I don’t put stock in the dream qua oracle; however, this is one case where being wrong would be nice. I guess Eve being the instrument of the set up, which was via email, makes sense since, given her joke in response to a dead-bird-in-a-fridge thread, I might have concluded (at least subconsiously) that she’s the only person I “know” who may be in the proximity of fashion models. That is assuming that she is in fact a person, and not some sort of cleverly programmed Turing machine taunting me with its ability to fool me, of course.
Why Frankie Rayder of all women? You’d be hard pressed to find a more beautiful face, that’s for sure. She has stuck in my mind ever since I attempted to watch one of those Victoria Secret’s fashion shows on the tube. “Attempted” being a key word in this case. You’d think that it would be impossible to make gorgeous babes in underwear an unwatchable program; but, some how they succeeded. I think they hired the folks who program the Olympic broadcasts thinking that if they can make the Olympics unwatchable, they can make anything unwatchable. Nevertheless, I did catch Ms. Rayder and another model speaking enviously of Gisele Bundchen’s face & breasts, and I was floored by the irony. First, Ms. Rayder hardly seems to be hurting for teats, if you’ll forgive the farm slang, and second, because her face really is breath-taking. That Ms. Bundchen is as attractive may be arguable, but that she is prima facie more beautiful is a non-starter. (Yes, the pun was intended. Sorry.)
That incident reminds me of a quote I once read from Cindy Crawford. It was to the effect of this: Models have lower self-esteem than your average secretary because their looks are continually nit-picked to the minutest detail. I can identify with that to some small extent after failing to pass one of my Ph.D. qualifying exams. Other people say, “You have a Master’s in economics?! Wow!” (If they know me well enough, they add, “With ADD and absolutely no study skills!”) But to me, I flunked out of college because I’m a lazy moron. No amount of objective viewing is really able to shake that feeling.
We did meet, and she was nice. I didn’t get “lucky” of course, since women scare me so much that I can’t have those sorts of dreams. Bummer. I recall fretting about what to do on the date. Dinner was easy enough, although the short notice didn’t allow me to snag a spot in the poshest of places—so much the better given the status of my bank account. My worries were to do with what to do after dinner. I seem to recall at least two options: Cocktails at an upscale place enjoying a rather accomplished jazz trio, or techno & dance music at the local gay bar (and by “gay bar” I mean one catering to homosexuals and not the only bar Gay, Michigan). She does seem to have a feline vibe about her that is quite captivating, and on the whole it was a pretty good dream.
It wasn’t the weirdest dream I’ve ever dreamt. I think the one with the elephants skiing might rank at the top contender. It, too, was a recent dream. They weren’t so much skiing as sliding on their dinner-plate feet—those who ski are probably familiar with “boot skiing,” which is an appropriate image. This dream was vivid. The colors and contrast were amazing; it was definately a high-definition dream. I was on the chair lift and they were going down the hill. They were going straight down with their trunks lifted up. Some were hitting moguls and taking headers straight forward. I felt bad for the ones falling; if it had been a human who left spare parts all over the hill we’d be laughing and ranking the crash like an ice-skating score; but, being dumb animals, the elephants seemed more victims and somehow more sympathetic. Of course, this was contradicted by the myriad elephants walking up the side of the run in order to take another ride down. Clearly, they were in it for fun.
Gun-fight dreams are fun, if they’re the John Woo, shoot-'em-up, action bonanza types. Where you’ve got a Glock in each hand and are trying to save The Girl from nameless Guys in Black Suits. The kind where you hold the pistols up above your head to keep cover just so that you can blast out thirty-six rounds of supressing fire as you and she sprint across a cause way between two buildings and spanning an eerily-empty city street. That is high-powered fun.
Probably not as fun as looking at Frankie’s face across an elegant table setting in a romatic hideaway, but at least I probably have a better chance of getting into a gunfight than I do of being one a date w/ Ms. Rayder. But, given that I don’t know where to find The Girl who needs saving from nameless Guys in Black Suits, I’ll stick to dreaming about the gunfight and set more prosaic goals. While some dreams I’d like to come true, most are best left to remain the interpretation of random brain activity during REM sleep.
That said, I would like to make a formal declaration that I hope the Being Set Up With Frankie Rayder Dream becomes a recurring one. Maybe if you have a celeb of some sort whom you find beautiful or wonderful, we could double dream date. How’s Thursday?
Thank you for your time.
