Jenny Yang
Staff Writer
I had a strange dream last night. It involved (among other things) talking to pink pig-men who ran a prison that housed a fellow pig-man notorious for setting trees on fire and being excruciatingly ugly. I followed the pig guards around until they noticed that the pig arsonist had escaped. Then they led me to a broken-down 1987 Chrysler, and I cruised up and down the aisles of a library constructed entirely of marshmallows and graham crackers. I woke up slightly confused.
What does it all mean? What am I supposed to do about it? Should I stop eating pork? Or just try eating it with my next s’more? One thing’s for sure, if I ever mention that you’re my dream-come-true, it’s most likely an insult. Unless you like pigs or setting things on fire. I’ll probably never understand 99.95 percent of my dreams, but then again, I get the feeling that they feel the same way about my awake and conscious self.
Dreams are funny. Not quite the “ha ha,” laugh-out-loud funny, but more the reflective “hmm, that’s just plain crazy-talk,” circumstantial ironic funny that you can only fully appreciate (like any good date) the morning after. Sometimes I get life and dreams mixed up. After all, my real life is as exciting, minus all the running and falling and break dancing that usually accompanies my REM sleep.
I wonder if Sen. Hillary Clinton thought she was dreaming when she fainted during a speech she was giving at a luncheon in New York earlier this week. She probably wishes she was dreaming. Or maybe she just wishes she didn’t have an acute gastrointestinal virus wreaking havoc on her digestive tract, leading to stomach-lining irritation and nausea. Wow, that was way too much info.
On the embarrassment scale, that ranks right up there with the time that President George Bush, Sr. vomited on the Japanese prime minister in 1992. Although I feel that is a bit more excusable, I recently had sushi for the first time. It was angry at me and taking it out on the Mexican food I had just devoured. Obviously another story altogether.
So what is it with public figures thinking that they can get sick like ordinary people? That’s awfully presumptuous of them, I think. They’re not normal. I don’t always believe they’re even people. Take Michael Jackson for instance. There’s someone who knows his place. He is abnormal and he knows it. He is some other breed of homo sapien and I think he knows that too.
What’s more frightening than a non-humanoid, you ask? How about his psycho fans who sang, danced and chanted his name outside of the Santa Maria courthouse Monday? How about the several of them who donned white makeup and greasy hair to look more like their idol? How’s that for scary? Now that jury selection is officially underway, die-hard MJ fans are coming out of the woodwork, proclaiming their support and admiration.
I love Michael. I’m all for healing the world and making it a better place. I agree that it don’t matter if you’re black or white. I regularly try to incorporate the moonwalk combo with crotch-grab into any dancing endeavor. However, I refuse to become personally involved with my musical-entertainment providers. Rah for Bobby Brown, but don’t expect me to accompany Whitney on any jail visitations, if you know what I mean.
I’m sure deep down these household names are dreaming that one day we’ll forget all about them. Fame must get old, what with all the tabloid gossip, baby kissing and annoying stares from complete strangers. I know I, personally, can only give out so many autographs in a 24-hour period without getting completely exhausted. Then again, maybe that’s just me. Maybe I should come to grips with the thought that I just wasn’t born for the celebrity attention that I’ve been receiving. Maybe I should give more credit to the little people.
Or maybe I’m just dreaming.
Think you’re the pig-headed man of my dreams?
E-mail me at jlyang@pepperdine.edu
02-03-2005