What does actors Ian McShane (Deadwood, Death Race, John Wick), Lindsay Lohan (Mean Girls, Machete) & 90s rapper, Coolio (Gangsta's Paradise) all have in common? Tell you in a second.
Lately, when I wake up, I have some random song playing in my head. I've done some reading and it's most commonly known as an earworm. A small annoyance that most people have and deal with in a number of ways. Usually, if I have time, I'll dial it up on YouTube and turn it up. This process works about 90% of the time. The other ten percent, I'm forced to sing along to the song throughout my day.
Although annoying at times, it's vastly better than waking up to nothingness. Blindly walking through my morning rituals and heading out the door. In most cases, I'm still half asleep, I suspect. There have been mornings, in the past where I will arrive to work and have no recollection of how I got there. That's truly scary and I believe this happens to a great many people, too. A steady stream of living zombies, sipping their coffee from a stainless steel mug, while staring at the road ahead, going through the motions that have been programmed into their brains on so many previous mornings.
On a truly perfect morning, I will awaken with a dream still fresh in my head. If I were a smart person, I'd write this shit down right away, as I've concocted many interesting story and/or movie plots that I am certain would beat out most of the drivel that Hollywood pumps out on a weekly basis. One time, even, I thought up a video game that would be killer in today's market, but alas, due to unpreparedness, it was lost, along with all those movie synopsis'.
Most times, though, my dreams are just plain f*cked up. I recall one I had as a child, in which I was scooped up by King Kong and tossed into his mouth like a handful of candy. That was the beginning of the dream, the remainder was my falling falling falling down to his stomach, along with truckloads of bananas. F*cking retarded, but I was only six or so, so cut some slack, you judgmental mother.... This morning's dream was not as juvenile as that, but it ranks high in the retarded category. I had to write it down and share it in the only forum I could, my blog.
The day had begun as most of mine do, these days. I'm unemployed with no prospects on the horizon. Somehow, I learn of a movie being shot on location in a nearby small town and before I know it, I'm employed with that movie production. It's not a glamorous job. I'm not an assistant to the director or performing in anyway. Instead, I'm a "babysitter", of sorts, to one of it's stars, actor Ian McShane, famous from the TV show Deadwood and a plethora of movies (check out his IMDb page, it's quite a list). A part of Mr. McShane's demands is that he is not to be disturbed, at all, by nonessential interaction on-set or off. My task is to run blocker for him throughout the daytime and another fella takes the night. My time with the actor is blanketed over with a montage of different scenarios of my performing my duties and either receiving a look of approval or disdain.
The last scene of my dream, before I awoke took place in the small town. It was a cool grey morning, the ground damp from rainfall overnight and the skies were sullen with shades of grey. I waited for the British actor to be dropped off by his overnight assistant. I kept the engine running in my late model Honda Civic (which is strange, as I don't own such a vehicle). I have the heater turned up to ensure Mr. McShane steps into a warm environment. Although he's from a country notorious for equally shitty weather, I'm taking no chances of setting the man off.
I'm waiting in an empty lot, filled with pea-sized gravel, backed up against the wall of a neighbouring building. I have an excellent view of the predetermined pick-up spot. Across the street is the Post Office which doubles as an RCMP outpost. Next to the small red brick building is a lone police cruiser. It's a brand new Ford Explorer, the same model used by the police in the city, only it's a dark blue instead of the usual white. It's at this time that I suddenly realize I have to take a dump. I know my body well enough to know that this isn't something I should be shirking off to do at a more convenient time. I check the clock and see that I have a few minutes to spare and quickly rush across the street into the Post Office, which is open because it's also a police station.
I don't see any people, nor do I see a public washroom, but instead I see a janitor's closet. I peek my head inside the door and am pleased to see a toilet. It's not been flushed by the previous visitor, but it's only pee so it's not as disgusting as walking in on a bowl filled to the brim with shit. I do a courtesy flush and go about my business. When I come out, I'm confronted by a redheaded lady with short hair cropped close to her head. She's pleasant and doesn't reprimand me for shamelessly fouling their janitor's closet, but instead offers me a coffee and some small talk.
I'm not familiar with this small town, other than it's a few miles outside of the city where I live. It's located just off to the side and unless you specifically have business to contend with in it, it's just a flash in your peripheral as you whisk by on the highway. However, the redheaded lady proceeds to tell me about an event that was scheduled to take place that day. It had a specific name, but I can't remember what it was. The memory of this dream is already beginning to fade as I type these words. What I can remember of the day, however, is this. The day had something to do with Lindsay Lohan. She had come to the small modest town some years previous and had a day named in her honour. Although she'd never return to share in the honour, the townspeople celebrated this day, faithfully, in the years since. I guess small towns need to celebrate whatever notoriety they can get, and I wondered if Ian McShane would be getting a day named in his honour, too, despite his refusal to be bothered by anyone not associated with the picture being filmed.
We sipped our warm beverages as she told me an amusing Lindsay-related anecdote. I periodically glanced to the street to see if Ian McShane had arrived yet, all the while smiling and nodding my head. She told me that Lindsay had visited a local hairdresser and requested that she get her hair done like that of rapper Coolio. Of course, the people of the town were unfamiliar with the rapper and had comedically searched high and low for reference material while Lohan danced about, singing "Gangsta's Paradise". She laughed at the absurdity, while I smiled and nodded, failing to see the humour. It was then I saw Ian McShane being dropped off and I excused myself to go meet the actor.
This is when I woke up and decided to share it with my blogosphere. I wish I could elaborate on this more. I wish I could remember most, if not all, of my dreams. As I stated, I've had some brilliant dreams and a lot of stupid ones, too. If I could recall them all, it'd be an amusing new blog I could share with people. Share some of my "insanity", so-to-speak.
I'm waiting in an empty lot, filled with pea-sized gravel, backed up against the wall of a neighbouring building. I have an excellent view of the predetermined pick-up spot. Across the street is the Post Office which doubles as an RCMP outpost. Next to the small red brick building is a lone police cruiser. It's a brand new Ford Explorer, the same model used by the police in the city, only it's a dark blue instead of the usual white. It's at this time that I suddenly realize I have to take a dump. I know my body well enough to know that this isn't something I should be shirking off to do at a more convenient time. I check the clock and see that I have a few minutes to spare and quickly rush across the street into the Post Office, which is open because it's also a police station.
I don't see any people, nor do I see a public washroom, but instead I see a janitor's closet. I peek my head inside the door and am pleased to see a toilet. It's not been flushed by the previous visitor, but it's only pee so it's not as disgusting as walking in on a bowl filled to the brim with shit. I do a courtesy flush and go about my business. When I come out, I'm confronted by a redheaded lady with short hair cropped close to her head. She's pleasant and doesn't reprimand me for shamelessly fouling their janitor's closet, but instead offers me a coffee and some small talk.
I'm not familiar with this small town, other than it's a few miles outside of the city where I live. It's located just off to the side and unless you specifically have business to contend with in it, it's just a flash in your peripheral as you whisk by on the highway. However, the redheaded lady proceeds to tell me about an event that was scheduled to take place that day. It had a specific name, but I can't remember what it was. The memory of this dream is already beginning to fade as I type these words. What I can remember of the day, however, is this. The day had something to do with Lindsay Lohan. She had come to the small modest town some years previous and had a day named in her honour. Although she'd never return to share in the honour, the townspeople celebrated this day, faithfully, in the years since. I guess small towns need to celebrate whatever notoriety they can get, and I wondered if Ian McShane would be getting a day named in his honour, too, despite his refusal to be bothered by anyone not associated with the picture being filmed.
We sipped our warm beverages as she told me an amusing Lindsay-related anecdote. I periodically glanced to the street to see if Ian McShane had arrived yet, all the while smiling and nodding my head. She told me that Lindsay had visited a local hairdresser and requested that she get her hair done like that of rapper Coolio. Of course, the people of the town were unfamiliar with the rapper and had comedically searched high and low for reference material while Lohan danced about, singing "Gangsta's Paradise". She laughed at the absurdity, while I smiled and nodded, failing to see the humour. It was then I saw Ian McShane being dropped off and I excused myself to go meet the actor.
This is when I woke up and decided to share it with my blogosphere. I wish I could elaborate on this more. I wish I could remember most, if not all, of my dreams. As I stated, I've had some brilliant dreams and a lot of stupid ones, too. If I could recall them all, it'd be an amusing new blog I could share with people. Share some of my "insanity", so-to-speak.
Comedian Bert Kreischer is able to do something call: Lucid Dreaming. This is a process where he can, not only recall his dreams, vividly, but also control his actions in those dreams. If he wakes up prematurely, he's able to go back to sleep and enter that same dream again and continue to control it's outcome. I don't know how he does it, but it's something I wish I could do. Bert Kreischer inspires me in many ways in life and this just adds to the list.
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I doubt that the actor Ian McShane is the dick that he was in my dream. Quite the opposite, I'm sure. Lindsay Lohan, on the other hand, I believe would be that rude (and equally dumb)...
Dream on, everybody.
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