윤

I’ve never actually watched a full episode, but that doesn’t stop my subconscious from imagining what it’s like. Been a couple of days since this dream, so my recollection’s deteriorated substantially: it was night-time, and like the scene in Quatermass and The Pit, it wasn’t safe to be different. One of my companions was prepared: he produced a fake arm cast and hid from a mob with similar handicaps, who noticed my lack thereof and pursued me (as best they could, I presume). I escaped them into another dangerous zone of African-Americans. They backed me into a corner—but what luck! It was a senior’s home, where my graying hair allowed me to fit in… well, occasionally there’s little need for interpretation.

Count me in as a victim of the “mass dream” referred to in the excised Wiki Lore section about this movie only recently re-released in un-remastered form by the Warner Archive. (To no editor’s credit, the new page now includes the name of an online review series as part of its title.) I really ought to stick to my lessons about plumbing the past, but the results can sometimes be interesting: the visual in my mind all these years of Carl Weathers being dragged by 浦島太郎’s turtle had been from a different angle. 22-year-old Connie Sellecca might’ve seeded our generation’s response to Kristin Kreuk, whose Chun Li burn might actually make it to the player if only she wouldn’t try to act. And that bit of the soundtrack which immediately struck me as being hijacked by the Shaw Bros. had me fast-forwarding through four more DVD’s last night, without any conclusion other than Super Ninjas has one helluva ending.

A few weeks ago I had a dream (most likely induced by 老婆’s request that I stop there for her) I was in Marukai, went up a back way and found a new floor where they kept a library of Japanese books. The curator approached me with my order, a scroll on a tatami plate, which her assistant removed from its wrapping by haphazardly cutting into the trim. She asked me to read it to her, but none of the characters were familiar. I BS’d and tried to run for it, but the stairs down led to the same place, like in the “House that Jack Built” episode of the Avengers I watched not too long ago. When I actually did go to the store the next day, nothing. Not even カレーうどん. Maybe I should’ve tried the second level?

Will’s online girlfriend appeared in another dream, accompanied by a male companion she introduced as Evan while we strolled down a Little Tokyo street. He said he’d check with her, but more than likely the connection is from our office guest with that last name—what exactly does she do, anyway? Or it’s time for me to dig up the Kentucky Fried Movie for an audience with Mr. Kim.

Last night I found myself in a gang like Angel’s (having also revisited the series finale recently) on a mission to defeat our deadliest enemies: Alfre Woodard from Star Trek: First Contact took on a corse-like creature by confusing it with songs, the last of which was the Jackson 5’s “ABC”. Myself and Kutner from House were charged with a pair of killers. We snuck upon them and I throttled one, but the other managed to produce a knife and stab my partner. He survived… unlike in Season Five, which I fast-forwarded through this lazy Sunday afternoon.

Emma Peel was asleep in a room on the second floor, but I had a hard time climbing the stairs to get her because you know how they are in my dreams, so narrow and dangerous, and I’m always crawling on them. Turns out she wasn’t there, but I met her in the kitchen instead. She wore heels and towered over me, prompting me to ask her if her husband Peter was even taller. We were needed, as it were, so she, Steed and my faceless sidekick jumped into a sedan. I took a seat in the passenger side, but realized that Steed was piloting with his umbrella from the rear, and congenially allowed me to take the wheel. My driving was hectic, with all the reckless abandon in a videogame, but after all, we were professionals. We arrived at a junkyard where the bad guys were about to crush some containers of evidence; I quickly executed a daring reversal into them, ruining their opportunity. They had us and used the electromagnet to lift the car in the air. I somehow escaped to the ground, but faced a 20-foot giant in their ranks. At first such a being was hard to believe, but I supposed with the right breeding, it wasn’t impossible. The crane wound up and flung the others into a far-away building, their bodies visible in the rubble (like on the OMAC cover), but Steed and Mrs. Peel survived. My assistant, however, did not, and Steed demanded we take a blood oath to avenge his death. So that’s where the name comes from.

Had this dream last night that I rediscovered an old song on the B&W screen my 3G iPod with this title, pre-Pearl Jam and just the one word, by a band called Me Myself and Irene, also not to be confused with the Farrelly Bros. Jim Carrey movie. Cross-referencing the two now finds no connection.

…Re-imagined by my subconscious had me playing the part of the Joker’s right-hand man. Contrary to his claims of anarchy (after all, how do you spontaneously rig a whole hospital for explosive demolition), we were planning a heist of some diamond required to power a death ray. There was, however dastardly the acts involved, a definite sense of excitement and accomplishment from them coming together. Remnants of that rival Black gang—ours was comprised of Latino members—we left bound in the basement, swearing others were on their way. We proudly took our seats in an outdoor amphitheater and watched as our satellite hovered over the water in the distance and shot a thick White beam below. To the rescue came Christian Bale captaining the USS Enterprise, in both retro and J.J. Abrams versions, apparently so as not to disrupt the continuity.

In the second billing of my double feature I dreamed the neighbor upstairs or in the suite next to ours had a dog that looked just like Oreo, except she was named Daisy.

(A)DSL seems to be back up—either that, or it’s because everyone else is asleep—so I’m making up for being disconnected over much of the weekend. Woke up, anyway, from a dream about an episode of House from presumably an earlier season, where the teaser showed him in spacesuit, chatting via split-screen to a sick young patient friend… I don’t recall him ever being recruited by NASA, and I’ll surely give up on the series if the writers turn him into Homer Simpson like that, but for the sake of argument: she suffered from a seizure or syncope, prompting the titles, then we see House back on Earth, in a glorious mood. To Foreman’s dismay, he leads Chase and Cameron to join him seated in front of the open windows to appreciate the beauty of the day. I suppose it could happen, when he’s out of the nut house.

There’s no remembering all the others I’ve had lately, except for Kim quitting (which is bound to happen eventually, so probably doesn’t qualify as a premonition), one where I was playing George Huang’s role in SVU and trying to explain a perp’s motives to Stabler in as fluent psychobabble as possible, given that stammering was unbecoming of a professional, much less scripted television; and another which left me with the actual impression that a sitcom about the Silver Surfer working at a restaurant would be a good idea.

My recent rediscovery of Jack Kirby—spoiled somewhat, by Roy Thomas’ Eternals sequel—didn’t include these. Sound familiar? (I thought I’d pioneered online interpretation, too.) Ah, if only they’d unearth some royal pr0n, because that’s what might’ve made it a hit. None in mine last night; just ping-pong. I had stumbled upon a gymnasium where players assembled after hours. Their balls kept flying into the dark room in the back, and I went to help retrieve them. Most were oddly-shaped, larger than what I remember, and broken, so not worth pocketing for myself. I returned them to their amusement, individually wrapped in plastic.

I’m still feverish from a bug I caught on my way back from Europe, although I no longer attribute my dream-a-thons solely to my temperature. (Funny but I don’t remember any over there, which suggests it’s more to do with how much activity I see during the day.) If I’m not hobnobbing with celebrities or exercising superpowers, there are secret worlds to be discovered, this morning when I noticed that my unattended bicycle was being stripped between each inspection. No one was around, but nearby was a hole in the dirt, no deeper than a burial plot, through which we could see couples in 50’s-era clothes dancing. Peering even longer, and a whole Eighties video production was going on in this subterranean complex. The point of view shifted to the ground floor and I looked up and saw my large head spying below at this hidden kingdom of lost cultures.

…Well, it’s not so much of one as it is a recurring theme. Then again, I may often get lost and frustrated in them but once in a while I’ll be friends with Jennifer Anniston and run downtown with her where fellow celebrities like Gwyneth Paltrow were masquerading along a bridge. Or could be just a case of over-occurring dreams. This morning was more of the former, with my buddies and I traveling in Canada and not being able to find our way back to the nearest airport. Much less remember what it was called. Must be in anticipation of our own upcoming trip. After a break, the story referenced itself in a note of plans some girls were making to go themselves, and all I could think was, good luck. I offered to escort them to their car, which was parked in a garage adjacent to our school building and required climbing down repeating rollercoaster-like stairwells, which finally deposited us in a gated chamber surrounded by a fence. Outside were our vehicles, or at least access to them appeared unencumbered. A young lady was peddling a carnival basketball game and told us we wouldn’t be let out until later. I didn’t feel like waiting, and when I approached one of the exits, I noticed that the padlock on the chain had been unshackled, so I turned to get the others. Bad mistake in my Sisyphean scenarios, as a hand fumbled from behind and attempted to re-secure the gate. Regardless, their side had opened up as well, and they strolled to freedom. (I had encountered a similar obstacle while running yesterday and discovering the waterway path closed shut on my side of the street.)