17 September 2005
I don't know Jack
But last night's dream, which purported to be a "Celebration of the Life of Jack Nicholson," was truly something to behold.
I'm not sure why I would have gotten an invitation to the Celebration: my name was on the program, listed under the subheading "Sports," which makes no sense. But this combination reenactment and estate sale was amazingly vivid. I had no idea, for instance, that Nicholson, before finding his Muse, had had a career in the design of garden tools. (For you doofus Googlers: He didn't. This is just a dream.) As you might expect, there was a bevy of incredibly beautiful and extraordinarily inaccessible women, although I did strike up a conversation with a short, pneumatic redhead who apparently had written something for Vogue that I had read. And all the detritus of Jack's life was priced to move: I made off with an open-reel tape recorder ($50) and a statue of some Polynesian god ($349) that looked vaguely like, and weighed as much as, an Evinrude outboard motor. There was even a "motivational speaker," a taller version of Edna Mode, or so she seemed, exhorting her audience to live a life with no compromises and no apologies, as Jack had, and as we had seen in the many skits that evening that had been taken right from Jack's own life.
It took a long time to wake up from this one, and the first thing I did once I had motor control was to summon the keepers of Google News to see if, in fact, Jack Nicholson had passed away in the night. He hadn't.
What caused this? I have no idea. But if the distributors of such dreams are planning a sequel with, say, Monica Bellucci, sign me up.Posted at 7:55 AM to General Disinterest