July 18, 2002
In which Jacques, having fallen asleep, most honourably dreams
of things other than the dreaded Pasta Wars of 1734.
I had a dream a few nights ago in which I was working for the
television show Saturday Night Live. I didnt remember
applying to work there, nor did I recall getting the job, but I
seemed to be there nonetheless. From the start, the whole scenario
revolved around me pretending to know and understand why I was there
and what I was doing.
The interesting thing about the show is that it wasnt actually
stationed in New York, but rather in some ratty building in post
apocalyptic Boston. I often dashed into my office to hide from people
so they wouldnt realize I couldnt figure out what I
was doing there. I had my own large office for some reason, and
nobody realized that I wasnt really doing anything because
nobody really seemed to be doing anything. I remember a large water
cooler in my office and a big window. It was clearly the best office
in the entire building. It was quite obvious that I was there to
do something incredibly important, but what?
Perhaps the reason nothing seemed to be going on has something
to do with the fact that Im not quite certain whats
actually supposed to go on at such a place. Also, I have
a very low opinion of comedy writers in general. If they really
knew anything about comedy writing, theyd all be pharmaceutical
copywriters and cosmonauts. Idiots, the bunch of them.
In any case, what I found truly inventive was that the show itself
was actually staged more like The Muppet Show. And most of
the cast members were Muppets. Or related to Muppets, by blood or
lint content. And the show was far more surreal and inventive than
Id ever recalled it being. Perhaps I had something to do with
it. Or were they just trying to impress me?
I didnt seem to be coming up with any ideas or creative content,
so I continually avoided large gatherings and rushed into my office.
For some reason, I couldnt formulate anything at all amusing.
Then, I began to work out a skit having to do with home heating
solutions. It had to do with natural gas and somebody pulled a chain
to release more gas, and there was a farting noise when the fuel
representative pulled the chain. He had a clipboard and was talking
to someone about natural gas and farts. And, every so often, he
would fart for no reason. I was working out some idea and, although
it incorporated farting and home heating, I was really striving
to add some artistry and erudition to the show itself.
And then there was Tina Fey. I was heading into work with Tina
Fey, but the buildings external elevator was broken, so she
climbed up the side of the building and started to run along the
awnings in order to get to the office. I warned her not to run along
the awnings, but she wouldnt listen, instructing me to follow
her and playfully taunting me in a foolhardy manner. I deftly chased
her along the awnings, cautioning her, calling out in an attempt
to quench her debilitating madness.
Then she fell.
Rapidly, I hovered to the ground. I couldnt quite catch her
as she gently drifted down, like a manic snowflake in slow-motion,
so I tried to break her fall and then stayed with her until the
ambulance came. We had a touching made-for-TV moment.
Then she got better.
I cant remember what happened from there, but if you ask
Tina Fey if shed think twice about running on awnings from
now on, shed probably laugh it off, call you a fool, and be
up there, running on awnings, in a Mexican heartbeat. And shed
do it all with a pixie-like twinkle in her eyes.
She learned nothing.
Otherwise, I cant really remember what happened from there.
But I do remember a dream I had last night in which talkshow host
Phil Donahue was sitting on a toilet arguing loudly to himself.
I left the small, rectangular room with wooden walls and then heard
a porcelain clanking sound. When I rushed back in, Phil was gone.
All I could see was a phone just banging around in the toilet...
it was either a phone or a megaphone. Or perhaps a brown shoe.
What could that mean?