Famous journalists haunt my dreams.
According to everyone else in the universe, hearing about other people's dreams is super boring, but I happen to enjoy it. I particularly enjoy celebrity cameos in dreams. I know that personally, I rarely dream about famous people that I am interested in, but completely random, out of nowhere famous people. Like Paul Simon, for instance. it's like a weird glimpse into who my subconscious wishes I was obsessed with.
Last night I had a dream about Bob Woodward. In my dream he looked like a composite of the real Bob Woodward, and both Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman. I was not myself at all, really, or even my usual dream self. I think I was wearing high heels (something which I have literally never done in real life).
The plot of the dream was, I think, the perfect premise for a mad-cap comedy. Picture this, if you will: a hardened, yet highstrung reporter (Woodward) is saddled with the unwelcome job of writing a story about an irritating, ditzy young person (possible a socialite, I was never clear on that), who it turns out is at the center of a shadowy conspiracy. The pair dash around Washington, D.C. (or rather Dream Washington, which seems to contain a lot of pink stucco) being pursued by unseen enemies, and in the process, the reporter who thinks he's seen it all learns a little bit about life and love and reconciles his strained relationship with his writing partner/lover (Carl Bernstein).
It needs some fleshing out, of course, but it just might work. The last act lesson-learning will have to be fluffed up; in my dream, Woodward was a total dick the whole time. All he did was bitch about how Bernstein was supposed to be helping him on this assignment, and how annoying I was.
Oh, and yes, in my dream, Woodward and Bernstein were definitely hitting it. This was never explicitly addressed, I just knew it in my dream head. I like that I've become so comfortable with my own fucked-upness that that doesn't even surprise me.
Full Analysis: I should stop reading Wonkette.
Last night I had a dream about Bob Woodward. In my dream he looked like a composite of the real Bob Woodward, and both Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman. I was not myself at all, really, or even my usual dream self. I think I was wearing high heels (something which I have literally never done in real life).
The plot of the dream was, I think, the perfect premise for a mad-cap comedy. Picture this, if you will: a hardened, yet highstrung reporter (Woodward) is saddled with the unwelcome job of writing a story about an irritating, ditzy young person (possible a socialite, I was never clear on that), who it turns out is at the center of a shadowy conspiracy. The pair dash around Washington, D.C. (or rather Dream Washington, which seems to contain a lot of pink stucco) being pursued by unseen enemies, and in the process, the reporter who thinks he's seen it all learns a little bit about life and love and reconciles his strained relationship with his writing partner/lover (Carl Bernstein).
It needs some fleshing out, of course, but it just might work. The last act lesson-learning will have to be fluffed up; in my dream, Woodward was a total dick the whole time. All he did was bitch about how Bernstein was supposed to be helping him on this assignment, and how annoying I was.
Oh, and yes, in my dream, Woodward and Bernstein were definitely hitting it. This was never explicitly addressed, I just knew it in my dream head. I like that I've become so comfortable with my own fucked-upness that that doesn't even surprise me.
Full Analysis: I should stop reading Wonkette.