Dream Log: Beautiful, Unsuccessful Hollywood Actress

I dreamed I was an actor in Hollywood. I was the same age and appearance as in real life, and just as poor, and I was writing this blog same as in real life, but I was living in Hollywood and auditioning. I knew many actors and actresses who were much more successful than I. 

 

It was afternoon, and Ryan Gosling and I and several other actors were hanging out at some tables on a sidewalk. Ryan was wearing a tuxedo. I was wearing a cheap suit. It was uncomfortable and I was self-conscious, worried that others could see how cheap it was. 

George Clooney showed up, also wearing a tuxedo. He asked me what I had been doing lately. I started to talk about the blog, and the conversation died. It didn't seem to me that George was being rude. Rather, it was extremely difficult for him to sustain an interest in something which, from his point of view, had so little to do with movies.

It became evening, and we went inside the theatre outside of which the tables had been the entire time. I felt miserable, and was at the free bar, searching for something with alcohol in it among the soft drinks and snacks, when a very beautiful actress approached me, wearing a man's-style white shirt, black skirt and black stockings. We had known each other for a long time, but had lost touch.

I don't know whether she was someone who exists in real life. She was a little under medium height, had green eyes and straight chestnut-brown down to her shoulders, was a little over 40 years old and looked essentially the same as she had when she was under 20. I was confused about why she wanted to talk to me. After a little while she said she had to go, but that she wanted to hang out with me some more, and, the way she touched my arm and looked into my eyes when she said it, it seemed like she meant it. 

Eventually I gave up my search for booze, concluding that this must be a health-conscious event. Many actors and actresses are extremely meticulous in choosing healthy refreshments. The incidence of veganism is very high in Hollywood. This is one of the reasons why some actors and actresses look very much the same over age 40 as they did under age 20.

Across the room I saw the beautiful actress talking with a man wearing a tuxedo. From their body language, he looked to me like a boyfriend or ex-boyfriend. 

I had conversations with several people similar to the one I'd had with George Clooney: they asked what I'd been up to, I answered honestly, describing the blog, they found it impossible to feign interest. 

Then I heard the voice of the seeming boyfriend over the PA. Somehow, although I hadn't heard his voice before, I knew it was the same guy. And now it was clear that he was her boss, because he was telling her to put on an apron and bus the area. And apparently the reason I hadn't heard anything about her recently, was that her acting career had not been going especially well. Earlier, she had easily supported herself by acting.

She went behind a curtain to the service area to get an apron. I took off my suit jacket and followed. Even though I really hate food service work, I was going to put on an apron and tell her I wanted to help her bus the area. But before I got there I woke up.

Dream Log: Liev Schreiber's Chili

I dreamed that I was working serving lunch in a soup kitchen in Lower Manhattan. Perhaps most of you already know that "soup kitchen" refers to a place which offers free hot meals to people in need, whether soup is included in the meal or not.

This soup kitchen was a big one, with a dining hall seating hundreds of people at a time. After we had finished serving the people and cleaning up, I fixed myself a tray and went to to eat with some other people who had worked there that day.

As some of you may know, soup kitchen food can range from really terrible to really, really good. This particular meal was nothing fancy -- no-beans chili, corn bread, greens and coffee -- but each part of the meal had been made really, really well.

In this dream, there was no dangerous virus circulating. People stood close together and touched each other. On my way to sit down I smacked Liev Schreiber

on the back, and he joined me to sit at a small table with George Clooney and Jeri Ryan. All of us were bundled up in winter clothing because it was cold at this table. A small window let in some light. Outside it was sunny and very, very cold. Liev and George both had beards. I didn't see any facial hair at all on Jeri, and I looked very closely because it was a very, very pretty face, with no make-up on it, my favorite way to look at pretty faces.

I was nervous the whole time because I was afraid that George Clooney was going to spring one of his famous practical jokes on me, but in this dream, he didn't.

Liev said, "How do you like the chili?" Goerge and Jeri and I all groaned and rolled our eyes and said Oh my God it's good. Liev persisted, "Is it only good because it's cold in here and you've all been working hard, or would it taste good or under any circumstances?" The three of us took that question seriously, took a little time with it, but we still all agreed that it wasn't just a matter of the setting or the circumstances, which admittedly enhanced the ewxperience. We all agreed that this chili was just terrific, period. Liev grinned and asked us, "Did you notice that it's vegetarian?"

We had not noticed. After some very, very close inspection, George asked, "Is this tofu? It really tastes like ground beef." Liev nodded. George asked, "Are you sure?"

Liev said, "I ought to be sure, I cooked it." We asked him how he had done it, and he just grinned and replied, "With great care and skill. And some great tofu from one of our donating stores." George, Jeri and I all raised our paper cups of coffee to toast the cook.

After a while Liev said, "It's always cold in this corner in the winter. It's ridiculous, the walls in this corner are full of holes. Let's patch it up." He took a shopping list for a hardware store out of a pocket and handed it to me for my perusal. I just handed it straight on to George and said, "I never paid attention in shop. I only passed because the shop teacher took mercy on me. I honestly think I'd be the most help by continuing to wash dishes and staying out of your way."

Liev didn't want to give up on me that easily. "You could help out, and maybe learn a couple of things."

"I'm fifty-eight freakin' years old, Liev," I replied. "Thank you for offering me the opportunity, but.. You know: old dog, new tricks." And at about that time, I woke up.

Dream Log: Hollywood Freeze-Out Over Papyri Scandal

In real life, there is a major scandal in the world of papyrology: Dirk Obbink,

formerly the head of the Oxyrhynchus Papyri Project, which is far and away the world's largest collection of ancient papyri, is accused of having stolen some of the Project's papyri and having sold them to the Green Collection, a Christian non-profit organization which runs a museum dedicated to the Bible.

This is really horrible. I hope Obbink proves to be innocent. Stealing and selling ancient artifacts in his care is just about the worst thing a papyrologist can be imagined to have done. Criminal charges have not yet been brought against Obbink, but -- well, it looks really bad. The only possibilities I can imagine are either that Obbink is guilty, or that he has been very skillfully framed. His claim is that he's being framed. We'll see.

I dreamed last night that there was a suspected link between Hollywood and the Obbink scandal. In real life, I am aware of no such suspicion. In my dream, I was selected to serve as a liason between papyrologists and Hollywood during this difficult time, presumably because I know a few words of Latin and have acted in some plays at the community-theatre level and lower.

I dreamed that I was at a Hollywood fundraiser, in order to reach out and establish trust with some Hollywood big-shots, and that my mission wasn't going well. People in Hollywood were very nervous about the scandal, nobody knew me, and nobody trusted me. Antonio Banderas was staying right at my elbow. Apparently he had been given the assignment of keeping an eye on me. His hair was shoulder-length, he was wearing a tuxedo with a white jacket, and he was not overflowing with affection toward me: not smiling, not talking more than he had to, just staying close, as if he were guarding me in a basketball game.

Then all of a sudden he noticed a counter where they were giving out... well, it seemed to be some sort of confection which doesn't exist in real life, as far as I know. It was halfway between a cinnamon roll and a cookie. Ooh, Antonio wanted one of those. One or maybe even two. I darted over to the counter, came back with two lusciously-glazed cookies and gave one to Antonio. He finished it quickly, and I gave him the other one. This definitely cheered him up, but did not make him friendlier.

Then I noticed that the back of his white jacket had been drawn on with a felt-tipped pen or magic marker. Some sort of goofy parody of tailor's markings, with great big dotted lines. I couldn't imagine that Antonio would be happy about this. I could easily imagine that he would blame it on me.

If this weren't enough, Antonio informed me that Salma Hayek was about to arrive, and that she had some sort of official message for me. This made me more nervous than the magic marker on Antonio's otherwise-immaculate white jacket. I was afraid that Salma would find me unattractive. Especially when I was standing so close to Antonio. I wished that I had some time, a few months, to work out really hard and diet very strenuously, before meeting Ms Hayek for the very first time.

But Salma never showed, and after a while Antonio went away.

The benefit was being held in a brand-new multiplex cinema which was interchangeably ugly with every other brand new ugly multiplex cinema anywhere in the world. The entire dream was inside the multiplex, and there was no way to tell whether we were in LA, New York, Duluth, London, maybe Dubai, or somewhere else. I'd heard jet-setters complain about how every new airport in the world looked like every other new airport. It occurred to me that not only did all new multiplex cinemas look the same -- they all kind of looked like airports.

Movies were showing on all the screens throughout the event, with the lights on in the screening rooms, and with no walls between the screens. You could see several screens at once. I assumed they were going to put the walls in before the thing officially opened, but I didn't know. On one of the screens was one of the big-budget animated movies, of which there have been so many in the past couple of decades that for me they have all became a blur. I thought I heard George Clooney's voice coming from that screen, playing a squirrel or a rabbit or something. I happened to turn around at that moment and see George Clooney himself striding down an aisle, all grey: grey hair, grey tux, grey shoes and socks, looking like a gosh-darn movie star. "Hey George, you in this one?" I shouted, waving my head at the screen behind me. George smiled tensely, recognizing me, said, "I think so," and kept moving.

I sat down and tried for a couple of minutes to involve myself in the animated movie, until I noticed a couple of guys sitting behind me who looked like goons. They weren't wearing tuxes, they weren't even wearing suits. One of them had biceps as big as footballs coming out of the sleeves of his black T-shirt. And they sounded like goons, too. Given the general air of hostility toward me at the place, instead of waiting to see whether these particular goons were going to come after me, I went for a walk, looking behind me all the time.

Back out in the lobby, a short guy in an orange suit had three guys spread-eagled against a wall and was frisking them. I asked him to show me his ID. He didn't look like a cop to me. Maybe that's just because I'm old, and there used to be more requirements for cops to be tall. But the guy didn't show me any ID. And I was frustrated, what with huge movie stars icing me, and goons and whatnot. So I wrestled the guy to the ground and searched him, found no badge, no gun, no cuffs, no law-enforcement ID of any kind, nothing. I told the three guys spreadeagled on the wall that I was pretty sure they were free to go.

The short guy in the orange suit kept laughing at me the whole time, a creepy heh-heh, heh-heh laugh.

I was going to leave the building and go for a walk, but I woke up instead.