2001-07-13 - 12:25 p.m.

Had another dream about the Beatles last night. This time, we were at a bar (looked like Doc's place, for anyone who cares) and we all swapped IDs to make the barmaid laugh. Hahaha! As it turned out, she didn't card us. But I did get to hold George's passport, as, once again, and as in real life, I had a big crush. There hair was a little longer this dream, maybe 1967.

Cut to:

William H. Macy having sex with the woman from "State and Main," I think she is David Mamet's wife. What the fuck? I mean, they were entirely hidden from neck down, thank God, by a big floral comforter, but still... what the fuck?

Cut to:

Another room in the house. Gus and I are hanging out near a desk, trying to download something I need, maybe for the Beatles, maybe not. Turns out, the house belongs to Gus. He has a cable modem that takes 14 minutes to make a connection. There is nothing I can do. Gus tried to entertain me with a song he wrote, which didn't work too well, since the song was, in it's entirety, "Lonely violin, lala lalala." As the alarm began to buzz, all I could think was, "Man, it was so much better when I was just getting drunk with the Beatles."

My other dream, which I had last Tuesday night, was slightly more epic. I was in charge of entertaining the boys in 1964 when they came to the US. They stayed at my grandfather's house, and I was instructed to wow them with wine coolers and a case of nail polish in different colors. (Perhaps Bartles and James and the makers of Hard Candy cosmetics were sponsering their US tour.) But it worked, and the boys and I became best friends. The next part is a big blur which involved much frolicking, a la Hard Day's Night (if you have never seen this movie, your life is incomplete), followed almost immediately by Paul's psychadelic wedding. Unfortunately, everyone was completely stoned, except for me, and the wedding was televised, much like the Oscars, and if anyone got too stupid or long-winded, the orchestra played them off. This happened when George, the best man, was giving the toast, right at the point he was talking about me and what a right bird I was. How depressing! But later, as we lounged on bean bag chairs, he apologized.

So what does this all mean? Is this my new thing, recurring dreams about the Beatles?

Am I now officially the walrus?

What I'm wearing:

What I'm reading:

What I'm doing after this: