Among the things I dreamed last night:That I was trying to tell a painter, who thought he was ugly, that in fact he reminded me of Griffin Dunne. But I couldn't remember Dunne's name, so after some struggling, I said, "Oh! He was that guy in ________." And then couldn't remember the title After Hours. So I began describing the movie at great length. The painter, who was also a teacher, was painting the portrait of a girl, the daughter of a friend of mine, who'd had a makeover. She didn't show up for a sitting, so the artist was working instead on his nth copy of a famous modern painting. Out the window behind him was Johnson Point, or Observatory, or something--a mountain on the Seattle shoreline that resembled Pinocchio's nose, impossibly tall and thin, and dense with picturesque little villages where, I was told, the inhabitants were extremely picky and strict about regulating the experience of tourists. I couldn't believe I'd never seen it before. Ignore the Freudian prankishness of my subconscious, please.
That I was Spike, and was shopping and trying on clothes in a men's boutique. I was drawn to red velvet pants with a raised pattern that resembled wallpaper, but realized wisely that other people might think these tacky.
That I was given horrible service in a restaurant--they spilled sauce on me, changed my table, gave me a new waitress, kept me waiting for my entree for an hour, and then, to top it off, I suddenly realized that my table had been cleared and a woman had been seated at it, right in front of my own chair. Angrily I stormed off, stopping as many waitresses as possible to find mine, then giving up and heading for the register where I intended to complain. But they had a special section set up for complainers. Four casual pollsters sat on couches with clipboards and questionnaires while people stood in a line to register the details of their dining experiences. I wanted to complain about this. Eventually I found the manager, who began negotiations with me about the bill. Annoying man. Annoying experience. I'll never eat there again.
That I was breaking up with a heavy, slothful, older man who was sleeping on the floor, on my car keys. I had to prod him to get up while his friends watched. When I left I took a gift he'd given me, a long stuffed purple velvet bird or octopus. A birdopus. Then I got to the door of the building and turned back to leave it with him, deciding that I'd create a new, smaller one for myself instead.