Dreams

Did you ever see "The Lonely Guy"?  It's not the best comedy ever, but it does have its moments.  Such as when Steve Martin tells Charles Grodin that he's going to go take a nap and Grodin responds by saying he doesn't like to nap.

"You know that feeling you have when you wake up and realize who you are?"  he asks.  "I only like to have to go through that once a day."

My love of and appreciation for a good nap non-withstanding, I find myself approaching a similar line of reasoning.

There was the day before yesterday, for example, when what Grodin described became my literal experience as I awoke from a wonderful dream, the best I'd had in months.  I was working, doing a stand-up, a live shot, from the Super Bowl.  Sadly, with consciousness came  my reality, that being that I was not in fact at the Super Bowl and that it was just  another day of my not working: another day with no show for me to do, no live shot to perform on-site at a sporting event.  No nothing.  It actually took me a few minutes to get over it.   To quote from another movie, in this case the classic Airplane, "What a pisser!"

Then there was last night and a dream which I must consider to be, at the very least, unsettling.  I was at a baseball game.  Because I recognized the players' uniforms, I'm pretty sure I was at the Big A watching the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim or whatever in the hell they are calling themselves these days play the Detroit Tigers.  In the bottom of the 8th one of the Halos clobbered a homer with one out and two aboard to erase what had been a 3-2 Detroit lead. The Tiger pitcher must have hung one because he flat-out hit the snot out of the thing.  Way back into the seats in left.  The thing is, as the hitter made his way around the bases I couldn't help but notice that the batter-runner was, in fact, a dog.  A dog who bore an uncanny resemblance to a beagle I'd seen earlier in the day in a TV ad.  It must have been, now that I think of it, a three-dog homer!  The little guy was so excited that when he rounded third, bounding in the air and barking with the sheer delight of the moment, he ran past the dog ahead of him, failing to heed my shouts of, "Don't do it!"  He realized his mistake and fell back behind the dog who had been in front of him, but I don't have to tell you that it was already too late.  He was, of course, out for passing a teammate on the basepaths.  Then the lead dog, the one who had occupied first when the homer was hit, turned around and scampered back to be with his buddy the homer-hitter. He  was also declared out for violation of the same rule.  The dog in the middle simply turned and trotted into the dugout without touching home plate although that faux paws didn't matter so much since the inning was by now all over.  The Tigers went on to win.

Moments later, I found myself being excoriated for all of this by Angels manager Mike Scioscia.  He was livid, screaming at me while making  generous use of every bad word known to  Organized Ball while all the while managing to maintain flawless grammar.

I have no idea what to make of any of this.  I wonder what tonight will bring.  Unless I take a nap before then, and in spite of it all, I'm not at all ruling that out at this point in time.