i'm so not going to hollywood, dawg

Last night I dreamt I auditioned for American Idol.

I don't know. Just bear with me.

So there I was sitting in a big ass holding room along with all the other hopefuls at some hotel. I can't say for sure but it might have been the La Quinta in Secaucus, New Jersey. But don't quote me on that.

Then, suddenly, I was whisked into a smaller room where I was told by a production person that I was going on in a few minutes.

There were about four people ahead of me waiting to perform, Kenny Rogers and Paula Abdul among them. Like, Paula actually had to audition to be a judge and stuff. FYI, she and Kenny both got cut and Kenny looked positively devastated. I don't remember what happened to Paula. I was too transfixed by Kenny's sad face.

As I sat waiting for my turn, I tried to figure out what song I would sing... 'cause I'm well-prepared like that. I considered singing "Happy Birthday" because, apparently, my subconscious thought that timeless tune would really wow the judges. I suppose I would have had a big finish with an elongated and dramatic "to yoooooooooooooooooooouUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!" at the end.

Other options I considered: "If You're Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands" and that song that goes "Down down baby, down by the roller coaster."

Because I'm five.

Anyhoo, I was led into the room and there sat Randy and Simon Cowell... right next to the hotel reception desk. I voiced my concern about having to sing over the din of people checking in and out but I was ignored. And then I asked where I should stand because there was no "X" on the floor marking the spot. Simon got all sorts of bitchy with me and threatened to throw me out and then he made me stand in an area where there were a ton of hanging plants which were swinging back and forth in a most precarious fashion. Naturally, I totally whacked my head on a terra cotta planter. That shit hurt. He was a real dick about things, that Simon.

And then it was time to get down to business. Randy asked if I was ready and I responded in the affirmative and let fly with a deep-yet-nasally version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." I don't remember making that decision to change up the song but in retrospect, that was quite the daring impromptu move. Go me.

Granted, I mangled the words at times but neither Randy nor Simon cut me off so I really started getting into it. I actually believed that I was quite possibly going to Hollywood.

I finished up my number and waited to hear my fate. I don't remember what Randy said because, well, he's Randy and I never pay attention to him. But I'm sure he used the terms "pitchy" and "dawg." Just a hunch.

And then Simon said, "I quite liked your lower register but no. Sorry." And then he put his arm around me and walked me to the door. That was nice of Simon, I guess.

What does it all mean? I have no idea. However, my voice today is a bit hoarse and ragged which leads me to believe that I actually sang a deep-yet-nasally version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" in my sleep.

Thank God I don't have a roommate.

on yugoslavian resistance groups and barry gibb's dentures, among other things

I have now reached Day 6 of The Funk That Won't Leave. The strangling 3AM coughing fits are holding steady and as such, I continue to become reacquainted with the early seasons of 80s sitcoms on Nick at Nite.

The real bummer about this cold is that I don't have my usual accompanying sexy sick voice. I usually get this hot raspy thing going on but I sound more like Fran Drescher than Janis Joplin this time around. It's sad, really.

I've also been having some really funky dreams. I passed out during the day yesterday and boy, did my subsconscious have a time of it. I dreamt that I was part of some armed resistance group in the former Yugoslavia. And the dude from The Full Monty was there. Alas, he wasn't naked nor did he dance around to "I Believe in Miracles." Bummer.

Last night I dreamt that I went on an interview at HBO (not where I work/will be working, FYI) and I was taken into a room where I was grilled by a panel of lame question-asking corporate suits. I could see them deriving pleasure as I squirmed and floundered while trying to tackle their poorly-worded queries.

It was one of those dreams that felt like it was endless. It was so frustrating. I understand why I had the dream though -- I've been approached about a new position and part of me is concerned that my job will be nebulous and ill-defined. The Yugoslavian rebel strike force dream, however, well, that's just baffling.

I'm a little down in the mouth but once I rid myself of the evil that's been plaguing my body, I'll be back into the swing of things. However, I have been able to amuse myself lately by making fun of Barry Gibb's dentures. It's a really effective treatment. Try it sometime.

with one look

On Saturday I enjoyed an overdue and much-needed day to myself. With the exception of a quick trip to the deli next door for the newspaper and some half-and-half, I didn't leave the toasty confines of my Tiny Wee Studio the entire rest of the day.

The day was thoroughly enjoyable... save for a dream I had during my mid-day nap involving me, the Idols Live! tour and forgotten song lyrics.

I have no idea. All I know is that I woke up in a panic trying to remember all the words to Cheap Trick's "Surrender" and that's just so bizarre because that's the last song I would sing under those circumstances. It's fine for karaoke, maybe, but not on a national tour, duh. In case you're wondering what I would sing, I'm going to go with "Blowin' Sky High" by Berlin for now, with the understanding and option that I can change my mind later.

But getting back to Saturday... I did a few chores but spent the rest of the day watching movies and getting caught up on my shows. If you're not watching HBO's Extras, you really need to be. That show makes me cackle. Not chuckle, not giggle... CACKLE. I won't elaborate further on that because Sheila addressed this very topic last week and I cannot possibly expand on her insightful take. All I can say is, "Ditto."

I also watched several movies: Mallrats, Summer of Sam and Layer Cake. The latter is well-spun yarn starring Daniel Craig as a drug dealer saddled with two complex tasks before he can retire from the business. The movie is violent and extremely graphic in its depiction of the gritty drug scene. Despite the blood and gore, I didn't find it nearly as disturbing at the former two films in my mini festival.

Mallrats? Disturbing? How come, you ask? Obvious Shannen Doherty references aside, there's some freaky shit in that film. For example, Priscilla Barnes, Terri from the later seasons of Three's Company, has a small role as a psychic in a dirt mall. A topless psychic, to be exact. Yes, she's an attractive woman but I just found it strange to see Terri Alden's boobies... with a third nip, no less!

While watching that scene, I made a mental note to Google "Priscilla Barnes" and "third nipple" to see if it was a genuine deformity and then, in answer to my question, there she was on the screen peeling off the nip and eating it (I can't believe I just typed that) so there was no Googling to be had. Gagging and eye rubbing, yes, but no Googling.

Later that day I watched Summer of Sam, Spike Lee's film about serial killer David Berkowitz's terrifying grip on New York City in the summer of 1977. John Leguizamo was good in the lead role. I'll watch him in anything. I saw his one-man-show Freak on Broadway a few years ago and he just blew me away. I wish I had an ounce of his energy. Actually, I'm sure I could inhale some of that "energy" up my nose quite easily, come to think of it...

The movie was decent and the cast was impressive -- Mira Sorvino, Anthony LaPaglia, Michael Imperioli, Adrien Brody, Ben Gazzara, Bebe Neuwirth and Patti LuPone, just to name a few. I didn't adore the film but it adequately entertained me for a few hours.

So there I was sprawled out on my couch, watching the movie and minding my own bees wax when, wait, what's this? Patti LuPone's bare boobs! Patti LuPone's bare boobs! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! Yet another set of knockers I really did not need or want to see. Hello, Buenos Aires?!?! She's Evita! And Corky's mother, for fuck's sake! Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. This is more disturbing than the time I thought Betty Buckley suffered from a parched vag. That was a false alarm, thank God. Patti's boobs, however, are forever burned into my brain and I'm not sure I'll ever be the same.

Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da...

i'll stick with the clam dip, thanks

Last night I dreamt that I was halfway through a Jimmy Dean sausage when I suddenly exclaimed, "Hey, what am I doing? I don't eat meat!" and then I spit it out with a loud and dramatic "Patooey!"

Now, I'm not usually very good at dream analysis but I'm willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that this was some sort of subconscious exploration of my sexuality, no?

Let's break it down, shall we?

For a good portion of my life, I tried eating the sausage, if you will, and then realized I didn't quite care for the taste. So by spitting out the Jimmy Dean in my dream, I was solidifying my rejection of bangers and, specifically, the men they are attached to.

The timing of this dream makes sense because just this week I briefly considered jumping back over the fence to play with the boys after my recent futile attempts to score me some girly ass.

The dream also serves a dual purpose: It reinforces my true Sapphic desires plus gives a wee nod to my adherence to a mostly meat-free diet. I don't consider myself a true vegetarian because I eat fish... which is quite fitting given all the seafood-type euphemisms for what we lezzies do with one another between the sheets... and at bars/clubs with lax policies concerning how many women can go into a onesie bathroom at the same time.

So, in closing, I'm pleased with my ability to analyze this dream because I'm usually quite dense when it comes to symbolism, allegory and all that other stuff that doesn't slap retards like me right in the face. Hell, I'm feeling so encouraged I might even take a crack at decoding some tough poetry or performance art while I'm on this roll. Or, you know, maybe just read The Onion. Whichever.

anyone, anyone?

So I had a kooky dream last night. I think it took place on a commuter train like NJ Transit or the Long Island Rail Road. It definitely wasn't the subway. But then again, part of me thinks that the setting may have been a restaurant because I was sitting at a table with my friend. It's hard to decipher the location.

At one point, I stood up to say something to the waitress/conductor (again, not sure) and I noticed THE EX sitting alone in a row seats of against a wall. I have not seen her in over two years and I often wonder how I'll respond if I were to bump into her randomly. In my dream, I cordially sat down next to her and was quite friendly considering the emotional torture and anguish the girl heaped upon me a couple of years ago. Repeatedly.

Anyways, she looked like ASS. Mind you, THE EX is a stunner in real life but in my dream, it looked like she tried to dye her gorgeous chestnut brown hair blonde and well, there was burning and discoloration. It was also all long, wild and ratty-looking as opposed to her usual stylish, well-kept hairdo. In my dream, she kinda looked like Witchie-poo.

During our encounter, THE EX was really abrupt with me and seemed embarrassed to see me at that moment. I think she gave me a booklet or something and then I went back to the table where my female friend was sitting. To the untrained eye, it would appear that my friend and I were a couple and I relished the thought that it would make THE EX jealous. She walked past and looked at us in passing and that was it. I noticed a handwritten note in the pamphlet she gave me but I didn't bother reading it. Instead, I went back to the conversation with my friend completely unfazed.

I used to gobble up emails and letters from her like they were Krispy Kremes. Not this time though. Man, that feeling of "I couldn't give two shits!" was on par with some of the very good sex dreams I've had. I wish I could bottle it and take a swig whenever I start feeling mopey.

So does this mean I'm over her? What the hell is going on? I'm a complete dunce when it comes to allegory and symbolism so kindly feel free to take a stab at what's going on in this muddled mind of mine. Please and thank you.

here's an interesting question for ya...

What do you suppose it means when a big ol' dyke has a dream about Alec Baldwin where said lesbo straddles him, gives him a right good snog and then lets her hand wander south, giving Baldwin an ending far better than in most of his movies?

Um, you know, hypothetically of course. Not saying it happened to me or anything. I'm just curious.

analyze me

Okay, so I had a rather odd dream the other night. I'm not good at analyzing dreams anyway but this one really has me baffled. I was driving the Mystery Machine (you know, from Scooby Doo) and I opened the door and got out while it was still moving. I wasn't like Super Dave Osborne or anything... I think it had slowed to a roll so it's not like I made a death-defying leap. I got out and someone else stopped the van. About 10 minutes later, it tipped over onto its side. Shaggy, Scoob, Fred and the rest were not in the van. Please do not think that I offed a bunch of beloved cartoon characters. I also didn't dream in cartoon if that makes sense. It was live action -- bizarre live action at that.

Anyone want to take a crack at figuring out my scary subconscience?