My Brain Doesn't Give Itself a Break

Why am I tired all the time? Because I do not rest when I sleep.

Last night I had two dreams, and I can't remember which came first, so I'll just pick one.

1. I was watching a documentary film, but this being a dream, I was alternately watching it and a part of the action as it was happening. At the start I sat down to watch the true story of a group of exceptionally precocious small children who were staging a protest against [some horrible entity, I can't remember what it was]. These children -- and I'm terrible at guessing ages, so maybe they were between 4 and 8 years old? -- organized, discussed their concerns for the greater good, developed a strategy, made a solemn promise to themselves and to each other to carry it out no matter what, and took a deep breath as they bravely accepted the knowledge that they may not come out of this alive. Alternately, I was watching this on film, and I was one of the children.

On that fateful day, the children (sometimes including me) woke up, had breakfast with their families as though it were any other day, pretended to go off to school, and then snuck off to a common location. They reviewed their plans one last time, exchanged hugs and encouraging words, and then scattered to their posts around a building where they formed a human shield. (Though I don't remember the cause, it wasn't as simple as saving a nice building from demolition. It was something in the building that was at stake, but anything more specific has been lost in the journey from Crazy Dream World to waking up.) The children bravely stood their ground, none of them cracking as the bulldozers and other agents of danger to [the thing] descended upon them. They were convinced that no human being could look a small child right in their pure, winsome face and crush them to death. In the moments where I was not shielding the building, and instead watching this documentary, I realized that the documentarians didn't do anything to save the children, they just stood there and filmed. I realized that these filmmakers who were on the festival circuit, tearfully paying tribute to the real heroes of their film as they accepted their various jury prizes, just stood there running footage as the worst of it happened.

Just before the final showdown between the destructors and the brave children, the P.O.V. suddenly switched to inside the building. Now I was among the people inside, terrified for what might be happening outside. When we heard the first crashes and booms, everyone howled in anguish for who might have been struck outside. There was a blur of dream chaos where I'm not sure what happened, and then suddenly I was watching the end of the documentary, which closed on a title for the one child who was killed in the incident. I was relieved there weren't more deaths, but I still burned with the idea that these filmmakers could put an "in memoriam" at the end of their film for someone whose life they chose not to save.

2. I am a senior in high school. This is one of my most frequently occurring nightmares: That I am stuck back in public school -- sometimes as far back as pre-school -- and it usually involves me being one credit short of being allowed to advance, the requisites to achieve it being either literally impossible or more horrible than I can bear to endure (say, another year of calculus), and I am stuck there forever.

This time, I arrive at school and see posters everywhere that all classes will be shortened for an hour-long "special assembly." As I study the poster, I see there is this blue corporate logo all over it. (Now that I'm awake, I'm not sure if it was a logo for a brand of spring water or toothpaste. Or maybe it was mouthwash, the halfway point between.) From the statements made on the poster, I figure out that this assembly is nothing more than a live-action commercial: sales reps will be coming into the school and pitching their product to students for a full hour, at the expense of classroom time. I am outraged, and I turn to anyone who will listen that this assembly is bullshit, and has no place in a public school, and we should all refuse to go. But I got the same apathetic response from everyone: "Eh, I'll get free stuff." No one agreed the school was right to do this, but the promise of freebies was the last word on ethics they needed.

In the next scene, it was actually my science teacher who was telling everyone in the laboratory classroom to "Listen up!" for today's lesson. He said, "Let me know if you're going to be listening or not," in a sarcastic, threatening tone of voice that said no one had better dare think this is actually choice, people. So as he drew his breath to continue, holding a chart comparing the differences between brands of [whatever product it was], I brashly declared, "No, I won't be listening." He looked at me with furious surprise and snapped, "Excuse me?" With nagging fear of punishment, but the overpowering knowledge that I was right, I said, "No, fuck it. I'm not going to." With that I picked up my science textbook and began reading it. The teacher was stewing with anger, and I just laughed to myself that my science teacher is angry at me for studying science during classtime. All eyes in the room were on me, and as the teacher continued his paid sales pitch, there was always someone who stole a disbelieving glance at me, then turned back to the teacher in fear.

Aftermath

So after two socio-politically agitating dreams, I wake up, go to work, and receive an inter-office email titled "FWD: FWD: FWD: BOYCOTT THIS STAMP LIKE THE PLAGUE." Boycott a plague? Good luck with that! Anyway, it is one of the most racist and Christian-supremacist emails I've ever read: We as patriotic Americans must boycott a Ramadan postage stamp, because of the "vicious Muslim attacks" on America. It lists the "Muslim" bombings and plane hijackings, calls the Ramadan stamp a "Christmas" stamp, slams Muslims for not believing in Jesus and for not wanting the ten commandments on U.S. property, and declares that "To use this stamp would be a slap in the face to all those Americans who died at the hands of those whom this stamp honors."

[Shudder.]

So I was definitely in the right mind write a pointed response to this garbage. [See the second to last full paragraph.]

Spaceballs

I have three formative childhood movies. Two of them are the Ghostbusters films. The other is Spaceballs.

I was introduced to Spaceballs by Grace, one of my very first friends. We met in third grade, and I don't remember how we got to know each other, but I do remember the first sleepover I went to at her house, her 9th birthday party. First, she popped in a VHS tape of a Billy Joel concert that was on HBO or something, and she went nuts over him. (The party bags we would take home the next morning contained a cassette tape of his album The Stranger. Grace's Dad worked for a marketing company and he was able to get stuff like that for free. I was so excited -- my first grown-up album! Move over, Hop Like a Bunny, Waddle Like a Duck!) Grace kept promising that after her parents went to bed, we would watch Spaceballs. I didn't know what that was, but it sounded dirty, and I couldn't wait.

Finally, Grace's parents went upstairs for the night, and Grace snuck the tape from their VHS stash. She was so excited to be introducing us to a new movie that she narrated the whole thing. ("Hey, you guys, watch this part, it's hilarious!" ... "Wait, hold on, here comes the best joke!") It had more bad words, more toilet humor, and more sexual innuendo than any movie I had ever seen. We were all in paradise. This was the best movie ever made.

I can't tell you how much time we spent quoting it, re-enacting it, and just giggling like idiots over it throughout the next few years. In 6th grade, we did this completely bullshit, entirely science-free science project in which we pretended to be clones, and recited the "Prepare ship for ludicrous speed" scene in perfect unison.

A few years ago, maybe some time in college, I saw Spaceballs again. My heart broke. It was stupid. It wasn't funny, and it was so terribly lame. What happened? How did this movie change so dramatically in the past 10 years?!?! I was terrified to go back and watch the Ghostbusters movies again -- would they too be ruined for me? (Thankfully, they haven't, and few things fill my heart with such nostalgic joy as the Ray Parker Jr. theme song, or any given line from either film. It's my cinematic equivalent of comfort food.)

Somehow, Turner Classic Movies decided to air Spaceballs, and Bill recorded it -- we now have a hard-drive recorder, and it still feels weird not to say "taped" -- so he could see it for the first time. He was really looking forward to it, fully anticipating it to be so-stupid-it's-funny. We even ordered a pizza; Bill said it seemed like it was a "good movie to eat pizza to" -- a phrase I'll have to keep handy for future use -- and he didn't even know there was going to be a Pizza the Hut character in our immediate future.

Within the first 15 minutes, Bill went from stupid-excited to "Uh...I can be done with this any time you are, honey." But then we had a blast making fun of it, slapping our heads in disbelief at Mel's hoary Borsch-Belt humor. I laughed many times, but I wasn't really laughing because it was funny; more like I was remembering how this made me laugh when I was 8, 9, 10, [11, 12, 13...]. It was part nostalgia, part "I can't believe I thought this was funny."

There were a few bits that still cracked me up, like Dark Helmet's post-ludicrous-speed moment, his "playing with your dolls again" scene, and "Spaceballs: The Flame-Thrower!" I still think the movie sucks, but it made for a fun evening, and it's awfully convenient to have a movie that serves as a time capsule for my childhood.

Hidden Agendas

I'm a girl who grew up on hand-me-downs and thrift store clothes. My attitude towards clothing was always purely functional; as long as an item is not stained (though you can always try bleaching it) or torn (though you can always sew it back together) or no longer fits (but don't be too fussy about it), it will continue to be worn. This was learned from Mom of course -- she who still wears her old maternity clothes that still fit her. (Shudder.)

I'm slowly growing out of my excessively-frugal clothing habits. I realized in college that I could get rid of clothes just because I had grown to hate them and/or the way they looked on me. I realized after graduation that I don't have to buy everything at the thrift store, that I am not a shallow and materialistic person if I buy myself something new. (The most amazing thing about shopping for clothes new instead of used? If you try on something that doesn't fit, there is probably another one just like it on the rack, but in a different size! Freaky!)

I still have a little trouble reasoning with my penny-pinching self when I need some new clothes. Today I went to the Payhalf for some fall clothing, and my inner Second Hand Rose was hollering, "Can't you wait to find something at The Brown Elephant?" (Apparently, even shopping at Payhalf is splurging.) Once in the store, I was immediately aware of the fashionability of me versus the other shoppers: Those people look hip, while I'm wearing an out-of-good-clothes, must-do-laundry outfit. But I kept a good attitude: I will pick up some nice things that will look nice on me and I will feel good about leaving the house wearing them.

But suddenly, unforeseen trauma! Hidden agendas in sizes S, M, and L! I was looking at a cute pair of chocolate-brown cords that looked like they would be nice to my hips, and after I had slung a pair over my arm, I noticed they are from Jessica Simpson's line of clothing! Ugh! (I am sick to death of the aggressive pro-Jessica Simpson agenda in this country!) I just want a comfortable pair of pants that will get by the dress code at work, I don't want to form an alliance with an entertainment industry nuisance. For a lack of non-celebrity-endorsed corduroys in a dark color, I bought them. I feel a bit unclean.

Then I picked out one of those bell-sleeved, empire-waisted shirts that I see everywhere and which I've been anxious to try out. It has one of those John 3:16 labels sewn at the nape of the neck. Come on, now! Jesus cannot possibly have a favorite line of clothing! Immediately my brain identified the worst-case scenario, that if I buy this shirt, I will be funding some evil "Christian" organization that bombs Planned Parenthood buildings and pickets gay funerals. For lack of information from an internet search on "Janette" apparel, I'm going to say that my shirt will not kill anyone or destroy contraceptives or upset a grieving family.

When I paid for my mini-wardrobe ($125 dollars for two pairs of pants, two shirts, and a jacket! Oh, the spending!), the cashier enthusiastically informed me that these aren't just any pants, they're Jessica Simpson pants! Isn't that great? She bought herself the same pair!