I woke up at 4:00 a.m., Nyquil having worn off and slightly hungry. I ate a bagel with cream cheese and went back to sleep. Herein lies the slightly disturbing, but oddly comforting, Twin Peaks dream.

I was with Special Agent Chet Desmond (Chris Isaak) who was trying to keep me conscious. I had been drinking from a 2-liter bottle of Nyquil and I think I had had about a liter, give or take a pint. I was nearly unconscious when I got cold and wrapped Special Agent Dale Cooper (Kyle MacLachlan) around me like a blanket. Cooper had no bones, so this wasn’t nearly as painful for either one of us as it may sound.

I actually had a dream that didn’t involve my job or prospective living quarters. I had to be in one of two rooms: either a small auditorium showing Cat on a Hot Tin Roof or a small auditorium showing A Streetcar Named Desire. I picked the Streetcar room just because I knew the dialogue better. Oh, and there was an amorous male in the Cat room I wanted to avoid.

I’ve been having a lot of dreams about work lately. None of them have been very interesting.

I will just say this–it is rather frightening to wake up in the middle of the night to hear knocking on your neighbor’s door, then realize that Orson Welles‘ “War of the Worlds” is playing. I had odd dreams when I went back to sleep. I nodded off trying to tie “War of the Worlds” to media coverage on Sept. 11.

Instead of making any brilliant discoveries, I think I dreamt I hugged Orson.

It sounds like me.

I would like to remember my dreams again.

Another WTC dream . . . I hope this doesn’t become a habit. Part of the problem is my usual addiction to the media: remember the ill-fated “Spin Room” era? At least Francine got on TV with that one, and she got to mock Tucker Carlson as well.

Unfortunately, I have been having no pleasant “oh, poor Tucker-Wucker needs help with his homework” dreams. Last night I dreamt I was running from a burning building. There was another dream that dealt somewhat with the theme of “I have so much to do before the apocalypse.” My memory is very fuzzy. I did have one “normal” dream in which someone complimented me highly by saying I looked like “a femme fatale that Joseph Cotten would fall in love with.”

Caryn came into my office, waving my job description around, and she said, “You better be prepared to come down and explain what the hell you did here.”

I was with Beck. He started singing and I clung to him, then we ended up doing lines from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?. I was screaming “What a dump!”; Beck was playing Richard Burton‘s role.

I was involved in an incredibly complicated Technicolor Hitchcock film. I owned three large dogs and was close friends with an alcoholic elderly woman. When she was found murdered, I went with Mom and Dad to her home. The cops put my dogs in three-ring binders, then bags, and closed them up, saying that they could still breathe. Dad came down a hallway and said, “You don’t want to go in there.” I checked the binder and my dogs weren’t there. I went out on the deck and saw my parents standing around the elderly woman’s body. My dogs were barking. There was much more intrigue and confusion to the whole thing, perhaps an uncomfortable dinner party, but I can’t remember it.

I’m debating a redesign of my site, but I know for sure that I will soon have a handy-dandy Celebrity Index. Let’s face it, there are probably about two people that read this (if that many) that actually know anyone I mention. I’m too lazy and it’s just too invasive to make a list of all those “common people” like myself. But if I, someone you in all likelihood have never even met, announce loudly at a fancy soiree, “I had the most horrifying dream about Lawrence Welk,” then you probably can at least be amused at my esoteric reference if nothing else.

So, this task involved going back through past entries–over 270 of them. I’ve done that, but in the course of doing so, I’ve noticed that I failed to put very crucial celebrity dreams in here.

How could I have forgotten to tell you about the one where my neighbor and I were double-dating Darryl Hall and John Oates (I with Oates, the dark-haired one; she with Hall). Of course, all I can remember is being not pleased with the whole situation (I didn’t want to date either of them) and I distracted myself from Oates’ amorous overtures by digging in the glove compartment. This dream would have taken place in spring 1996 or so, I’m guessing.

And how could I possibly have neglected to write about the marriage of Judith Light (Angela from Who’s the Boss) and Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails? That was a particularly disturbing dream.

By going back through the entries, including the ones from the 1990s, I had people I haven’t seen in years on my mind last night, I suppose. I dreamt that I started my new job. There was a large welcoming banquet (not all for me, mind you, as a whole lot of other people were starting work that day too). I found Chris J and Michael W, and I ran to Chris and tugged on his cream-colored cable-knit sweater (it was cotton, not wool, that cheap-ass bastard). “I thought about you all the way through Legally Blonde,” I lied, “and about how you never thought I’d ever amount to anything.” Michael, at this point, was quite scared and did not exactly want to be around the full display of the love-hate relationship we had. Chris, having shunned becoming a lawyer like his father, now carted around acetyline tanks. “Oh, how nice for you. I thought about dropping out of school to become a trucker, but I didn’t.” I put on my best better-than-thou routine, as usual, since Chris actually believes such nonsense. We then were to climb up a series of stairs: they stretched across an entire twelve-foot or larger expanse. They had slender rails, and it looked straight out of some Cocteau or film noir movie . . . perhaps The Third Man. At this point the dream turned into black and white. I can’t remember anything else, but it was damp, dark, and musty.

I stared at a television screen, mystified by the moving pictures that continued though I had turned it off. I was most impressed by the picture of Richard Dawson in a sailor’s outfit.

Later on, I had a dream in which I discussed that previous dream. I became quite pleased with myself when I figured out that the television had a screen saver that came on when it was “turned off.” I told a friend about this revelation, and she didn’t care. She didn’t even care that I had dreamt about Richard Dawson: I was pleased that he could be added to my list of celebrity dreams. I was sitting on the table and she pushed off, then I ran after her into the street screaming, “I fucking hate you! I fucking hate you!”