If you’ve been friends with me long enough for me to tell you about my bizarre dreams, then you know my dreams are rather intricate. Whenever I tell someone about a dream I just had, that someone usually says something like, “Wow…you remember a lot more about your dreams than I do,” or, “Wow…what a vivid imagination, Steff.”
I’m always somewhat surprised when I hear these reactions. For whatever reason, I have managed to maintain a “Doesn’t Everybody?” sort of outlook when it comes to my freaky memory and my freaky nocturnal adventures. (My dear friend, Kaley, is an exception. Her dreams tend to be as strange as mine. Thank God.)
All of my dreams, while utterly fantastic, tend to feature realistic elements of my personality that only arise at the most inconvenient moments. For example, a few years ago I had a dream I had a chance to score with an irresistible young British man, and as he was leading me up some stairs to his bedchamber I realized that beneath my party dress I was wearing Enormous Granny Panties. No, ladies, I don’t mean “Granny Panties” as in your typical full-ass underwear — these things went up way above my hips. My actual hips, that is, as opposed to the area where those Godforsaken low-rise jeans cling. Now, I don’t wear Enormous Granny Panties everyday. No. Not quite EVERY day…but wearing them under a “Beyonce, can you handle this?” kind of dress is definitely something I would do. I would assume that my dress would stay on, and, therefore, I may as well wear comfy undergarments.
You may have read about the time I got Jack Nicholson a bit excited when I gave him a hug. (http://thegraduate-steffic.blogspot.com/2010/08/slightly-more-sane-still-fcking-crazy.html) You may also have read about the time Dustin Hoffman visited me in my sleep and offered me his Jedi guidance. (http://thegraduate-steffic.blogspot.com/2010/07/my-spirit-animal-is-dustin-hoffman.html) Both dreams had realistic elements — Jack was coming over to watch a Laker game with my dad, and I met Dustin because I was disgusted by the glucose-free pomegranate martini that was being offered at the bar where my friends were chillin’. Well, last night I had another dream involving a celebrity, and, I have to say, I find it both hilarious and somewhat frustrating that even in my dreams I’m a total paranoid dork.
All right. So last summer I got into the habit of falling asleep to the movie Tropic Thunder. Since then, there have been many films in my What Do I Fall Asleep To Tonight? rotation, including:
1.) Taxi Driver (Always asleep before, “You talkin’ to me?”)
2.) The Deer Hunter (Always asleep before, “MAO!”)
3.) Raging Bull (Always asleep before, “You fuck my wife?”)
4.) A Streetcar Named Desire (Always asleep before, “STELLA!!!”)
5.) Last Tango in Paris (Always asleep before, “Go get the butter.”)
Lately, my bedtime story of choice has been True Romance (1993), starring Christian Slater and Patricia Arquette, written by Quentin Tarantino and directed by Tony Scott. (No, I do not believe this movie would have been better if Tarantino had directed it. I believe this movie would have been longer if Tarantino had directed it. I love Tarantino. The End.) According to imdb.com, the plot synopsis is as follows: “Clarence marries hooker Alabama, steals cocaine from her pimp, and tries to sell it in Hollywood, while the owners of the coke try to reclaim it.” While I agree that yes, that is pretty much the plot, I have to say this movie is also — surprise surprise — a love story. Don’t forget, the movie is called True Romance, and truthfully, I consider it one of the most romantic movies I’ve ever seen. I guess that makes me a bit screwy by society’s bullshit Nights In Rodanthe standards, but hey — FUCK society’s bullshit Nights In Rodanthe standards.
The movie begins with Mr. Slater at a bar talking about Elvis Presley in Jailhouse Rock. He says, ”In Jailhouse Rock he was everything rockabilly’s about. I mean, he is rockabilly. Mean, surly, nasty, rude. In that movie he couldn’t give a fuck about nothing except rockin’ and rollin’, living fast, dying young and leaving a good-looking corpse.” He says this in close-up, and when the camera pulls back, we see that he’s, well, not really talking to anyone, or at least not to anyone who’s actually listening. There’s a woman sitting to his left, puffing away at a cigarette, looking somewhat intrigued, somewhat bored. Indifferent, really. Mr. Slater works up the gonads to ask her out:
Clarence Worley: How ’bout you go to the movies with me tonight?
Lucy: What are we gonna see?
Clarence Worley: A Sonny Chiba triple feature. The Streetfighter, Return of the Streetfighter, and Sister of the Streetfighter.
Lucy: Who’s Sonny Chiba?
Clarence Worley: (somewhat taken aback) Who is Sonny Chiba? He is… he is bar none, the greatest actor working in martial arts movies today.
Lucy: (genuinely confused, unless she’s really just as bad of an actress as I think she is) You wanna take me to a kung fu movie?
Clarence Worley: (bashful) Three kung fu movies.
She turns him down, of course. Mr. Slater looks a bit bummed for a second, but he gets over the rejection and goes to the movies by himself.
Yes, I identify with this scene. Yes, I often find myself babbling about movies that nobody gives a shit about (which, in my opinion, is everyone else’s own damn fault). I moved back to Agoura fucking Hills on July 13th because there was going to be a showing of The Godfather at the Regency Theater on the 14th that I could not possibly miss. Some of the best dates I ever had with dudes were centered around either seeing movies in a theater or watching movies at my humble abode. I’m a movie freak. It’s true. Therefore, when Mr. Slater meets Miss Arquette at the Sonny Chiba triple feature and sparks fly, I swoon.
Finding true love via cinema is one thing, but let me tell you, the first time I ever saw the scene where Mr. Slater comes home and tells Miss Arquette that he’s just killed her pimp and she says, “I think what you did was so romantic,” I was thinking the same exact thing. And the scene where they make love in the phone booth? HELLO.
As far as Mr. Slater goes, he’s all right by me. I know he ran in to some trouble involving drugs, but hey, that’s par for the course in Hollywood. I consider it a huge injustice that Charlie Sheen gets to film an indefinite amount of episodes of 2 1/2 Men while poor Mr. Slater is lucky if he gets a guest role on Curb Your Enthusiasm. Mr. Slater is way hotter, I’m not gonna lie. Maybe it’s all in the Jack Nicholson impression, but truly, I don’t care. I’d watch kung-fu movies with him any day.
All right. So I’m a weirdo who thinks True Romance and Last Tango in Paris are two of the most romantic movies out there. Moving on, now, to what this has to do with anything at all.
Last night, as I have for several nights now, I fell asleep while watching True Romance. I dreamt that I was in a large room with three king-sized beds. I was in the room with Mr. Slater, and yes, I’m talkin’ 1990’s Mr. Slater. We were kissing. It was raining outside. It was hot. We made our way to one of the beds. We, uh, mounted the bed. Mr. Slater said, “This is the bed where I lost my virginity.” Weird, eh? I said, “Cool.” We continued kissing, although I could tell Mr. Slater wanted to take things to the next level. Goddammit, even Dream Steff can’t handle that stuff smoothly. Mr. Slater tried to remove some clothing, and, ya know, I asked him what he was doing. He straight up told me what was on his mind, as if I hadn’t already figured it out.
Sigmund Freud said that dreams are wishes. Explain, therefore, why my response to Mr. Slater’s advances was, “When was the last time you got checked for STD’s?”
Talk about the Blue Balls Heard Round The World. Mr. Slater looked at me like I was insane. He said, “Well, how ‘bout we just do it now, I’ll get tested tomorrow, and I’ll let you know what the results are.” I said “No.” It wasn’t “the right time.” Then, in true Steff Callas Dream fashion, Mr. Slater said, “Well, can I at least see your cute little dub?” Dub. My “dub.” My “DUB.” MY DUB. Dream Steff did NOT show Mr. Slater her “dub,” for Dream Steff is a lady.
Umm, yeah. I’ve now shared that with the internet, or BLOGGED, if you prefer. I’m not ashamed. I’m not embarrassed. I’m just…confused. Again.