Dreams are a funny thing. Just the idea of your brain not getting enough thinking activity in during the day, and has to have its little play time is kinda creepy. Division of the conscious and unconscious, emergence of feelings that were previously repressed, it kinda makes you wonder who that “other” person living up there is, and whether you can trust him.

Talking to friends, they're always relating their particular tales of incredible fantasy. Sex dreams, machine gunning foes, riding dinosaurs while eating cotton candy. Those kind of things. I have to admit that I am jealous. I've never seem to have those “good” type dreams… I have yet to have a good honest sex dream with a normal hot girl, that sees itself through to the end without a weird twist of events.

Nay, Most of my dreams follow a pattern of twisted absurdities that eerily parallel my real life. They are actually pretty torturous recreations of fears and worries that I guess I don't work out enough during the day. Maybe I'm always pushing things aside with humor only to have them rear their ugly head while I sleep.

But I bring this up mainly to share a recurring theme in the past week. Recently I've been having a peculiar strain of dreams that adhere to the following formula:

I run into some celebrity that I admire and then proceed to embarass myself and look like a crazy fanboy tool.

I figure I'll share these odd dreams with you here.

Dream 1- I'm at some place, doing some thing… can't remember well enough But Gene Wilder is there, and I think he and others were in tuxes. Everyone knows that Wilder is a comedic genius and actor of amazing intensity. I wrote a paper on Young Frankenstein last semester, and even though it's not the most hilarious of movies, it is awe-inspiring to watch Wilder cut himself loose. He really is an icon. That part is important in relating the theme, and also establishing the connection to my real life.

Anyway, of course I get the chance to speak to him, in a harried moment where I have one shot and one shot only. This is what I say to him:

“Mr. Wilder, I love your work, but you know that one part in Young Frankenstein where you… (can't remember exact part)… Yeah, I don't get it.”

I DON'T GET IT? I don't get it. Who says that? Who pulls over a film legend to ask him to explain his punchlines? Why didn't I just hand him a business card reading “Mike Faerber, I know nothing about comedy?” The movie is thirty years old. Go watch the DVD again, or even better just let it go. Nobody cares.

The best part is Wilder's reaction, which if you think about it, is actually MY reaction to my own naivete. He sits there staring blankly, and then just kinda turns around and leaves. Maybe that's just my brain not being able to accurately impersonate Wilder, and taking the easy way out. But I think it gives it a little more punch to just how dumb I was.

Dream 2- This one was last night and actually has TWO of these encounters. First off, I'm somehow playing rhythm guitar for Guns N Roses at some televised show… for Comedy Central? Already we're making tons of sense. I kinda walk in late, catch the last song as it's ending, and Axel begins pantomiming like he's going to heave this beautiful cherry red fat bottomish guitar into the crowd. He stops, sets it down on a stand, and walks away.

STOP. What? First off Axel doesn't play guitar, and if he did he certainly would have thrashed that sucker around after a show. Secondly, I don't even like GNR that much, why would I dream about them. My guess is i've just been playing too much Guitar Hero.

Back to the story. So after seeing that amazingly pathetic display by Axel, I decide that I'll fucking smash that guitar for him. I slam it a few times; I'm only able to add some nasty dents… not really break it. Around this time, I notice that there's no audience in the arena. And then they start pouring in the doors taking their seats. I now realize my stupidity.

I just destroyed Axel's guitar after the soundcheck.

The dream morphs and I'm back in the food-serving area of this venue. John C. McGinley, Dr. Cox from Scrubs, is for some reason working behind the counter. Did I mention that the entire place is engulfed in flames? It was probably somehow related to my previous failure out on stage.

Anyway, I see him and I shout “John!” and of course his response is something like “Not right now, junior!” The place was on fire, remember. But I shout out as he runs away. “I just wanted to say I recently rented season one of Scrubs, and…”

That was as much as I got out before he just kinda nodded and turned around. As he should have, I mean, his restaurant was on fire. The end result: I feel like another idiotic fanboy, trying to convey all the respect and admiration and inspiration he's given me with words that just don't quite cut it.

It all reminds me of that old Chris Farley skit on SNL where he goes “Remember that part in… That was awesome!”

The sad thing is earlier this fall when I met Michael Showalter of Stella, I only did marginally better.

Lesson learned: I guess when you're yearning to be a comedy great like I am, there's a lot of insecurity along the way. In all, these dreams probably represent the fact that I fear I will never be funny enough.

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