in the dream I realized I had started thinking maybe the second week of class that I could do this stuff later, and now it was way later, and then I realized that of course I was just having a dream, luckily moments before the City Fathers — the giant vacuum-tube supercomputers running the space-travelling New York City in James Blish’s classic science fiction Cities In Flight series of novels — ordered my summary execution. Fortunately, imaginary computers have little power over people in dreams. Also classic science fiction mostly means “it’s probably better if you don’t go back and re-read it while paying attention”.
I figure any regular readers here know I sometimes get clear messages of some sort of mischief afoot from the dream world, like when I got in the way of His Majesty, King of the Nuditarians. If you didn’t know that, well, sometimes that happens. Usually there’s a clear message, like I’ve been unintentionally messing up Tina Fay’s costumes and should stop whatever I do that causes that to happen, even if it just seems to be existing. But sometimes I just don’t know what to make of one.
So you know how the world is full of TV shows in which celebrities get into quarrels with people, who are then delighted because they’ve been yelled at by a celebrity? Apparently the dream world has those too, and in one of them a Russian game show consists of getting into insult-matches with a host who looks strikingly like Conan O’Brien, which is plausible since the last fifteen years have taught us the parts of Europe that aren’t Ireland are full of people who look strikingly like Conan O’Brien. And somehow I was there for a taping.
I suppose it’s one of those shows done on the street, because the host was hanging around what looked like a desolate CVS. You know the sort, where there’s several metal shelves empty of everything and you’re not perfectly sure the place didn’t close two weeks ago and they haven’t got rid of everything yet. It can’t have been an ambush, though, because the contestant could see the cameras and us-the-audience hanging around as Russian Game Show Host Conan challenged him.
Apparently there’s topics in competitive insulting these days, which shows how out of touch I am. I know insulting from being with my siblings, where you just tried to hurt the other’s feelings, and if that didn’t work, you dropped an empty glass cake pan on their heads. (Um, also, sorry about that. But I won.) Maybe it’s just the game show does that to keep the contest challenging. Anyway, the topic got to be insulting one another about the weather, even though most people aren’t responsible for that, what with the historically low turnout for weather-board elections.
The contestant I thought gave a pretty good go at it, especially when Russian Game Show Conan pounced on some kind of issue with the way the contestant had used the word “glacier”, which didn’t seem to be getting anywhere but was causing a small, perfectly formed, pillar of ice about the radius of a manhole cover to rise up from the Desolate CVS floor and push into the display shelves. I must conclude that insult-based game shows are filmed on magic-realist sets these days. But Russian Game Show Conan’s turn ended without his getting to the actual point of all this definition-quibbling and very-localized pillar-of-ice raising. I thought it was going to be a walkover.
The audience was having a good time of it, though, and I guess I was too, laughing pretty dramatically and smiling widely and all that, which I guessed look good on camera because one of the production associates waved me over to the aisle where Desolate CVS stores the stuff left over from no precisely identifiable holiday. I figured she was having me sign a release because I’d been caught on camera saying something too good to pass up, although when I looked at the card I realized she was writing in my name as a team captain.
At this point I woke up, which is probably for the best. I’m not really in form for insult contests these days and who knows if Desolate CVS stores even carry glass cake pans, and I was distracted by the whole pillar-of-ice thing which seemed more important to me than anyone else.
Still, there’s the problem of what message I should draw from this dream. It’s clearly not something simple, like, get out of important nude people’s way or apologize. That I should be wary of Russian insult-based game shows is apparent, but hardly seems like a lesson I needed to learn, given my preference for parlor-game and trivia-based game shows. I guess there’s something about being aware of where glass cake pans are at all times. Any ideas, readers?