![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Dog-dodging and cat-tossing
Jul. 21st, 2012 11:50 pmWork has kept me extremely busy and restless over the last week, which has resulted in a sequence of dreams. They're not the epic visions that I sometimes get, but I believe they're still sufficiently nuts to be worth recording. I remember two in particular from the last couple of days, and I'm not sure which is madder, so I'll start with the one that was more involved.
The first one was undoubtedly due to Whitney watching a lot of Frasier recently. In this dream, I was occupying the body of that decidedly dandy man who plays his brother, and Kelsey Grammer and I were sitting in an executive's office somewhere about to sign a television contract for a large sum of money. Or it was meant to be a large sum of money, anyway - the amount on the sheet was just over $26,000, which I think is about his per-word rate these days. He was encouraging me to hurry up and accept the contract, but I was reading through it carefully and discovering bizarre clauses like "Must be willing to swallow copious amounts of mayonnaise" and that the programme would involve "co-ordinating a ten-person vomiting team and then having to explain the results to the Spanish police".
Having had enough, I stood up and told Kelsey Grammer that we couldn't accept this, as doing this programme would completely destroy his credibility. (This storyline is actually pretty much what happens in one of the early episodes of the programme, apart from all the weird Spanish/condiment stuff). But then the executive watching us from the other side of the desk turned out to be some sort of evil mastermind, and said that even if we didn't sign, he would always know where we were and how he could find us.
Several things happened at once, after that. I remembered that the office we were in was in an abandoned school that looked more like a prison, built on an island a small distance away from Boston Harbor. As we ran out of the office and into the corridors, the police who had surrounded the building released a horde of dogs inside to hunt the wrongdoers down, and we had to rush around looking in lockers to retrieve vital objects before making our escape.
Anyway. In the other dream I was entering the Olympics in the little-known discipline of cat-tossing. The other half of my team was my cat-in-law Boris, who in real life is a forty year old zombie-like shambling ball of barely cohesive fur, but in this dream he had become a lot more lively. In this event, human competitors weren't allowed to touch their feline partners with their hands, so I had to get Boris to cling to the front of my shirt with his claws, then whirl around in circles as fast as possible and watch as he eventually let go, the centrifugal force firing him up and away towards the horizon.
We came fifty-eighth.
The first one was undoubtedly due to Whitney watching a lot of Frasier recently. In this dream, I was occupying the body of that decidedly dandy man who plays his brother, and Kelsey Grammer and I were sitting in an executive's office somewhere about to sign a television contract for a large sum of money. Or it was meant to be a large sum of money, anyway - the amount on the sheet was just over $26,000, which I think is about his per-word rate these days. He was encouraging me to hurry up and accept the contract, but I was reading through it carefully and discovering bizarre clauses like "Must be willing to swallow copious amounts of mayonnaise" and that the programme would involve "co-ordinating a ten-person vomiting team and then having to explain the results to the Spanish police".
Having had enough, I stood up and told Kelsey Grammer that we couldn't accept this, as doing this programme would completely destroy his credibility. (This storyline is actually pretty much what happens in one of the early episodes of the programme, apart from all the weird Spanish/condiment stuff). But then the executive watching us from the other side of the desk turned out to be some sort of evil mastermind, and said that even if we didn't sign, he would always know where we were and how he could find us.
Several things happened at once, after that. I remembered that the office we were in was in an abandoned school that looked more like a prison, built on an island a small distance away from Boston Harbor. As we ran out of the office and into the corridors, the police who had surrounded the building released a horde of dogs inside to hunt the wrongdoers down, and we had to rush around looking in lockers to retrieve vital objects before making our escape.
Anyway. In the other dream I was entering the Olympics in the little-known discipline of cat-tossing. The other half of my team was my cat-in-law Boris, who in real life is a forty year old zombie-like shambling ball of barely cohesive fur, but in this dream he had become a lot more lively. In this event, human competitors weren't allowed to touch their feline partners with their hands, so I had to get Boris to cling to the front of my shirt with his claws, then whirl around in circles as fast as possible and watch as he eventually let go, the centrifugal force firing him up and away towards the horizon.
We came fifty-eighth.
