And If That Diamond Ring Don't Shine...

June 18, 2008

It’s Sunday morning and I’m watching television in my childhood bedroom. It’s a new program featuring an interview with James Taylor and a very skinny blonde woman who is supposed to be his wife. James is appearing on the program to promote the publication of selections from his personal diary.

The book, which is pink with flowers, and looks very much like the diary of a school girl, deals with the breakup of James’s marriage to Carly Simon and the effect it had on their children. I think this is a very bad idea and I am filled with rage that the skinny blonde wife would encourage James to do such a thing.

The television program cuts to a video of Carly Simon performing a solo version of “Mockingbird,” which , of course, she had first recorded with James Taylor…and now she is forced to sing alone while James and his new wife profit from the destruction of the Taylor/Simon family unit.

__________________________

This dream seems almost inevitable to me since I’ve been reading a biography of Carly Simon for the past two weeks. It’s strange how intensely I felt the anger even though my role in this dream was extremely passive.

Raindrops Keep Falling On My Parade

June 18, 2008

I'm on a helicopter with my friend, Bill. It's a pretty good size chopper, seating about 15 people.

We're flying over New York City's East River when I realize this isn't just a helicopter...it's a time machine! We've flown our way back to a warm, sunny day in July, 1967 to witness the filming of the motion picture Funny Girl.

From across the aisle I can barely catch a glimpse out the window of the tugboat below being used to film the great "Don't Rain On My Parade" sequence. It occurs to me that we are on the wrong river, that we should be on the Hudson at the mouth of the New York Harbor so that we can catch the Statue of Liberty in the background.

Our helicopter, one of several dotting the sky, turns south and I finally get an unobstructed view of the boat...and suddenly, there she is: Barbra Streisand standing on the bridge of the vessel, clutching her flowers and lip-synching her heart out to the prerecorded track.

I notice right away she's wearing the wrong costume. Instead of the burnt orange dress and brown fur hat, Barbra is decked out in the matching leopard skin hat and coat from the opening scene. "Well, I'm sure they know what they're doing," I think to myself.

The helicopter hovers at eye-level with the tugboat as Barbra stares intently at the horizon during a break in filming. I wave out the window in an attempt to catch her attention. I can't tell if she doesn't notice me, or if she's ignoring me. Then, remembering everything I've ever learned about time travel from science fiction movies, I decide it is probably not a good idea to call attention to myself and risk altering history. Though really, maybe I ought to say something about the outfit.

As our helicopter lands at a riverside dock and we make our way inside the terminal, Bill and I are greeted by Barbra holding open the door and singing, "Together Wherever We Go" from Gypsy.

"Would you like to come to Las Vegas with me?" Barbra asks.

"Yes, I would," I tell her excitedly.

"I bet you would," she cackles, and then disappears up an escalator, clearly not intending to take me along.

Bill and I run up a set of concrete stairs to catch our ride home. When we get to the top of the stairs and push through a set of double doors, I am bitterly disappointed to find myself on a cold, grey morning in the middle of 2008.

A soft flurry of snow starts to fall as I bite my cheeks hard to keep from crying, but I can not help myself and a small trickle of tears seeps through my clenched eyes.

"Oh, don't whine about it," Bill chastises me.

"I'm not whining," I tell him, "it's just a lot of emotion escaping."

La Dame Aux Chapeaux

August 25, 2007

I'm standing across the street from the old church near the library in the town where I grew up. Improbably, the community theatre group at the church has gotten Maggie Smith to appear in a play about a woman who wears many hats. That is to say, a woman who literally owns many headdresses.
I am there to interview Maggie and when she appears before me she has a small white cigarette dangling from her mouth. It looks more like a joint, really, and I wonder if she's a pothead or maybe she just rolls her own.

We go inside a restaurant where the interview is to take place. I place my handheld tape recorder on the table and we begin talking. But the room proves too loud for us to conduct the interview, so Maggie asks if we could have a table in the back.

We settle at a table in the back near the kitchen, but something is still not quite right. Finally, we are moved to a booth that is actually in the kitchen.

The booth, which is on the lower level of the neon lit, split level kitchen, is usually reserved for the owner of the restaurant. Maggie and I order some coffee and pie and at long last start the interview.

Rub-a-Dub-Dub...Obama's in the Tub

May 23, 2008

I find myself at a political fundraiser in a private home. I approach Michelle Obama, who is sitting on a couch. A few female

supporters surround her, but Michelle is decidedly set apart, and even though she is sitting, her head manages to be a foot or so above everyone else's.

"I'm concerned," I tell her, "that if you become First Lady, you wont treat people fairly."

She looks me square in the eye, points toward her supporters and very calmly replies, "That's what other people say about me. That's not what I say about me. You should ask me right to my face."

"Well, I am," I tell her.

It seems we have nothing else to say to each other.

I sneak off to a nearby bedroom. In the adjoining bathroom, Barak Obama is taking a shower. On the floor, I spy a green duffel bag filled with his clothes. I rummage through it, pulling out several striped ties. I choose one with blue stripes that I find particularly appealing. I hold the tie close to my face and begin sniffing it, deeply and contentedly.

Game, Set, Ouch!

May 10, 2008

I'm swimming in an exceedingly clean ocean. I'm very close to the shore. As I step on to the beach to find my towel, I find myself in the backyard of an enormous old museum.

I realize I don't have a ticket, so I walk in through the backdoor and up a long, winding staircase, where I find the ticket booth. I buy a ticket and walk through a metal turnstile.

I next pass through the museum gift shop where a large, colorful wooden box catches my eye. I open the box. It is a Frida Kahlo art set, filled with hundreds of color pencils and a book of Frida's paintings for inspiration.

I head back out the doors and on to the grounds of the museum, but instead of an ocean, I find a duck pond to my right and a tennis court with bleacher seats to my left. I decide to watch the match, which is already in progress. Rafael Nadal, the frequent French Open champ, who is dressed in tight fitting white shorts that leave little to the imagination, is receiving serve from his opponent.

There is something odd about the ball as it makes its way to Rafael's side of the court: it has a fish hook sticking out of it. Unfortunately for Rafael, it is the fish hook that catches him square in the middle of his tight, white shorts.

As Rafael collapses in pain, I leave the match and head for the duck pond, where the sun has almost completely disappeared behind the trees.

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If you're wondering,the parrots were not in my dream, but rather they are another tip of the hat to Frida Kahlo, who often painted members of her menagerie in her self portraits, including her monkey, her cat, and her birds.