So I’m at summer camp, well day camp at the old Salt Lake City JCC. I wouldn’t be surprised if Bobby Lightfoot were my counselor at some point, because we had some weird, awesome dudes working there. Anyway, we’re out on the patio next to the gym, and you can look down to the pool. Ah, how many millions of kids peed in that pool (nobody tell Jedmunds, now that he’s a Pandagon munchwagon)? Anyway, there are all these tables set up on the patio because it is a big lunch thing and everyone is out there. I couldn’t tell if people were drinking the orange death or not, but that is another story. And Jack Black is there. He’s kind of running around doing his manic, sweaty thing. People are laughing. He kind of is playing along, but there was the sense that he was getting pissed off and is possibly going to swing into a massively inappropriate Tenacious D type skit- one of the seriously gross ones from the DVD about — -guzzling etc. and I am definitely worried. BUT, I am following him around with a microphone whispering into the mic with it really close to my mouth creating that hushed, breathy golf-announcer like sound. I’m describing to the crowd his feverish doings as he’s jumping around the outside of the patio- like when he mutters to himself “I have a plan”, I say into the mic “*I HAVE A PLAN*” in hushed tones and everyone laughs because they think it is going to be something funny and I’m nervous it won’t be, and that I might be driving him over the edge, but hey, don’t give me the mic if you’re not gonna be responsible.
Monthly Archive for October, 2005
Yosef, thycwoti shares with us a hip hop underworld, in his dream (totally real, I have been assured of its veracity- Ed- seriously).
Here I am, in a clothing store dressing room (Ed.- Gap? Structure? Jeans West?), hanging out with Busta Rhymes and Missy Elliott (Ed.-awesome, I wish Luda were there too). Why you ask? Because we’re on a mission to invent the first ever “rap” song. This rap thing is going to be like spoken word poetry over music, but a little bit funkier and closer to the streets. I know, it sounds weird – who would ever buy a record where people don’t sing, but instead they talk? What the hell kind of music is that? Well, it’s not your everyday Nat King Cole, but trust me on this one, it’s going to work. The only problem is, we can’t figure out anything that sounds good. I suggest starting it off “Hip hop, hippity to tha hip hip hop…” but Busta Bust and Missy disagree with me. It goes on like that for a while, then right before I wake up, it turns out some other group beat us to the punch – but they stole my opening line!!!(Ed.- bastards, the rap game ain’t for thycwoti).
So this dream feels like I’m watching a film, there is a cinematic, dusty Western feel. I’m not in it. Paul Newman, or the Paul Newman-played character is in a Cool Hand Luke type sitch, the man totally has him down. He’s working at some weird ski resort, except there is no snow anywhere. He has this horrible job of Sisyphean proportions. His job is as the sole staffer of the midslope cafe, which is more like a dusty wooden shack. They have one thing on the menu. This roast beef sandwich, which in the dream was clearly akin to a French Dip, not an Italian Beef. It clearly was delicious. In the dream it was called “Beef on Weck” (I know it is a real sandwich, but this wasn’t it, clearly a red herring). Anyway, he’s gotta to slice the beef, toast the bun, heat up the au jus and prepare a side of horseradish, and get everything together, except they never have all the items in his little hut, and the customers are really irate. He gets halfway through making one, and then he has to run down the slope and get another bun, or more au jus, etc. So he has two sandwiches made and ready to go, but needs to get one more thing, and some customer that didn’t even order walks up and takes them off the counter saying “oooh, yummy sandwiches” or something like that, and he gets back, and some lady who ordered them is yelling at him about her sandwiches. Then his boss comes up and yells at him about how he’s never going to work off his debt because he can’t even make a goddamned sandwich right. At this point he’s totally had enough. So Paul Newman just starts rolling these oil drums from the back of the shack down the hill towards the other buildings, and somehow they just start exploding everywhere and it’s a little bit like the end of Apocalypse Now. He then goes into one of the buildings for some reason, and Marcia Cross, a la Kimberly from Melrose Place or whoever from Desperate Housewives (Bree?), is in there looking her most Kimberly (i.e. totally psychotic). She just says with that weird blink-less look “I love to watch things burn” as the building is going up like a blowtorch. At this point even having the dream I was all what the f***? Maybe I was worried about the sandwiches burning up.