So drink, drink, drink and be ill tonight

I'm pretty good at remembering my dreams, but I'm not perfect. The last part of that sentence may come as a surprise and disappointment to you, but it's true. And not being able to piece together the random parts of some of my dreams into a complete, entertaining whole is only one example of my imperfection.

I'm getting off track (another imperfection). Back to the dreams: Let me try to think of an example...um...OH! Last night, coincidentally, I woke up in the middle of the night, remembering only pieces of a dream I wanted so badly to remember the whole of. But I couldn't remember anything other than being on a city street at night, in a spot that looked like if Farragut Square existed in London, and I came across a superstar band playing on the sidewalk. The only person I can remember in this band was Johnny Marr, and he was playing drums. The band was playing "Back In Black" and it was so exciting to me, that I found myself dancing down the street, playing a complex, fast-fill rhythm on my thighs...with two big cast-iron skillets.

I wish to hell I could tell you who else was in the band or why they were there or what was said to me by the two women on the street who looked at me like I was crazy, as though they hadn't seen someone on the streets filling the night with the intoxicating, exotic rhythm that only thigh skillets can bring.

Maybe it was a confidence thing: I wanted to show the world that I'm a better drummer than Johnny Marr, which I almost surely am.

Anyway, if any of you happen to be DVR-ing my dreams, I'd love a copy of that one.

An open letter to my dream machine

Dear whoever scripts my dreams,

I'm a big fan. I really am. We've had some great times: more often than not, you give me dreams where I'm in beautiful, tropical places, and you've come up with some hilarious stuff; material that my waking state could never cook up.

Where your skills are lacking lately is in the anxiety dreams. Usually, I love your style in this department: no need to dress up the worry in psychobabble. You put forward a situation that may be unrealistic or outlandish, but it's clear what I'm stressing about, and I can wake up and think, "Yup. Dream machine's right. I do feel like the my job is dragging me down like that scientist who was pulled under the water of a lush tropical bay by a huge mutant crocodile." And I carry on my life without a second thought.

But lately...your imagination is slipping. While I don't want difficult-to-analyze stuff, I don't need things quite as blatant as last night. Giving me a dream where three attractive coworkers from my recently-ex-job took turns going into the hotel room of a famous athlete while I waited outside for them was really kind of a slap in the face, and it's made me feel pretty lousy all day in that totally irrational way that dreams do.

Now, I appreciate that you tried to make up for that dream in my nap just now with some really funny scenes from a movie with Seth Rogen and Will Farrell, but you didn't make it vivid enough for me to remember, which tells me that maybe you're just not trying very hard.

You do great work, and I have a great appreciation for you. Don't get me wrong. But if you could work more with analogies and symbolism in the anxiety dreams, just for a little while at least, I'd appreciate it.

Love,
     Reid

You made me remember my dreams

I don't get a chance to be creative that often in my waking life, so it's always a relief when my dream life takes up the slack. I love it when I'll hear a song in a dream and think it's really great only to realize that it wasn't a song that exists. Which means that I wrote it. In my sleep. I'm sure that if I could actually remember these songs that they'd be terrible, but it's still nice to think that I can write decent songs, at least in my sleep.

Last night, sometime during the five hours of sleep that I managed to get, I had a dream where I went to a bookstore in Dupont Circle (which didn't really look like the real Dupont Circle, of course, and the bookstore didn't look like any of the bookstores) where a bubbly, makeup-smeared chick-lit author named Jess O'Neill was giving a reading of her new book Après, which told a story around the conversations that a couple had after sex. I was at this bookstore just by chance, but I was eager to see this author since my little sister had known her in college and hated her for some reason. Instead of a reading, though, the author was doing some exercise where she was going to be free-writing on a subject given to her for fifteen minutes and then would read it out to the crowd of women gathered there to see her.

I woke up angry but impressed. I was angry because it was four o'fucking'clock in the morning and I knew there was no way I would be getting back to sleep. But I was impressed with what I had dreamt. Après, a book around the conversations that a couple have after sex? That's not bad! I mean, it is pretty terrible in a cheesy way, but it's my terrible (I think), and more importantly, a completely realistic premise and title for a chick-lit book.

So with hours until I needed to be anywhere or do anything, I got up while I could still remember it and see if the stuff in my dream was something real I had seen before, but just didn't remember, or was my own creation.

The book checked out, at least on Amazon. No books called Après. Then I googled the author name, and this was really odd: Jess O'Neill is actually a guy, and he went to my college and not my sister's, and I never knew him at all and therefore have no opinion of him. So why was his name somewhere way at the back of my mind, and why did it get translated in my dream as a name used for a heavily made-up, made up author? So weird.

Anyway, I just wanted to give a public thanks to my dream machine. You do good work. I'm a big fan.

A song I'd heard a hundred times before

It's been a dark, sad week for the Word Practice staff. My heart, head and soul have, one-by-one, been lured out to the back alley and given a once-over by a couple of goons with iron bars (note: goons, bar and alley all metaphorical). The heart really got the worst of it. It was still lying bleeding on the sidewalk at 19th and N when I had to go get it last night for another round with the goons. And they have a second appointment with the soul today. They're going light on the head, because it's a little 'slow' and the goons feel sorry for it, because they can relate.

But believe it or not, I don't like to dwell on the negative. Even in the worst hours of my darkest days (aka "2005"), I know fully and deeply that I'm an incredibly lucky man. I have ridiculously good health, have had good jobs land right in my lap without me even looking which gives me enough money for my nice apartment and eating out every single meal, have a wonderful family and the best Mom in the known universe, and have a bunch of great friends who never fail to keep me entertained.

Still, in these dreary times, I have to dig a little deeper and think of more things that I can feel lucky for, like:

• I had a dream last night that I was at a football game where the Texans were beating the Redskins 88-0 in the fourth quarter. This dream was followed by an extended sequence involving a woman from the office that I don't know very well in real life, but knew VERY well in these dreams. I'll spare the details. I don't know who's running the dream projection machine in my head, but wow...thanks.
• Unlike John Belushi, Abraham Lincoln and Dale Earnhardt, I am alive at a time when I can revel in the beautiful music of Neko Case, The Lucksmiths and Belle and Sebastian.
• Unlike poor certain people that I love very much, I am not moving my stuff today in the miserable pouring rain.
• I live in a country where someone blowing up a building and killing scores happens about once a decade and not every week.
• Sandwiches remain plentiful and various.
  

Something I do not feel thankful at this moment is that work is getting in the way of thinking of more things that cheer me up. Any additions to this list will be added in the comments.

Is it home of the free or what?

I'm off to London for a week, my dearest Word Practice reader. Try and behave yourselves while I'm gone, huh?

I'm telling you this so that you'll know not to come around here until next week. I don't think they've invented blogging in England yet, so I won't be able to post from there. So to tide you over for the next week, here's a dream I had this weekend that cracked me up:

I had just parked my car in a quiet neighborhood that I didn't recognize (I'm always going to new places in my dreams), where I was supposed to meet up with Hans and Evan (funny because Hans and Evan don't know each other in real life). Hans got there first, and after exchanging a few "What do you want to do"s, Hans says, "Man, it's about to start pouring." Sure, enough, the rain started coming down hard, and Evan showed up from nowhere and all three of us jumped in the car to get out of the rain.

And then Al Gore shows up, running to the car to try and get in out the rain, too. Evan, seeing him coming, locks his door and starts laughing, as poor, soaked Al desperately tries the handle to get in the car. Al runs around the other side, and Hans locks his door, too. Meanwhile, I'm in the back seat, laughing hysterically, but telling the two of them, "Come ON! It's the Vice President! Let him in!"

Good luck analyzing that one.

I'd just like to take this opportunity to thank the dream portion of my brain for entertaining me so thoroughly, so often.

The Genius I Was

My dreams seem to fall into one of three categories: terrifying, boring, and hilarious. I usually forget the first two for obvious reasons, but the ones in the third category often stay with me a little longer. Two of my favorites are the one where Tad told me he was quitting the band because he had gotten a part-time job at a seafood restaurant called Seasick But Still Hungry, and a dream where I was catching up with my old friend Sonia and she told me that her life ambition was to come up with something "inventable", which may be the greatest nonsensical word ever.

I was thinking about my dream comedies recently, and I remembered that I had had one where I had woke up laughing, but I couldn't remember what the details were. It came back to me today, so I wanted to get it down before I forgot again:

I was working at a newspaper and the staff were in a glassed-in meeting room, discussing the weekly feature we were going to run on the upcoming olympics in Athens. We were agreed that the feature would profile athletes, update the preparation of the city and venues and just give a general overview of the olympics. All we needed was a title. My suggestion for a title for this weekly feature? "Buttering Your Olympics Croissant."

Maybe you had to be there, inside my sleeping head. My subconscious cracks me up.