Pseudo-Zissou

It was a beautiful old-timey square, like something you'd find at Disney World, or on a movie set. Beautiful greenery everywhere in white-picketd planters. Incredibly well-placed garlands of white lights were above, in a delicate pattern, almost a spider web, a magical lattice against the distant starry palate of the night. It was night, and the place was just magical, a vision of how Man and his inventions could make things truly beautiful.

And I was standing next to Bill Murray, working on the latest Wes Anderson film. I was a co-star, or a producer, or somehow otherwise directly involved in the work. He was very much like he was in The Life Aquatic with STeve Zissou, minus the beard, and with a lot more clothing on.

I turned to him, and as earnestly as I could, told him that I was happy about what was going on. I felt great about the scene, about the project in general, and was thrilled to be working with a legend and a sort-of personal hero. I was trying so hard not so sound banal and common, but that's what was coming out. I ended with a simple, "Thanks for working with us," which strangely seemed to be the thing that resonated with him the most.

And cut to behind what I discerned to be the set. It was a darkened area, but much like the beautiful square only a few yards away. Same sort of decorations, but no lights. There were little shops and stalls here, manned by folks. There were massive trees along the perfectly done red brick sidewalk, but it was all dark. There was a gigantic tree, an oak or some such, and I noticed that right at its base, where it was probably 10 or more feet thick, the entire thing had been cut off. Like a Bugs Bunny cartoon, the massive, noble thing had been just chopped clean through, with it coming right back to rest on its base, maybe offset by an inch now. When would it fall? And where would it fall? How long would it take? How much danger were we all in, standing this close to it?

I looked up and down the path, and all of the massive, old trees I could see were the same. I could hear the grumblings of the merchants here, and the gist came to me that the area had been condemned and claimed by the city for a larger boulevard pass-through. They were going to run a huge urban thoroughfare through here, and there was nothing left to do about it.

There were noises that our movie had to do with it, but I knew that wasn't true. I made my way back to the set, behind the lights and gear, and watched from within the coils of the cables. There was a waist-high planter with a perfectly curled pile of dog shit on it, and as I wondered how a dog managed to get up on the planter and drop his load right there on the edge of it, suddenly it was in my mouth. The entire goddamn thing. I hadn't been that near it, hadn't even seen it other than to glance at it, and now it was in my goddamn mouth. I bent over to let it drop, not wanting to move my mouth at all, not wanting to move my tongue at all, no more interaction or movement other than to let it fall straight out, then all the spitting and rinsing I could manage. But it wouldn't fall. Its vile consistency, its size, something kept it in there, and I was dying a slow, agonizing death of heaving gagging, my mind reeling and my body quaking as I gagged and gagged, struggling to get the wretched thing out.

Finally it slopped out, the majority of it. Now how to get the rest out? Where was a hose, a bottle of water, something to pour into my still-open mouth to get as much out as possible, without any part of me, mouth, tongue, whatever, having to get further involved? A mental image of filthy peanut butter entered my mind, swiping my finger way back between the molars and gum to get it all out, and I was right back to gagging.

Then it struck me that someone might be watching. How mortifying would that be to be caught with a mouthful of dogshit? How to explain that? How to live that down? And what would my apparently new buddy Bill Murray think about me now, the on-set poop-eater? So, I've not gotta keep this quiet, keep it to myself, and get it fixed, fast.

Fade out as I ducked behind a planter, between a trailer and its huge concrete mass, squatting low amid the light cabling and thick power cords, my mouth still wide in its idiotic silent poop-scream, thinking of where I could go to fix things up . . .

The Hawaii Disney VIP Visit

I was near the end of the whirlwind visit to the Hawaii Disney area, the massive development that was both movie studio and theme park, a huge, sprawling area on one of the islands, someplace familiar in geography and terrain and foliage, but one where I'd never been before. I say I'd never been, but anyone who'd ever watched any television knew all of the landmarks, knew all of the lots and the houses, where all of the shows had been made. I even knew how many steps it was from certain locations to others, the colors of the bushes in between. I was here, living a dream.

I'd won some kind of contest, and I and a few others were VVIP guests of the place for a day or two or three. We'd been staying at the ultra-modern pad perched on the hillside, looking down the lush valley over the golf course to the perfectly placed and maintained white cottages and bungalows of the resort area. Up and to the rear lay the still-wild reaches of the upper valley, just beyond the working area of the studios, where land-clearing and construction was always happening, reshaping the world in order to create another mass-media version of another further different reality. The pad was something like a cartoon Frank Lloyd Wright, like the incredible place in North By Northwest, jutting out in cantilevered extreme, seemingly shooting out of hill in tiers of perpendicularly opposed ledges and decks and floors. Despite the raw angularity of it, it melded perfectly into the hill, its materials and colors perfectly blending the green of the land and the blue of the sky.

And inside it was cool and quiet, the floors a smooth stone. Fantastic amenities inside.

And now I was on the final tour, by myself on a fast-moving vehicle, kind of a bus, kind of a truck, moving through the massive corporate spaces of this place. I'd seen everything, the TV operations, the movie sets and filming, the theme parks, both the public and the behind-the-scenes areas. It was incredible, all of it, and now we were looping back, across public land and open spaces now in order to get back to where we wanted to be. We were on surface streets, but I was up above it all, at a height of maybe 30 or 40 feet. I don't know what kind of vehicle it was, but I liked the sensation of the movement, and of being above, looking down. It was almost flying.

And it seemed we were in LA, or a kind-of LA. It was some kind of amalgam of my imagined LA, coupled with what I know of the geography of Hawaii. Apartment buildings built right into the side of the volcanic faces, incredible architectural achievements and engineering triumphs, with windows and balconies jutting out from raw natural sheeer faces, with the ubiquitous ferns everywhere. It was spectacular, but I wondered about parking and vehicle access. What about evacuation and fire? It was neat to look at, but what about actually occupying it, and then managing it?

We were on a big highway, leading up a hill, toward what I knew from so many hours in front of the movie scree and TV face to be a sort-of back gate to the corporate property. More of the incredible buildings to my left, and the road slowly, gently narrowed. Eventually it was a winding two-way road, poorly maintained. And along the road, more and more people, all of them knowing about this back gate, all of them crowding the edges to maybe get in, to get a glimpse of the ones going in and out. So many folks, all looking at me/us (whoever the "us" was) as we moved on up the road.

And I saw the camera boom extended from the vehicle, and we were filming. I didn't know what we were shooting or why, but now I and our vehicle were really part of something concrete taking place, not just a passing truck. The crowd were excited, seeing the relative action, and they started to move. They were waving and jumping, trying to get the camera's attention. Folks were looking at me, too, and I wondered why they'd want to look at me, as I was literally just along for the ride. They thought I was a director, maybe, or possibly even a star. Hell, I was someone involved in the production, and by simple virtue of that these simple, media-dominated morons were interested in me. They had no idea who I was, but there were hundreds flowing by as our vehicle wound up the road who wanted nothing more than to get to know me, to shake my hand, probably even to tell me how great I was, just because I was on the truck carrying the camera making whatever film was being made. The power in that was unmistakable, the power to abuse so quickly and readily, the mischief that could be had if I were to take advantage of that. Just the hint of the available sex was more than enough to sign me up for the program.

But none of that, as we were approaching the gate. The crowd was huge here, backing up and off the road, up into the jungle fringes around the run-down houses near the cracked and rutted road, the asphalt years beyond its useful life. So many folks, refugees, just standing around a guarded chain-link gate, waiting for something they thought would make their lives better.

And we were through, no more crowds. And we were slowly lifting off, the vehicle no longer just a truck. Maybe a helo, maybe something else, but we were rising slowly from the ground as we moved across the open spaces between the fabulous guest house and the production areas. It was a huge grassy meadow, hundreds of acres of nothing but green, flowing grass. I could see the patterns of our wash in the movement of the grass, and we were rising. The crowds were growing smaller, so much smaller, the entire place shrinking as we rose.

And then it was just me, shot up, the incredible feeling of upward acceleration. I was flying, rocketing upward, that strange yet undeniable feeling of movement overwhelming me. I yelled out in sheer exhilaration, raw sounds of abandon and pleasure and wonder. The other contest winners were relatively close--somehow we'd all gotten to the same place as a sort of reunion climax to our visit. Together we rose, spinning, to maybe 10,000 feet. No cold, no thin air, just the most incredible view of the still towering mountains all around this incredible valley, and the head of the valley closing off behind the park, painting-perfect mountains of steep, jagged pyramids coming together in a jumble, a forest of King Kong environs up there, way up there. The wind was warm, there was a slight haze, and the feeling of the movement was intoxicating. Absolute bliss.

And then the balloon was done, slowly falling. I was drifting down, down to the meadow and the fringes of the expertly maintained golf course. The visit was ended, and now it was time to return to my life, normalcy, anonymmity. None of that bothered me, but I wanted so much to return to that incredible feeling of flying, that lift, that feeling of being in the air alone, drifting and moving. That was all I wanted, and was willing to give a lot to have it again.

I drifted down to the soft green grass, to meet Al Franken, clearly fresh off the golf course. Since I was a nobody now, he handed me his grass-caked golfing shoes, expensive things with custom embroidery and such. He made some noises that I couldn't make out, and it was all about getting them cleaned up and ready for his next outing, whenever that would be. Who was I to refuse Al Franken, so I took the shoes, damp from his sweat but surprisingly non-redolent (what a great word), and headed back up the slope to the guest house.

I set the shoes on the main table in the spacious dining room, confident someone on the staff would find them and get them to where they needed to go. After all, I'm not Al Franken's goddamn shoe-shine boy. I wasn't pissed at him, but I wasn't going to do his shoes either.

As I moved through the house to find my room and pack my stuff, I could hear a piped-in monologue from some semi-rising star, talking on one of the corporate networks about making it famous. He'd had a scene, in Saturday Night Live, or my dream interpretation of a show somewhat like it, and he'd ad-libbed a line and a move having to do with a pair of goggles. He'd just thought it up on the spot, literally a step away from saying his set and rehearsed bit. He hadn't planned it at all, no dark scheming to use the show to his own benefit. He'd just had a flash of the comically brilliant, said his throwaway line and made his comical move with the goggles, and the rest was comedy history. It was the funniest twenty seconds of television in the past 30 years, and the offers and the endorsements deals were cascading down upon him still, a good two years after he'd made such a huge and unplanned smash debut.

And so it was clear to me: One must remain open to and alert for opportunities. Planning is important, and constancy and security come best from planning and dedicated preparation, sure. That is undeniable. But major leaps forward, and disastrous falls occur in the blink of an eye, with little or no warning. One has to be awake, alert, and mentally ready for these things when they arrive unbidden or unanticipated.

747 Problems

Another air travel/crash/anxiety dreamm. I have them all the time:

The flight should be fine, and it's some kind of 747, or a model much like it. Lots of brigh orange and Cherokee red trim and plastic and dense carpeting. Quiet inside, despite the bustle of the hundreds cramming into the flying aluminum tube. It's an overseas flight, so we'll be full.

We taxi, and I'm looking out a massive window that's more like the observation gallery in the scenic car of a train than something on a plane. It's neat, sure, but is it strong enough for pressurization? Can it take the speeds and stresses of the plane?

We taxi, and it looks like we're actually taxiing right through another plane. I see the rows of seats outside my window, elements of fuselage, like our plane is moving up and through another, just like it. Strangely fascinating, but also discomforting.

We hit the runway, lots of green outside. We come up to speed, and I note that I'm right behind and below the flight deck, the backs of the crew's seats just in front of me. I'm listening to their conversation, and can hear the different radio feeds and what they're saying. I've flown enough, and I know that we've got to get to V1 speed, which is take-off speed, and then the pilot eases the stick back to lift the aircraft up and off. It's all about achieving and holding the speed to create the lift that will get us off the ground.

So we get up to speed, at least it seems that way to me. But I don't hear a "V1" call from the cockpit. And we're really moving down the runway, easily 150mph. Sure, it's a big plane, and I know we're at a big airport, but there's only so much runway, at the absolute most maybe about 15,000 feet. Who knows how much we've already used, but some quick calculations tell me that every second we're losing another 200 feet (not bad for a dream, as the real figure is 220 feet per second at 150 mph). That's a run of about a minute, tops, before there's no more runway, and the fences, walls, grass, trees, and other non-jumbo-jet-compatible items begin to crop up.

There's some insistent chatter on the radio, and the crew is talking fast, voices rushed. Yup, something isn't right, as I could tell. They confer, we're still hurtling down the tarmac, engines at full power. And then immediately they cut back, full thrust reversers on with the brakes down hard. We're really slowing, and I wonder when I'll feel the landing gear come off the runway and start to plow through the dirt and sand at the end. Will the fence cut the plane open, or will we just slice on through it?

And quickly, very quickly, we stop. Everyone behind me is freaking out. The crew is calm and ultimately professional, quietly telling each other how great they did to get us to stop.

They come on the intercom to tell us that we're headed back to the terminal to have an engine looked at. A male voice a few rows back says clearly, "No shit."

Back From the War

The weather was pretty nice, but not that sparkling-clear sunshine of a perfect June day. A little bit of high-high haze was in the air, dust floating as well, giving everything a slightly golden-brown sheen, an almost old-timey patina, a little bit of bronze on all surfaces. It was warm, but not hot, not a bit of wind.

The entire unit had already redeployed, so happy to head home. We were done with our work, and it had been hard and costly. Every element of the unit had been hit, and everyone had their own pains and scars to deal with. We'd all been bloodied, but we'd fought hard and non-stop like the no-shit soldiers we were, never letting up, never giving the enemey a chance, and ultimately we were victorious. There was never any doubt with us that we wouldn't be, just a question of how long it would take. It was a little longer than we'd conceived of, but now it was time to head home, to the rest and relaxation and relief to which we were entitled.

There were only about six of us left, the rear detachment of the unit. Everyone else was already on their way, many of them already home by now. Me, I was happy to have sent them on ahead, heroes all who had earned their trips home, earned their time with friends and family, who had earned a triumphant return. I was happy that I'd taken care of them, given them the respect they deserved, that the troops were taken care of first, and I as a senior leader, would follow once the mission was completely finished. Let the troops receive the glory and the pleasure first; they deserve it more than I do.

So, it was time to trudge up the hill to the station. It wasn't far, maybe about 500 yards, visible through the completely deserted village. There was no rubble, no clear destruction. No fire and no smoke, but what had happened here and in the other places where we'd been sent was no joke, and our arrival had left a mark. The enemy certainly regretted taking the actions that brought us here, and now it was time for us to go home.

My gear was surprisingly light, and I figured most of that was just the elation of heading home. A pack is always heavier when you begin the journey, lightening as you near the destination.

As I looked down as I walked through the dust, I saw that I was wearing my rugby gear. The boots, the socks, the black shorts and gray/red jersey, the whole bit. And it was clear I'd been playing in it. I wondered if I'd been fighting or if I'd been playing, and if there really was a difference between the two here. The victory was sure, but I wondered what the contest had been. I could've been in either, my joints and knees and elbows felt the pain of both operations and scrimmaging.

Up to the station, and it was about 1309, with the train arriving spot-on at 1315, just as I knew it would. No questions in my mind how the trains could run so perfectly in such a messed-up place, but they did.

The train was a spanking new thing, totally European, everything automated and both padded and carpeted, like a moving Star Trek set. So comfortable, the smell of brand-new carpet and plastic overwhelming. Maybe it was French; they were selfish bastards, sure, but they sure do know design and layout.

I wanted so badly to take a nap, to sink into the soft bunk. But I had so many connections to make at various stations, and I couldn't afford to sleep through even one.