I had a very vivid dream last night. It occurred somewhere in between putting my earbuds in to enjoy some music – which is a frequent pleasure that I partake of before sleep – and waking up with those earbuds still firmly implanted in my earholes.
Before we get into any of this, I just want to say that I already know that I had this particular dream because of the music I was listening to, so all you junior dream interpreter experts can calm the fuck down, okay? It was the dream itself that was odd, not because it was vivid and I can remember almost all of it even now, but because of, well, the dream. I am writing about it because I feel compelled to share it. Let’s see if there’s an actual reason, shall we?
I dreamed that I was laying on a king-sized bed with a canopy. It was a dark, mahogany monstrosity of a bed. The bedspread, duvet, whatever the hell you want to call it, was a deep, velvety red color. I was laying on my back, sandwiched in between Dave Grohl and Tobias Forge (pronounce his name right or I will stab you with a fork. It is Toe-bee-us For-yay. This is a pet peeve of mine.). We all had on black clothing.
For those of you who don’t know who these two men are, – and SHAME ON YOU IF YOU DON’T, I might add – they are the lead singers of two of my most favorite bands in the world: The Foo Fighters and Ghost.
Okay, let’s not jump to any conclusions yet. Yes, a dream about two rock stars who I am enamored of and find physically attractive and think are immensely talented. You’re going there, aren’t you? In your head, you’re going there. “Lori had a sex dream about these two dudes and she was in a delicious sort of sandwichey, gooey, deliriously glorious and orgasmic threesome.” Hell, if I was observing me, I would assume this. It’s no secret that these two are on my laminated list of the 5 men I am allowed to get jiggy with vertically and horizontally and any other way we can come up with. I wish to exchange bodily fluids with them; well, mostly them with the bodily fluids because I am after all a 50 year-old woman with certain mature woman issues and sometimes, you just gotta resort to the KY. The 5 men on my laminated list are no-strings-attached, no regrets, and free of any sort of marital retribution for having been given the opportunity to know them in the biblical sense. The husband is very aware and is permitted a list, too. If I could have had it written into our vows, I probably would have. Imagine that:
“Do you promise to honor the laminated list with no jealousy or retribution as long as you both shall live?”
It’s also very tongue-in-cheek, because these are obviously unattainable goals that I have. Even if I have them on my laminated list, I am positive that I am not on theirs, if they have such a thing. It’s purely fun, purely fantasy, and since it ain’t ever going to happen, I am allowed a few moments of shameless lust. Okay, a few hours.
But back to the dream. You are all sick fuckers. It was NOT a sex dream. At least, I don’t see it as such. In the dream, we were sort of snuggling. But we were just talking. Here’s how it went:
Dave: I need a smoke.
Me: (frowning) Not in bed. What if you drop some ashes? Plus, I hate the smell.
Dave: I’ll be careful. Do you think I would fucking burn the bed down?
Tobias: (chuckles) The Burning Bed.
Me: I read that book. And Farrah Fawcett played her in the movie. It was fucking brutal.
Tobias: I never read it. I saw the movie, though. Americans with their dramas.
Dave: This has nothing to do with that story. She used gasoline, anyway. (reaches beside him to bedside table and gets cigarettes and fires one up)
Me: But I don’t like the smell! You suck. (swats Dave’s stomach-chest area)
Dave: (doubles up a bit) Stop! I’m ticklish. And you wish I was sucking.
Me: Meh. You’re only acceptable at it. (turning to face Tobias and bumping Dave with my ass)
Dave: Bitch. Damn. You’re such a bitch.
Me: I know you are, but what am I?
Tobias: Who’s the youngest right here, right now?
Dave: (bursts out laughing) I SEE WHAT YOU DID THERE, MAN!
Me: (rolling my eyes) Assholes, both of you.
(At this point, I lift Tobias’s t-shirt to expose his stomach. There’s a thin line of soft, dark hair running below his navel into the waistband of his jeans. I trace my finger down it lightly.)
Tobias: (Shivers) Hey. I’m ticklish, too.
Me: I want to see if that was really you in the Year Zero video.
Tobias: It was a stunt cock. You think I’m hung like that? (laughs)
Dave: Uhhhh, I am in the room, guys.
Me: We’re discussing science. Don’t you ever like to talk about scientific things?
Dave: Stunt cocks? Like they have anything to do with science. You just want to bang him.
Me: And your point is? Isn’t sex scientific?
Dave: (Grabs his crotch) I got your science right here.
Tobias: Give me a drag of that cigarette.
(They both start laughing.)
Dave: Fuck you, man!
Me: You’re both children. Why do I even love you?
Here is where I woke up, with the Foo Fighter’s The Neverending Sigh blaring in my ears. Look up the song, by the way. It is awesome, and I want to be listening to it when I die. Anyway, I don’t know whether it was the combination of the music, my nightly (legal) drug cocktail, or the introduction of Nyquil to my evening due to a nasty, leaky nose, but that was a really strange dream. Maybe the hair dye that I put on my hair last night seeped into my body somehow and interacted with the Nyquil and produced this perturbing and perplexing spectral sleep anomaly, but still, I must proclaim it strange. It’s strange not only because it would never in a million years happen and not because it was so vivid, but because it was so normal. If I were sandwiched between these two guys and we were just hanging out, I imagine that this is exactly how it would go. We are reminded every day that celebrities are mere people, just like us. They do stupid shit, say stupid things, act like children, and we still place them on pedestals because they speak to us on a creative level. But this was so mundanely average on a scale of average-ness that I didn’t really think about it until I awoke this morning and had a moment where I thought, “You had the strangest dream last night.” Even now, a dozen hours later, I can still hear their voices. I admit, too, I am a little irritated that it was so normal. Given the creativity between these two men, one would expect a dream of Magical Mystery Tour proportions. But alas, no. I had a dream about being normal with two very extraordinary men. It makes me wonder about dreams, and about alternate realities, and about science. Yes! Science! Because this whole bizarre happening has to have some sort of scientific meaning or connotation. Right? Maybe this dream was symbolic, showing me that life is really like smoke drifting into the air, solid-looking at first, but thinning, drifting, and fading. Only the scent of their ideas remain, and eventually, that fades, too. Now, that is some deep thinking shit, right there. Read that in Jeffrey Dean Morgan’s voice. I thought it that way. And yeah, he’s on the laminated list.
Or maybe it’s my subconscious telling me that I really, truly need to focus on some fictional writing.
Anyway, thanks for indulging me. I know this is just drivel. But even good writers engage in drivel at times.