May 13, 2008 Earworm

Last night I dreamt Chuck Palahniuk loved me and you don't know (you don't know, you don't know) how glad Nancy Wilson is.

Maybe I should back up a bit...

On Monday morning I woke up with vague recollections of having a dream. This is not unusual for most people but for me, an avid melatonin fan, it is rare. The only dreams that I tend to remember are nightmares that can usually be analyzed right back to work worries because I recognize the snakes.

While the details were blurry, I could remember certain cast members in this dream; most of them un-loved, unnecessary, and unimportant. What was strikingly clear was the memory of Nancy Wilson's 1964 trip to the top twenty, "(You Don't Know) How Glad I Am", provided the soundtrack. A very classy affair where Nancy struggles to reach the right words to express what we're supposed to not know, "(You Don't Know) How Glad I Am" is burned into my being from repeated late night, after hours, listening when someone left the album at my apartment hundreds of years ago. It was beetlejuiced by repeated listens to volumes 1 through 4 of the "Early Girls" cds in preparation for the soon to be released volume 5. (Thanks, Ace!)

So, that takes care of Nancy for the moment. Now, onto Chuck...

Last night I dug into the latest issue of The Advocate and became engrossed in an interview with Mr. Palahniuk that took place in one of his favorite places,
the Portland Memorial Mausoleum. "I feel a comfort and absurdity and freedom that comes in the face of life. No mistake will last forever - all those bad or good choices you made, you'll still end up here.", said Chuck. "Hmmmm...", said I, and then tottered off to bed, not realizing that I was taking him with me.

In my dream he looked just like he did in that diner picture; the one where the beautifully pumped vein running down his beautifully pumped bicep told everything he'd not yet shared about himself with his public - the one that seemed designed to place him on a stool next to Marilyn Monroe, Humphrey Bogart, and James Dean, in some knocked off Hopper-ian vision of the pop culture hall of fame. He looked vaguely menacing yet in deep need of cuddling as he kept repeating various incantations of his Advocate quote interrupted by the occasional reminder of what I don't know. Eventually, I realized that he was in perfect sync with the jukebox playing Nancy Wilson. Suddenly, the bell on the door jangled and in walked Nancy, wearing the same red dress she was sporting on the album and I asked Chuck, "Is that a drag queen?" Chuck pulled the cigarette from my hand, inhaled deeply, and said, "It's your mistake, Buddy, make the best of it." I verified that there was no adam's apple and gratefully accepted one kiss on the cheek from him as Nancy kissed the other.

I woke up with the usual "WTF?" but you know what? You don't know how glad I am.