I just had the strangest dream... Probably the result of this crazy French cough syrup Sam had leftover from when he was sick a few weeks ago.
I was at this private party on one of Mel Gibson's estates. It was in Corpus Christi, Texas. There was this weird basketball tournament thingy going on on the estate. I'm not going to go into it because it would take too long to describe and if I don't get the rest of the dream out--the cool part--I'll lose it. Chances are, I'm already going to have a hard time describing it as cool as it was....
What I WILL describe is the downright immensity of this place. It felt like I was touring Versailles. Huge spanses of land and lakes and fountains and gardens and random lawn art that looks like it was done by Michelangelo and the like. Breathtaking, but just enormous. As beautiful as it is, I just can't help thinking that if it were mine, I'd till most of it up and grown organic vegetables and free-range critters. But I keep that to myself.
So, I wander into a house to use the potty, and when I come out, this basketball game is on a TV or something and I can't help but watch it. While I'm standing there, Mel Gibson walks up, points to a couple of plasti-wrapped, "autographed" cups (that say Mel Gibson on them), and says, "Psst. Are these mine? Cuz I'm thirsty."
Normally, in the presence of ANYone with ANY amount of fame, I lose it. I go just plain coocoo for cocoa puffs. I am the most star-struck person you'll ever meet. My knees still tremble when I think about how one of my fav YA authors (John Green) signed my book all while one of the other one of my fav (David Levithan) and I had a "conversation" (as much of a conversation as two people can have while one of them is in full worship mode and about to pee her pants with joy and awe). Anyhoo, so what would have happened in real life, probably, is that I would have fainted on the spot.
But in this dream, cool as a cuke, I turned to him, lifted one of the packages with one finger and, leaning in as though we shared some sort of secret, said, "It's got your name on it, and it's in your house. I don't know about your house rules, but at my place, that'd make those your cups." He smiled took a cup and walked around the other side of a small partition.
I continue to watch the game. He calls over the partition, "So, what do you think of the place?"
"Gorgeous," I say.
He continues doing whatever he's doing and I continue to watch this weird basketball game. Then, I grow balls.
"However, do you mind if I ask you a question?"
"Fire away," he says, but he sounds like he's concentrating on something.
"Why Corpus Christi?"
"Why NOT?" He says.
"Fair enough," I say.
A few beats later, he says, "Why? What's wrong with Corpus?"
"Nothing at all."
"Hmmmm." It's a groan. And it means, 'what're you hiding?'
"Well, okay, my real question isn't about Corpus. It's about the SIZE of your digs."
He murmurs some joke about size and then chuckles.
I can tell he's trying to concentrate on whatever he's doing, but I can't help it. I've grown my balls and I can't control my mouth anymore. "Do you really need this much land?"
I cringed and expected him to call security.
Instead, he leans back from his spot on the other side of the partition and I can see he has headphones on--how has he been hearing me with headphones on? Whatever. But he says, "What do you mean?"
"Well, let me be frank and say... I grew up in a trailer. In fact, I spent much of my life living with my mom and sister in a camper on the back of a pickup. We didn't have grand spanses of land, or art or fountains, but we were safe and fed and together and happy."
I prepared myself for his schpeel about how it's all relative and who am I to judge him for having more land and how he's worked hard for what he has and deserves it and just who do I think I am, and I'll suddenly feel the nudge of a security guard and I won't get an autograph from Mel Gibson.
But instead, he stops what he's doing--which I can see, now, is playing a video game--rips the headphones off his ears, throws them and the controls onto the floor as though it's a fly buzzing around his head and says, "Well, that's ruined!"
I stare with my mouth agape.
"Why don't you make me feel like a spoiled brat!"
"Alright, out with it! Tell me more."
So, I do. I tell him practically my life story and then I preach my sermon about the link between food and the environment and the economy and the rest of the planet. He sits, staring at me like he thinks I'm crazy.
Then, he looks like he has an epiphany.
"I can't believe it," he says. "I never saw it that way before."
I shrug and say, "It was there all the time. I didn't see it right away either, so don't feel bad."
"Don't feel bad? Don't feel bad? Have you SEEN my place?"
I cringe again. "I'm sorry to ruin it for you. As places go, it's really pretty."
He sulks. "Sure."
I don't know how I left there or if I got an autograph. I hope I did--well, the star-struck crazy hopes I did. What I do know is that soon thereafter, I saw an article in the paper about Mel Gibson going bonkers and putting on a display. He erected a huge McDonald's Happy Meal with inflatable fat kids in front of it, surrounded by thousands and thousands (millions maybe?) of plastic toys. I had to chuckle.
Anyway, the dream was so real it felt like a memory and I laughed so hard at Mel Gibson's "art" that it woke me up and I had to run in here and write it down before I forgot.
We'll see what the magic cough syrup brings for tonight, tee hee hee. Maybe I'll get to chill with Johnny Depp or get to hang out in the afterlife with Heath.