What the, what the, what the woot, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers
Everyone is excited over the finale of “Lost” Hope I don’t ruin the ending, but I know what the final scene is. The final scene of “Lost” has the Fonz waterskiing in his leather jacket and jumping a shark.
Richard Blumenthal, a candidate for the Democratic Senate in Connecticut, lied about serving in Vietnam. Blumenthal could have sworn he survived hand-to-hand fighting amid horrible screaming and agony, but it turns out it was a women’s shoe sale at Bloomingdales.
New York Giant great, Lawrence Taylor, denies having sex with an underage prostitute and claims he just pleasured himself. That noise you hear is Vince Lombardi spinning in his grave.
The Gulf oil disaster is bad. The spill is so oily, so slimy, so putrid, so disgusting it is going to guest star on “Real Housewives of Orange County.”
Democratic congressman of New York, Eric Massa, resigned after sexually harassing a male staff member, now Indiana republican congressman Mark Souder resigns after having an affair with a female staff member. Wait, I’m confused, I thought democrat male politicians had affairs with women and republican male politicians had affairs with men.
Family values Indiana Rep. congressman Mark Souder resigned after having an affair with a staff member. Have you seen this guy? Power is not only an aphrodisiac, it’s apparently blinding.
Family values Indiana Rep. congressman Mark Souder resigned after having an affair with a staff member. Have you seen this guy? He makes Carl Rove look like Johnny Depp.
In Paris, a brazen thief broke into a museum and stole five paintings, including a Picasso and a Matisse, worth hundreds of millions. Kind of makes the Nebraska guy who robs 7-Elevens with toilet paper wrapped around his head almost look like a loser.
Since you asked:
It has literally been a dream of mine to create a comedy album or movie ala “Exile On Main Street” style: rent a villa on the ocean in Santa Barbara and stock it with comedians and comedy writers – sans the drugs – and have jam writing sessions.
As the amazing songs on “Exile” attest, there is something magical that happens to creativity when you blend the creative process with real living, eating, sleeping, working out, partying.
In the dreams I am in a communal college campus-like facility complete with funky bars and restaurants, we surf, play football, barbeque, dance, play music, drink wine, cook in the kitchen and combine all of that with creative think tank group meeting sessions. Or if you feel like it, you go off with your computer and work alone.
The problem is the dreams often morph into a bit of an anxiety dream because I suddenly remember I don’t know what kind of movie or project I am supposed to be working on, and if I tell the head producer I don’t know what I am doing, I’ll get canned.
So I sort of move around the campus trying to look busy. The dream begins with me being about age 21, pole vaulting, playing tackle football, racing on the track. But as the dream evolves I realize I am getting older. Eventually I realize I am happily married and have a kid back in San Diego and I really want to leave and go back home to them. That is usually when I wake up.
But it is a cool dream. Some of the other people on the project are people I went to high school or college with, some of them are famous comedians. Some of the people I have never seen before.
The landscape in these dreams is so surreal and yet real. It is as if downtown State Street in Santa Barbara ran along the cliffs above the beaches. The dream’s local combines elements of UC Santa Barbara with a very hip and futuristic Spanish/California open mall area. It’s essentially a hippy mountain/beach town filled with hip and talented people. The anxiety aspect is when I question my qualifications for being there. Plus I have no idea what the hell I am supposed to be doing.
The buildings and surroundings in the dream are so real, when I see something in real life that resembles it, I think of the dream. For example, a restaurant in a beautiful house in Santa Barbara basking in the glow of Sunset one block West of State Street is a fixture in the dream.
Like the "Exile" villa Nellcote in Nice, there are no fixed room assignments. There are beds and couches spread all over if you want to get away and snooze. No set working hours, people just gather together when they feel like it, after breakfast, after dinner.
It is hysterically bizarre how I can create in these dreams such wild abstract and random aspects, like wandering into a Spanish tapas bar with a bar fight underway, dodging thrown shot glasses and daggers, and walking up on stage to jam on my harmonica with the Eagles or the Stones. But mundane aspects in my life still apply like I glance in a mirror and remember I need a haircut or my jeans have a new hole in the knee.
Honestly, does it get any more psychotic to be dreaming I am on a stage with a cowboy bar fight raging below and jamming on harmonica next to Glenn Frey and Don Felder when suddenly I remember I forgot to floss?