The Ten-Bulb Pitch

At first, it was a report, much like a news report but I seemed to be there witnessing it. There was a man who I believe had already been apprehended; however, I was learning of deeds via voice-over while watching some typical moment in his day. Evidently, this slightly overweight man of average height man and sandy-brown hair was a true sicko. He engaged is sexual activities so disgusting and violating, the v.o. wouldn't even name them. And while the narrator continued, I watched as the man entered a grungy backstage area from what must have been a musical performance, and three other men with guitars entered with him (two 6-strings and a 4-string bass). The three other men - and they were obviously men - were dressed as women, and our perp was screaming at them that they could not use the men's dressing room, pointing to the women's dressing room and telling them that that's where they belonged.

The next thing I knew, I was in a very comfortable, minimalist, artistically high-end office, pitching a new television show to a woman in her mid-30s. She showed no interest in the script, but I noticed two rows of five, red bulbs displayed on her wall, and walked over to look at it. I asked her how much she would give me for the idea, and she replied, "five thousand." Looking at the bulbs, I knew that I could ask for double that, that I could ask for 2x5,ooo. So I said, "How about ten thousand?" And she replied, "Very well then. Ten thousand, and that will be seed money for you to produce the first episode, and I want to see a script for the second."

Now I was back with the members of that band, though they were no longer dressed as women and the man purported to be a degenerate was no longer around. We were in a room that had a small stage in one corner with guitars, drums, keyboards - a whole set-up to practice and record. I told them about the deal I struck, and we were all excited to get started on it.

So I'm in a coffee house to work on writing the second episode. Although the establishment is windowless and not brightly lit (the whole dream, in fact, has a subdued, amber look to it), it appears to be immensely popular, and I seem to feel very comfortable going here to work. I am at the counter getting a muffin and coffee when I run into the woman who bought the script. We sit together in the raised section in the back and I show her what I have written so far. She is very critical of the script, instantly editing it and rearranging the events. She is not, however, unkind. She says, "You have a great comic sense, but you have much to learn in writing a TV script."

Now it's another time at the coffee shop, and I'm sitting with Andy, telling him what this lady said. I remember now that the concept of the script was initially Andy's and that we're doing this as a team. He asks, "Didn't you sing her the theme song? She needs to hear the theme song!" And then Andy promptly launches into the theme song, which I enjoy.

And we're back in the band's practice room. Everyone from the dream so far is there, with the exception of the serial pervert. Lots of activity, as we seem to be about to rehearse the theme song.One of the band members is telling the TV lady about my great hollow-body, Ibanez guitar. I look for it, think I've found it, but instead find a thinner, black hollow-body, much like I'd imagine the Beatles played in their early days. It's beautiful, I even strap it on and hit a couple of chords, but it's not the guitar I need. I eventually find my Ibanez, and we proceed to play...

The Only Disclaimer

These are my dreams. Unedited, unabridged, standing alone outside the context of my life. I will not venture to explain, post by post, how this odd piece or that potentially incriminating item came to inhabit my dream. I will not explain away the embarrassing with some mundane anecdote from my day prior. Instead, I will allow the dreams to stand on their own, to be interpreted as you please.

If such writings amuse you - enjoy.