I am not a celebrity watcher. I don’t watch a lot of television. I don’t watch many movies. I do listen to a lot of music, though I don’t really read much about the artists. My philosophy has always been more about enjoying the art/performance rather than obsessing about the artist/performer.
When I was growing up, in the 1970s and 1980s, the only celebrity watching I did was watching Johnny Carson every night. I rarely missed an episode. During that time I was introduced to the latest and greatest celebrities. Once Carson signed off, my late night talk show viewing dropped off. I watched Dave now and then (I like his droll humor). I saw Conan a time or two. Mostly, I lost interest.
These days I get my dose of culture from either the internet or the Supermarket Tabloids. I don’t read many articles, but I see the entertainment headlines on the various news websites I visit, or see the blaring headlines while waiting to pay for my groceries. When I watched Carson, I knew who everyone was. Now, I see names and I don’t even know who they are. (For example, I was mindlessly flipping through a Best Dressed at the Golden Globes slideshow last night and was lucky if I knew half of them.) I’m just not that interested in the cult of celebrity (disclaimer: I do adore Benedict Cumberbatch, Tom Hiddleston and I can’t pass by a shirtless photo of Chris Hemsworth without stopping for a moment or two. Also — I know a bit more about celebs of The UK than of The US — if pressed, I could rattle off a list of all the Dames: Judi, Maggie, Joan, Kiri, to name but a few.)
Mostly, I just don’t care enough. I know who the Kardashians are because one cannot escape their fake plastic faces glaring from seemingly every magazine in the checkout aisle, though I know very little of their personal details.
I mention this because while consciously I may not be interested in celebrities, my dreams seems to be filled with them. This is a relatively recent development — happening sometime after I turned thirty. I may not watch them on TV, but they like to pop in and out of my dreams.
I continuously run into Barbra Streisand. We’re on a first name basis. I’ve been to her house several times. We wave when we pass each other at the mall. We’ve enjoyed many meals and laughs.
I dreamed I was on tour with Sonny and Cher –they had reunited because they both needed some extra cash, and I was along as manager/background singer. We played private gigs. I’ve had various dreams of various gigs, one which ended rather quickly when it turned out the private gig was supposed to involve Sonny, Cher and I having sex with our hosts. We quickly ran away, leaving the guitars and microphones behind. In the dash to escape the sex-crazed couple who had hired us to “perform”, I was separated from Sonny and Cher, but, thankfully, as I crested a hill, there, on the beach below, were Jane Fonda and Meryl Streep. I ran down the hill to greet them, and arrived just in time to help them bury a body in the sand.
I have had many existential conversations with Darth Vader at the food court in the mall.
For a time, I kept getting invited to dinner with Queen Elizabeth (II not I), though I think the last time I used some inappropriate language, and have not been invited back.
In real life I do not ski, even though I live in Colorado, home of some of the best ski slopes in the world. In my dreams, however, I have skied with: Robert Downey Jr., Joan Rivers — who skis better than anyone!–, Roseanne, Kathleen Turner, Weird Al, Dolly Parton ( the jokes she told over drinks in the ski lodge after!), Sean Connery (and, yes, we were being chased by some evil mastermind), and Tina Fey. There have been others, I think … but I don’t remember all my dreams.
I was in a highspeed car chase with Hugh Jackman. We escaped the pursuers, had a car crash, he was injured. Somehow there was kissing involved.
I have been on several rescues with the cast of Criminal Minds, one of the few shows I watch. I accidentally knocked Matthew Gray Gubler out with a two-by-four (thankfully, the criminal had kicked the gun out of my hand earlier in the chase, otherwise poor Gubler might have been shot, jumping out at me like that — one shouldn’t jump out and yell “Boo!” when one is chasing a serial killer. He should know better.)
I was at a rather strange hot tub party with Jude Law. There were about a dozen hot tubs: full of people, all clothed.
The other night, Angelia Jolie kept popping in and out of a dream — there was some sort of gathering at a big table, and she’d be there one moment, then gone the next; then she’d be back, sitting in a new spot. I guess she had lots of other dreams to visit that night as well.
There have been more, though as I said, I don’t remember all my dreams. Most of my dreams do not contain celebrities.
I keep telling myself to put a little notebook by the bed, to jot down my dreams. I do have quite intense, vivid dreams. I’m sure I could come up with some sort of all-star It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World sort of story if I put all the celebrity dreams together.
Now that I think of it, perhaps I should put that notebook by my bed and come up with a screenplay. I’m going to have a bunch of student loans to start paying off next year.