Now is the time of year when every jerk with a magazine, TV show, web site or mouth decides to publish (or in the guy with the mouth’s case, "yell out") a bunch of insipid year-end "best-of" lists. As you might be able to tell from my previous use of the word "insipid," I find these lists insipid. Because really, who cares what 2004 had to offer? Besides the virtue-claiming of some punk kid in North Dakota, which is all exciting and stuff but will not end Republicanism? Really, we could argue all day about whether "Sideways" was a better expression of understated angst-ridden despondency than "Garden State," but I haven’t seen either of these films (yes, I know, I have to, I haaaaave to, thank you again Jason, Stephanie, Emily, Adams #1, 3 & 4 at work, Andy, Kurt, Stephanie again, Mike, Jon, Shauna, Patricia and Dad, perhaps I will take a look at this "Sideways" film you keep going on about, if perchance you might want to shut up about it for a second) and therefore I don’t care. The only music worth listening to that came out this year is too cool for me to appreciate, plus talking about pop music is debilitatingly boring and if I wanted to do that I would reconnect with my old college friends because that is what college kids do, not me; I am now a decrepit old person of 28 and only interested in megaphone crooning and toast. The only book that came out in 2004 worth mentioning is the new Nicholas Murray Kafka biogrpahy, which contains only information I already know about but also comes with a smart red cover. What I’m saying is–I could offer you my take on the top "X" number of "X"s of 2004, but you would be bored, and possibly angry with how insipid I was bing. ERGO, which means "therefore," which means "I am now going to get to the point," I am going to offer an insipid top-three list, but it will be a list unlike any of your insipid lists because, are you ready for it? It’s the Top Three Dreams I Had This Year. See, before I went to Europe for the summer (and yes, those eight and a half weeks were fanfuckingtastic but they just served to highlight the shittiness of the rest of the year, which included but was not limited to just over half the country proving it was made up of nasty, unpleasant, self-righteous reactionaries and me having to watch something called "The 2wenty" for work), my good friend Brittany (who is especially good right now, as she is the only person I know besides Jacob who has refrained from recommending I go see "Sideways") gave me a journal with the word "dream" on the front and instructed me to keep record of my very deep and important travels. Now it happened that I had already purchased a travel journal that was lighter and more compact, but even if I hadn’t, the "dream" word on the front told me that the journal was meant for other, better things.
So after I wake up from a particularly memorable or recurring dream, if I can remember it at all, I write it down in the "dream" journal, in as much detail as possible, before it fades. And therefore I give you, with little or no more ado, the
Top Three Dreams I Had in 2004:
3) The one where I went to look for a new apartment in Brooklyn Heights but the buildings were right on some gunky beach and shaped like long trapezoids one next to the other until they made a big complex circle. The apartments had floor-to-ceiling windows and old 40s funiture and curtains and a Ukrainian guy told me I could have one for $867 a month but the only catch was that the unit didn’t have a fourth wall, and instead just sort of went right into the hallway and into other apartments. This feature is an element that recurs in my dreams all the time; I will enter a house that I think is a normal house, and is my house, but instead it will be a very bizarre house that goes on and on and on and on, through passages and rooms and dormitories and more rooms and doors until I realize I am somewhere else entirely that does not belong to me.
2) The one where I am angry at someone and they will not listen to me no matter what I do and the only way I can get them to even pay attention to me or stop their scornful cackling is to punch them in the face repeatedly. This dream is always very disturbing and ends with me waking up and calling whomever I punched on the phone and apologizing for punching them. This is especially funny because the only person in the world I really, truly want to punch in the face is Karl Rove.
1) The one where a baby with a British accent turns into a snake with a British accent and the snake slithers up to my ear and recites "The Second Coming" by WB Yeats in a British-accented whisper. This would not be so disturbing, except that everyone knows WB Yeats was Irish.
So, there you go. A glimpse nobody wanted into the hackneyed psyche of a bitter and quite possibly insane person. But enough about Karl Rove (rimshot), you learned about my dreams, too.