I close my eyes
Then I drift away
Into the magic night
I softly sway
Oh smile and pray
Like dreamers do
Then I fall asleep
To dream my dreams of you
--"In Dreams", Roy Orbison
Last night I had a dream in which I was dining with the governor - governor of what, I don’t know, but it definitely wasn’t Sonny Perdue. During the salad course, every time I tried to take a bite, I’d drop a tiny cube of tomato, a strip of grated cheddar or a small lettuce fragment onto the pristine white tablecloth. All the while that political theory, foreign policy and other matters of great import were being discussed, I was obsessed instead with surreptitiously flicking salad debris back into my bowl or underneath the table so my mess didn’t show. Oh, no - using bad table manners in public! More correctly, I should have begun by saying I had a nightmare last night. Anyway, I finally gave up and quit trying to eat the salad but the governor noticed and boomed out, “Is something the matter with your salad?!? You don’t like it?!? We’ll have someone bring you another one!” thus calling everyone’s attention to me and adding to my humiliation. The waitstaff whisked away the offending salad and bestowed upon me a seafood salad, so I was able to drop and try to retrieve small chunks of lobster and shreds of crab instead. I either woke up or don’t remember the main course, although I’m sure it involved at least one of the following: tomato sauce for splattering, spinach for lodging between my front teeth, julienne vegetables for leaping off my fork, English peas for rolling into my lap, or one of those dishes that’s totally impossible for me to eat without making a complete mess even in my own home, such as barbecued ribs or crab legs.
One of the funniest/weirdest dreams I’ve ever had, at least that I remember, involved going on a ski trip with my friend Jorge. [Side note: I don’t ski. I’m best at things that don’t require a lot of balance and coordination. I don’t think Jorge skis either; he’s more of a ‘lounge on the beach while waiters bring drinks’ kind of person - as am I.] But anyway, we were skiing and at this particular resort, the difference between the beginner slopes and the expert slopes was the obstacles. Specifically, garbage dumpsters. Dotting the slope were these giant green garbage dumpsters placed on their backs with their plastic lids opening upward, in line with the slope, so that if you weren’t skilled enough to maneuver around them, you’d ski right into a garbage dumpster. Once you'd skied into one, they were deep enough that you had to wait until a friend or a resort employee skied by to rescue you after much pointing and jeering. They didn’t contain garbage, by the way - they were clean traps. That’s all of the funny/weird part, garbage dumpsters on the ski slopes, but if you’re interested, I made it down the black diamond slope without getting dumpstered. I didn’t rely on my skiing expertise to do it; instead, I used cunning. Every time it looked like I was headed for a dumpster, I took a dive and scooted around it on my behind, hid on the far side of the dumpster until no one was looking, got back up and skied a few more feet. Success through cheating, that’s my motto.
Then I drift away
Into the magic night
I softly sway
Oh smile and pray
Like dreamers do
Then I fall asleep
To dream my dreams of you
--"In Dreams", Roy Orbison
Last night I had a dream in which I was dining with the governor - governor of what, I don’t know, but it definitely wasn’t Sonny Perdue. During the salad course, every time I tried to take a bite, I’d drop a tiny cube of tomato, a strip of grated cheddar or a small lettuce fragment onto the pristine white tablecloth. All the while that political theory, foreign policy and other matters of great import were being discussed, I was obsessed instead with surreptitiously flicking salad debris back into my bowl or underneath the table so my mess didn’t show. Oh, no - using bad table manners in public! More correctly, I should have begun by saying I had a nightmare last night. Anyway, I finally gave up and quit trying to eat the salad but the governor noticed and boomed out, “Is something the matter with your salad?!? You don’t like it?!? We’ll have someone bring you another one!” thus calling everyone’s attention to me and adding to my humiliation. The waitstaff whisked away the offending salad and bestowed upon me a seafood salad, so I was able to drop and try to retrieve small chunks of lobster and shreds of crab instead. I either woke up or don’t remember the main course, although I’m sure it involved at least one of the following: tomato sauce for splattering, spinach for lodging between my front teeth, julienne vegetables for leaping off my fork, English peas for rolling into my lap, or one of those dishes that’s totally impossible for me to eat without making a complete mess even in my own home, such as barbecued ribs or crab legs.
One of the funniest/weirdest dreams I’ve ever had, at least that I remember, involved going on a ski trip with my friend Jorge. [Side note: I don’t ski. I’m best at things that don’t require a lot of balance and coordination. I don’t think Jorge skis either; he’s more of a ‘lounge on the beach while waiters bring drinks’ kind of person - as am I.] But anyway, we were skiing and at this particular resort, the difference between the beginner slopes and the expert slopes was the obstacles. Specifically, garbage dumpsters. Dotting the slope were these giant green garbage dumpsters placed on their backs with their plastic lids opening upward, in line with the slope, so that if you weren’t skilled enough to maneuver around them, you’d ski right into a garbage dumpster. Once you'd skied into one, they were deep enough that you had to wait until a friend or a resort employee skied by to rescue you after much pointing and jeering. They didn’t contain garbage, by the way - they were clean traps. That’s all of the funny/weird part, garbage dumpsters on the ski slopes, but if you’re interested, I made it down the black diamond slope without getting dumpstered. I didn’t rely on my skiing expertise to do it; instead, I used cunning. Every time it looked like I was headed for a dumpster, I took a dive and scooted around it on my behind, hid on the far side of the dumpster until no one was looking, got back up and skied a few more feet. Success through cheating, that’s my motto.
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