Wednesday, April 11, 2007

COLUMN: Dreams

As the owner of a fairly uneventful and boring life, it's good to have a sub-conscious that keeps things interesting.

I've always been a huge fan of dream analysis. There are some seriously accredited psychologist types out there convinced that dreams can be the key to unlocking one's hidden innermost thoughts and desires. Of course, in order to accomplish said unlocking, you usually need to buy the seriously accredited and seriously overpriced book that can tell you, without hesitation, that the dream you had last week about the giant killer platypus is, actually, a sign that you dwell on your emotions too much.

Think I'm kidding? That really IS what dreaming of a platypus is supposed to mean. I looked it up on the Web. Me, I can barely think of what a platypus LOOKS like, let alone cast one in a starring role in my midnight hallucinations. Like I said, I've always been a huge fan of dream analysis, because it's one of the silliest and most pointless sciences out there.

The same website that tells us of the emotion-dwelling platypus also shares that dreaming of mashed potatoes is simply your subconscious expressing concern over financial matters. Me, I just thought it was my subconscious getting hungry. Apparantly not. Truth be told, I hit that website up because I need answers to the recurring dream I'VE been having for the last week:

In this dream, I still live in my apartment, except it now has a second bedroom, and I find myself with a fictional roommate named Tony. In some of the dreams, Tony is a guy; in others, Tony is a girl. But Tony is always named Tony, and weirder still, Tony is always a contestant on my least favorite TV show EVER, "Dancing With The Stars."

I accompany Tony to a taping of the show, and all goes well until Tony realizes that he/she has left the required costume at home, and I am sent on an errand to retrieve it. And invariably, when I re-enter the apartment, John Ratzenberger is stealing my TV.

Yes, THAT John Ratzenerger -- Cliffy from "Cheers" and one of the stars of this season's "Dancing With the Stars." Stealing my TV. This begs several questions, among them:

• Why John Ratzenberger?

• Doesn't he have a TV of his own?

• If he's ON "Dancing With the Stars," and if I've just left a taping of the show, shouldn't he be there?

• What HAVE I been eating before bed, and isn't it time to stop it?

But those questions can wait, because now I have a robbery to foil. As I enter the apartment and startle John Ratzenberger, he, naturally, drops the TV and engages me in melee combat.

You might have seen John Ratzenberger on "Cheers" or doing the cha-cha on "Dancing With the Stars," but what you might not know is that, at least in MY dreams, he's also quite adept at hand-to-hand combat -- and proceeds to mercilessly pummel me until I invariably wake up in a cold sweat. The end. Analyze THAT.

The first time I had this dream, I laughed. A lot. The SECOND time I had this dream, I was less amused. By the THIRD time, I was questioning my sanity. However, it must be said that my subconscious DOES like to even the odds a little bit. In the third dream, I once again catch him stealing the TV, and he once again rushes at me. HOWEVER this time, I calmly reach into my pocket and pull out a pair of NUNCHUCKS -- as though it's perfectly natural for me to wander around at all times with ninja weaponry in my pockets -- and we proceed to beat EACH OTHER mercilessly until I wake up.

Now, my extensive background training in martial arts consists of exactly: one day in college, when my friend and I decided it would be good fun to waste a gym credit on a Tae Kwon Do class. Or maybe it was Kuk Sool Won. Truth is, it was so long ago, it could have been anything, but from what I recall, it was really called Intro to Vomit 101. We showed up on the first day of class after an ill-advised long night at the frat house. All I remember is the instructor making us do a flip of some kind, me landing Homer Simpson-style (Tae-Kwon-D'oh!), and I was outta there within 5 minutes.

Yet this five minutes of ninja training was enough to at least give Cliff Clavin a taste of his own medicine in my dream, so there's something to be said for those 5 minutes, apparantly. I can now defend myself against subconscious evil-doers.

The whole thing scares me a bit, though. Mostly in the realization that part of my subconscious is SO impacted by "Dancing With the Stars" -- THE worst show on television since the one where people battled each other with giant Q-Tips -- that it's now invading my dreams. If you've got ANY clue how to analyze this one, I'm all ears. Personally, I'm hoping this column will exorcise this dream from my inner psyche. If not, your faithful columnist may seek professional help.

No comments: