Dream sequences are in disfavor now, probably for good reason. One being the motion picture industry’s fascination with presenting a major character’s sudden and inexplicable facility with advanced weapons, or Mandarin Chinese while the screen swims, or a musical interlude signals the distortion we are witnessing is nothing more than, you guessed it, a dream.
Little research exists in regard to dream sequences on blogs, although one might imagine that the rules of engagement are written somewhere, and billions of earth’s citizens already know this. I may be treading on the residue of someone’s cake after too much rain, but fortune favors the bold.
Still when Tony Soprano and Paul McCartney take me to lunch in order to impart advice on a minor non-literary totally off-topic real life issue, I have to confess that throwing caution to the winds and blogging about it could or might cause audiences in the Russian Federation to desist in their diligent and probably fruitless efforts to decipher what I’m talking about, that returning here day after day might take on a Chekhovian solemnity like ambassadors from another planet analyzing the true meaning of a Cameron Diaz movie and reaching the conclusion that above all earthlings are cute, but ultimately unable to successfully mate.
The cool part is I followed Tony’s advice. Sir Paul was less than helpful, perhaps sensing that my musical allegiances are found elsewhere, or he was unhappy about participating in this impromptu meal sprung from a stranger’s subconscious, although he was seated at the head of the table, a tribute to his body of work.
Tony’s advice was direct and simple, “You oughta talk to the guy.” The fact that I did talk to the guy and it worked out okay speaks volumes for the power of fictional characters versus celebrities. I had a garbage can in my hands during the conversation since I was putting the garbage out when he happened by, and we started talking and the moment for setting the garbage can down passed. Maybe he thought I was in the waste management business. A man holding a garbage can is someone to reckon with. I’m bringing one to my next meeting.
So, I’ve gotta ask, now that you’ve got an inside track: Is it true that the Walrus was Paul?
Leave it to me to blow the opportunity to solve that particular mystery. I asked Sir Paul to pass the arugula and he said that we passed Arugula twenty minutes ago.
Paul was always the shallow Beatle. Now if John Lennon had appeared to you you might have gotten some good advice, unless Yoko was there, too.
When Tony appears in my dreams, we don’t talk.
The same night you were dreaming abot Tany and Paul, I dreamt our Aunt Dot took me to a church meeting at a decidly non Catholic venue. The subconcious is a wondrous thing.