Yesterday morning, my day started when I awoke with a dream hangover. Somewhere floating through my subconscious, disjointed thoughts and feelings had produced a strange little inner movie for my own slumbering enjoyment.
The thrust of the dream was that Nicole Kidman had created an outrage by agreeing to play a part in blackface. But, when “first look” pictures from the set of her new movie emerged, it was clear she wasn’t in some kind of minstrel show makeup, but instead had her face smeared with what looked to me like chocolate cake mix.
Now I haven’t watched a movie with Ms. Kidman in quite a while, but I did see her and Keith Urban in an awkward live television interview on New Year’s Eve. (Her attitude seemed to be, “You’re getting paid for this, Keith, but I’m not.”) And I haven’t made a chocolate cake in, well, ever, but I had a piece of Karl’s chocolate birthday cake before I went to bed. As for blackface, I did see reporting on the Florida Secretary of State who resigned when pictures of him in blackface at a party emerged.
Did my admittedly twisted mind knit these disconnected memories together into a single dream narrative? And I couldn’t help wondering all day what I would dream about that night, what with all the random stuff that’s coming down the pike these days.
For example, this is guy Howard Schultz. He was CEO of Starbucks and is seemingly considering a presidential run as an independent. OK, you lost me at Starbucks.
While I am not a connoisseur of wine or French cuisine, I think I know coffee. There is completely serviceable coffee as served by 7-Eleven or McDonald’s that goes down easy and keeps you running until lunch, when you can get more coffee. And there’s the really good New Orleans coffee, including chicory, that we drink at home. But Starbucks?
Well, there are those of us who know the difference between dark roast and burnt roast. Apparently, many Starbucks regulars do, too, which explains that whole “blonde espresso” thing. And if the coffee was all that good to begin with, it wouldn’t be necessary to hide what it actually tastes like with foam, cinnamon, and those other “flavorings.” For heaven’s sake, coffee IS the flavoring. And anyone who doesn’t get that ought to pay too much for a large coffee. Excuse me—venti.
Then there was the news of Trump getting into another tinkle contest, but not with Nancy Pelosi. This time it’s Trump versus the intelligence community. Of course, one could argue that Trump has always been on the other side of the “intelligence” community in the larger sense, but the juxtaposition in this context gives me the giggles.
So with all that swirling around in my brain, I wondered what kind of dreams would be visited on me last night. This morning, I got up and consciously identified what my subconscious gave up while I was asleep.
There was Mahershala Ali winning another award, and there I was driving around in an antique Rolls Royce roadster. (I think that was a reference to a Matchbox car I had as a child.) There were also a couple of old friends who made cameo appearances. One dead since 1993, and the other dead (to me) since 2007. Pretty disappointing stuff, all things considered.
I thought I might dream of some kind of intelligence contest or spelling bee with Donald Trump competing against a six foot tall coffee cup, with Trump inevitably losing for not knowing the difference between “pore” and “pour” or “there” and “their.” Then Bradley Cooper would step out as the moderator and declare that Trump had lost the contest and name a Shortbread Frappuccino as the new leader of the free world.
Why Bradley Cooper you might ask? Well, honey, that’s the stuff that dreams are made of.