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dateline: the edge of sleep

6 august 1996 7:29 a.m.

Yesterday was a day clearly engineered by fate to make a good diary entry. And I flaked. Last night I came home from my now-one-and-only job, poked the on button (humming along with the "chung!" noise that make Macs so endearing), and plopped down in front of the tube to flip around while the five hundred or so useless utilities I've got on this thing loaded up. I thought I would write about how Tim, another psych assistant, followed me to lunch (and I think almost asked me out). I thought I would detail how my American-made, wholly anti-environment tank of a car seems to be falling apart. I thought... "Hey! Emeril is on!" I love the T.V. Food Network. And Emeril Lagasse is too cool for words. I never left the futon until this morning. I don't know what happened. I watched Emeril, then the next show, then the next show, wondering in the back of my head when I last used my stove. Then TVFN went into infomercials, and I was too lazy to turn off the tube. I blinked, glassy-eyed, through the first one. Some space-age trash bag system in which you can seal things -- like your wedding dress -- for posterity. The second one had something to do with putting a plastic coating on house plants so you can "enjoy" them without the bother of having to water 'em. Somewhere after the second fake commercial break, I feel asleep... and had only one really wierd and intensely vivid dream. I dreamed myself into an informercial. (Hey, it was bound to happen eventually.) I kept switching perspective, but most of the time I was the phoney, overly happy Warwick-esque host. I remember thinking, "Maybe everyone will think this is a real talk show. Maybe one day I'll actually get a real talk show!" I was nervous, but no one could tell. I was charming and funny and went around the group taking intimate yet non-threatening testimonials from everyone. The product was the first over-the-counter male birth control pill. I wish to god I could remember the name... it was really corny, I know that. And one of my guests turned out to be Derek. I wanted to say I knew him or just start talking in a familiar way but I couldn't stray from the script. We were taping. It was frustrating because we both wanted to say something but our mouths were only letting us say our lines. I started messing up. I could see the director, Woody Allen, offstage getting angry. Then suddenly just Derek and I were in my apartment... but it wasn't really my apartment because we were several floors up and actually had a view of something besides another building. We were looking out the window, but I couldn't think about what we were seeing because I was nervous about something else. We were both naked (though I can never look down at myself or others in dreams; I just know). That didn't seem to bother him so I didn't let it bother me. But he wanted to start fooling around and I didn't want to. He told me it was okay, because he was on the pill. I said I didn't trust the stuff, and he got angry because I had gotten rich selling it. And then I was jolted awake by the trash pickup downstairs. And I'm writing all this having just gotten up, surprised I could remember everything and finding my computer -- dutifully guarded by good ol' Boris -- still on. Reading this over again, it sounds like it's dripping with meaning. Either that or there was some bad tuna at the cafeteria yesterday. I haven't been able to remember my dreams for a long time... creepy.