I had this dream*: I was back at the Royal Conservatory of Music, but as an adult.
Oh really. How original! This usually means you get to wear, for example, ridiculously undersized Buster Brown shoes and a sailor suit, unless it’s just the Buster Browns with knee socks. Which is distressingly like Japanese porn. Just add pigtails and some California rolls.
At any rate, I was practising piano in one of their studios when Meryl Streep as a teacher came in with her pupils – I had run overtime. Like Big Surprise, right?
Meryl plays her as a rather plaintive, gaunt figure in black, a cross between, say, Isabelle Huppert, Emily Dickinson and Meryl Streep. Or Charlotte Rampling. Or Meryl Streep playing Charlotte Rampling, which she would do better than Charlotte Rampling would. I’m just surmising. I mean, probably better.
Let’s all hear it for Meryl fucking Streep, Mistress of The Universe!
Where was I? Oh, yeah.
The bit where you get frantic and confused: I began to pack up, and in the process I became – altogether now – frantic and confused. I suddenly realize that it’s Meryl Streep’s bags I’m searching through and packing and repacking – and even more compromising, I’ve taken some of her valuables and put them in my pockets, like, gasp, whatever.
I’m missing reruns of Seinfeld for this?
I realize my mistake and confess to her, and start to return the valuables – documents, cards, pics of her children, there seems to be no end to the stuff – but she is horrified and offended and accusing. Nothing I say or do will convince her of my innocence or that it was just a mistake.
Yes, it’s the old “back at school with-optional-humiliating-nudity” trope. I leave the studio to find that there is a handwritten sign in the high-school-like hallway slyly publicising my mistake for all to see.
Oh Meryl, every dream has this sequence somewhere, you just can’t remember it. This is why every time you go to evensong at Saint Swithin’s in the Mange you look at the minister and instead of his face you see a large, unruly vagina. OK? So you can probably cut down on the Vicodin.
Random musings to convince you that if you spend another three hours on this rubbish you’ll extract some kind of life-lesson that you can subsequently spin into a spiritual cash-cow type product that preys on people’s stupidity. q.v. “The Secret”: But WHY has this happened? What’s my EXCUSE? Is it the darkness of the studio, my haste, the fact that I keep putting on her thin-framed, unattractive spectacles? My overweening desire to sit around doing nothing and get paid?
Oh, fuck it.
Why don’t we all just kill ourselves so Meryl can do everything? Hey, Meryl for POTUS ! Meryl for CEO of Starbucks! Meryl for – Hey Meryl – wanna write this blog post, too, I bet, don’tcha!
The dream goes through a dissolve and now Meryl Streep is writing this blog post. Go on! Knock me over with a girder!
CONTEST**: Interpret my dream*! (by guest blogger Meryl Streep)
Meryl Streep: (sounding exactly like David. No. Better than David. Her comic timing is impeccable.) You may be wondering so here’s why you should just do this: I’ll Purolator a single IKEA Swedish meatball*** with a tiny container of lingonberry preserves to the author of the best and most convincing exegesis.
Entry fee: $500.¹ I know, I know, just see the footnote. You must perform a skill-testing question that will probably involve pronouncing the word “exegesis” and naming all of the Canadian Governors-General since Confederation. OK, one Governor-General.
No it’s not Sarah Palin. Calm down, princess.
Entries MUST be written with a fountain pen in INDIGO BLUE INK, preferably in those little plastic vials that used to explode all over your pencil case and get on your white shirt. See, it’s like having a dream* along with me! Never, and Virginia, if you’ve forgotten, I’m going to remind you to never never never again forget how good I am to you. N-E-V-E-R. Now get those pens scritchy-scratching!
* DREAM is genuine.
** CONTEST is bogus and anyway it ended yesterday.
*** See picture. DISCLAIMER: Serving suggestion only. ONE meatball delivered per winning entry. Meatball MAY or MAY NOT contain “meat”. I reserve the right to have Meryl Streep play the meatball.
Lingonberry preserves included, quantity may vary from that pictured.
Prize does NOT include creamy mashed or possibly puréed? potatoes OR garnish of frozen-then-microwaved “petits pois”.
OR lovely IKEA plate. I broke them all. Anyway.
Meatball pre-dates IKEA meatball recall of 2013. Use at own risk.
ONE entry per household. ONE this. ONE that. More rules, more rules. Blah blah blah.
¹ I know. But it discourages the the riff-raff, along with the word “exegesis”.
Quick note from guest blogger:
This was a supremely challenging role, David. I think the worst part was mastering the “oot and aboot thing”. And when I say I didn’t eat, I truly mean I did not eat for a full week! I think the correct plural for “Governor-General” was a sweet touch of calculated authenticity. And I know you do, too.
That’s all for now, love. Thanks for the opportunity to suck all the oxygen out of another role! I’ll give you a charmless, self-satisfied hug once I flesh out some back-story. Aren’t I just the best? LOL! That’s what they call a rhetorical question!