Celebrity Dreaming

I have a tendency to dream myself friendly with celebrities, never popular celebrities mostly has beens and reality stars, every other night the media always has a way of inflitrating my sub-conscious in strange ways. I realize, I may watch too much television.

In last week's dream, Tim Gunn coached me through a soccer game/Guantlet-like reality competition, after which I gave a speech in his honor, since he was  of course such a close friend.

Two nights ago, I was apparently dating steve martin, only I was trying to break up with him for a more age-appropriate suitor. While I was pool side, in search of a younger man, Steve disappeared and I realized perhaps Steve Martin wasn't so bad after all. 

I thought I was done with my celebrity dreaming until last night...

So, I was returning from Florida and I realized that I had left two out of my three bags at the airport, I came back at night to get them, but the attendant said they were no longer keeping luggage in the building and that my clothes were now on " the outskirts."

The outskirts consisted of a ram-shackle community of homeless people living on the landing strip areas of the airport. I went there in search of my luggage, only to find it had been incorporated into the home of  a large possibly schizophrenic vegan woman and her co-habiter Fiona Apple.

When I asked for my clothes back, the possible schizophrenic told me that she had been using my clothes as food, apparently it was o.k to eat. as long as it was all natural cotton.  She proceeded to swallow one of my favorite dresses. 

Fiona Apple then tells me that  she has been living at the airport for a few years now. I asked Fiona why she no longer makes music. And she say something about exploitation,  or corporate control or something like that. I nod as if I understand.

I then offer the schizophrenic vegan half of my clothes to eat as she liked, and ask Fiona to perform for the brooklyn heights symphony (there is of course no brooklyn heights symphony.) She agreed but then, her and clothing eater, ask me what I do for a living.

And standing there, on the outskirts of the shanti-town off of JFK, I didnt' want to tell them-the horrible truth-that I worked in advertising. I considered telling them I was a writer, and avoiding the whole awkward dream interaction, but I told them truth, ashamed by the obvious judgement of the clothing eater.