Dreams of Dead Celebrities and a Few Not-Dead-Yet Ones

In a most vivid dream, I once had a conversation with John Wayne, one of my personal cinema heroes. In a way most peculiar, at the beginning of our chat, The Duke was young, trim and seemingly sculpted as if by Michelangelo – tall, lean and confident, the gunslinger in all those sepia-toned Republic Studios westerns of the 30s. By the time we were saying our so-longs a short while later, I was looking at the grizzled, salt-n-pepper stubbled Oscar winner of "True Grit."

The ageless advice he left me, about pursuing a career of my own in the movie business: "Pay yer dime, n' take yer chance."

I think I'm still paying my dime, many years later. The "take yer chance" part, I am learning, is ongoing.

CHUCK BERRY

At the other end of the spectrum, was a more recent dream in which the iconic rock-n-roller Chuck Berry was inflicted upon me. This was a strange one, especially in the wake of Michael Jackson's untimely demise. In the dream I was employed as a caricaturist at some kind of media event – an occupation I do have in real life, so that part wasn't strange at all. The high weirdness began when Berry showed up to entertain the crowd.

Like Wayne in the earlier dream, Chuck was young, slick and full of whatever it was that made him him, back in the day. Even his suit and slacks seemed lacquered with a layer of Vaseline – he was a hit from the moment he stepped through the door. His guitar in great evidence, he Berry-danced his way through the crowd, playing... something.

It sounded terrible, as if filtered through a tin can on a string. If that was "Mabeline," she needed a fresh coat of Clinique.

Yet the folks seemed really into him, clapping and rocking along, despite this technical shortfall. He casually improvised a few extra riffs, and approached me. Someone – I presume the person in charge of the "event" – whispered in my ear at this point, that Chuck had heard what an accomplished caricaturist I was, and wanted a drawing of himself. Fantastic. I extended my hand and motioned for Chuck to take a seat. He set his guitar down, sat, smiled, and without pause, blew a gooey explosion of grayish yellow snot all over me.

No "excuse me." No pause of astonishment. Nothing. I was so startled by this that I woke up.

Did this dream contain some cosmic parcel of wisdom, as the John Wayne dream had? If so, I'm still pondering.

MOE HOWARD

Why Moe? I have no idea. I only know that I had an incredibly strange and hilarious afternoon one deep, sleepy night, in the company of the "cruel stooge."

The fact that I actually interviewed The Firesign Theater not long ago for a feature newspaper article may have something to do with this dream, as I found myself sent to get an interview with Moe. (Not to compare the Firesigners to the Stooges – such a pairing would be like taste-testing champagne against root beer.) All the obvious questions raced through my head: Where were the other stooges? And aren't they all long dead? But none of that mattered as I finally found Moe walking along a busy city sidewalk. Bowl haircut and all.

I caught up to him, and he seemed to be expecting me – he slowed somewhat so that I could match his pace, though he wouldn't actually stop walking. "Whatta you wanna know, chucklehead" he asked?

I asked if there were somewhere we could go to chat with a little more privacy, and he led me to a nearby synagog. This is a dream, remember.

For some reason, he believed we had to sneak in. We found a slim opening in a hedge that surrounded the building, and crawled through. We arrived at a back door, and paused on a stoop to chat.

I asked Moe a question that immediately seemed to draw out his smoldering homicidal ire. "Weren't there some later films in which Joe Besser's scenes were interlaced with older footage of Curly – a sort of recycling of the originals?" Moe stared at the ground with a glazed-eyed countenance that silently shouted his contemplation of exactly what manner of physical assault to launch at me.

His fist trembled as he channeled the nuclear stooge-force, preparing to bury his whitening knuckles past my stomach, into my liver. I had obviously crossed a line. How could I have known how sensitive Moe was concerning the cinematic pillaging of Curly's comedic canon.

Just as I attempted to steer the interview into a dialogue on Shemp, Moe suddenly allowed his fury to subside, and became wide-eyed with a bubbly joy. Somewhere inside the building – violins! "Listen!"

We entered, to discover a group of young boys delivering a violin recital to a large church audience. Moe became ecstatic! "I love this!" Suddenly he bolted to a nearby piano and began a stooge-like attempt to provide accompaniment to the violinists. I got a sudden urge to flee as I witnessed a group of thuggish rectors advancing up the aisle.

We both booked out of there just as Moe pounded out a ham-fisted final thrush upon the keyboard!

I don't know how, but Moe got ahead of me in the chase. We wound up hiding in the bushes around the synagog, with the choir thugs hunting for us. Moe peered out to check if the coast was clear, and saw a Rabbi craning his neck to locate us. "How duh-ya like this," Moe muttered, "to think I have to sneak around a Jew!"

This is just a dream. And keep in mind, Moe Howard was Jewish, as were his brothers, Shemp and Curly... and though not related, Larry Fine's real name was Fineberg. I was just along for the ride here.

Somehow we escaped the baying hounds of the synagog search party, and were then back out on the street. I stood at the curb, but Moe had disappeared. I turned a 360-circle looking to see where he'd gone. I spotted him across the street – disguised as a catholic priest. He waved at me. "This'll fool 'em!"

He then produced a huge cardboard sign and held it aloft, to the bustling street full of motorists and pedestrians, his cock-browed stoogey grin beaming. The sign proclaimed in a hurried scrawl: "FUCK YOU!"

"Moe," I yelled, "I have nothing against religious people, in fact, I am one myself!"

He then ran past an oncoming bus, across the street, and gave me a loud fwappy slap in the face. "That's the spirit, puddin' head!!"

Awake!

I have sat in silent amazement at this dream, and still wonder exactly what I am supposed to decipher. Another coffee refill, please.

June Is Busting Out At Random

Little kids running and screaming make me want to, too!

If everything were really your fault, you'd go to the electric chair. If nothing were ever your fault, you'd be really boring.

If you think life should have no rules, hold your dinner out so I can take a few bites of it while I pee on your leg. You say I can't do that? Hey, you just made a rule!

Muffins aren't so great. Just the tops.

NONE of the people using laptop computers in that coffeehouse are using them to solve problems. Eighty percent of all cellphones are being used for pointless brain-free yack-yack – thirteen percent are being used to close semi-illegal business transactions, and the rest are being used by terrorists to remotely detonate explosive devices.

Psychos work in distracted collusion. The sane are alone.

Someone who deserves to be looked up on the Internet, but is inexplicably now missing from all of humanity: Daton. One name... like Madonna and Cher. Daton was a surprisingly engaging lounge singer, whose style was bright, plucky and vaguely Sinatra-like for the first song or two, but never changed from song to song... so it slowly but steadily drained down to tedium by the second-set medly, and turned into a handcart ride to Hell by his closing number. He was a mail carrier or sump-pump repairman by day, who got his "fifteen minutes" in the mid-or-late 1970s when some exec at a mail-order LP company discovered him, and actually allowed him to record a "best of" album. (Hint: there were NO preceding albums from which to glean any "bests.") The Daton album was sold on TV, a 2-record set, as I recall. They correctly surmised that nobody would want a follow-up record, so they put everything on the first. "Gum fly with me, gum fly, lesss fly awaeeeeeeeeeeeee..." It deserves to be on CD, if anyone can locate it. Yes, it's DATON!!!

Tony Bennett sings like he just finished an entire 3-foot long hero sandwich. Robert Goulet sang like he was smoking a cigar through the recording. Bing Crosby sang like he was getting a blowjob. Maybe he was, a few times.

A new beginning doesn't suggest a new attitude, but demands it!

Another thing about people who believe the whole world is centered upon them: don't let them order pizza for the whole group unless you like pesto AND jack cheese on EVERYTHING.