To Sleep, Perchance to Blog...
-- I have entered the world of MST3K. I don't just mean I'm watching the show, but that somehow I am on the "Satellite of Love" with the robots and MIke Nelson (odd, as Joel was always my favorite human sidekick). Somehow, Joss Whedon and an annoyingly snotty producer are always there, along with some faceless celebrities (is that an oxymoron? I know they're celebrities-- can sense it-- but can't identify who they are). Tom Servo, Crow and Mike are cracking jokes, and suddenly Whedon cracks one, too. The producer becomes irate, and declares that she won't continue the broadcast until Whedon, "this idiot rube from Minnesota," is removed from the set. This causes a mass walkout of many of the celebrities, and I give the producer a tongue-lashing. Why Minnesota (especially since Whedon's from California)? Ironically, MST3K itself started as a cable access show in the Twin Cities, and I spent four years there as a child. And what's wrong with guys from Minnesota, anyway?
--I'm at a party with a bunch of Beltway bigwigs, including Maureen Dowd and Chris Matthews. I know it's unpleasant, and no one (including me) seems to be having any fun. My memory recalls this as a dream in black-and-white, like a German Expressionist film, but, perhaps as a kindness (Chris Matthews?? As Summer Roberts might say, "Eww!"), it's repressed everything else about it; the dream exists as a palimpsest-- I know I had it, but can recall almost nothing about it.
--A family gathering. There are two versions of my uncle there, arguing with each other. I raise a question of theology, and my uncle gets outraged, and his two versions (two parts?), begin spittling vehemently. Clearly, I've been thinking about Miyazaki too much this week.