Last night I dreamt that I was attending a roast for the former President Bush (George Herbert Walker). There were hundreds in attendance, but somehow I was seated at the head table with Katie Couric, my cousins, and others I assumed to be of national significance.
One by one, individuals at my table stood and spoke about G.H.W. Bush and what a great man and President he was. I was so sleepy and kept nodding off in the middle of people's speeches. When it was Katie Couric's turn, she rose and began describing the stages of mitosis. No one, excluding myself, thought this was strange. When Katie was finished, two others stood and further discussed mitosis, heatedly bantering back and forth, quibbling over the details of cell division... and everyone nodded, as if they felt like this were somehow an appropriate way to pay tribute to the former Commander-in-Chief.
I was truly exhausted, and in the middle of the mitosis debate, I spied the desert table. I got up, walked between the quibblers and George Herbert Walker and headed straight for the deserts, certain they would help keep me awake. Before my eyes was a heavenly display of cakes. I shouted to the head table, "You've got to see these cakes!" Bush and the debaters looked at me and nodded politely, not offended by my interruption. I served myself four pieces of four different cakes and returned to my seat in time for another lady to stand up and recite some cockamamie abstract poem that was far beyond my understanding.
Finally, I'd had enough. I could not see how the protracted mitosis discussions or the poem had brought any honor to Bush, 41. This was a roast, for pete's sake, not some scientific symposium or coffee shop poetry slam. This all seemed completely ludicrous. I had to do something.
When the poet sat down, I stood again, cleared my throat, and announced, "I hadn't planned on saying anything tonight, but I cannot help myself. In honor of our esteemed President, I will now perform an aria."
And I did. With the breathiest, most operatic voice I could muster, I began singing (at a slower tempo) the tune that plays in the background of the Flaming Lips' "The Yeah Yeah Yeah Song". I amazed myself and thought, whilst aria'ing, "I sound really good." And, I could tell by the sparkle in his eye that Bush thought so, too.
I woke up mid-song, humming the tune in bed, astonished by my dream. I know it must have some significance, though I know not what. Perhaps I will serve (or sing) at the pleasure of some important person, like David at the feet of King Saul.
I'm open to alternative interpretations (or invitations: I do Bar Mitzvahs, birthday parties, and funerals).
Originally Posted: Tuesday, March 25, 2007
(Then) Curent Mood: groggy