March 30, 2012
-
Rubber chicken with Mr. Kissenger. Yes a dream.
Well, maybe not everyone’s dream… Some would prefer ‘Brad Putz’, whoever, these days. But I don’t claim to write my own dreams, and this one lasted all night. And I feel a need to document it, for the amusement of Xangans everywhere.
Folding tables and paper table-cloths stretched to the dream-horizon in both directions, and I was seated directly across from, obviously, Henry Kissinger. Though not obviously to every guest, as you will see.
The Players:
Me: Most of my dreams seem to explore some emotional challenge. This one was a test of my ability to finesse the presence of a Household-Name, to his satisfaction, and that of the random crowd.
Mr. Henry Kissinger; Looking worried the whole time. I can only surmise that he was weighing the pluses of an edible meal versus the down-side of having to re-enunciate his whole historical Geschicte to a gang of unpredictable strangers.
Son/brother: Yes, my younger brother, ‘D’ and my oldest surviving son, ‘I’ are always a confused amalgam/mess in my dreams. Even in real life, if not careful, I call them by each other’s names. No idea why. Perhaps they are both Jungian competitors for my plan to kill my Dad and mate with my Mom? Speaking of which:
Mama: Oblivious to geo-politics as always, her role was to put an acceptable chicken on the table. Along with the ‘help’, equally aloof, and for whom recognizing a key player from the world’s negotiating history was about as comprehensible as a Modem to a Duck.
And so my dream-jobs were as follows:
1) Ascertain, not in so many words, whether Son/Mom recognized the Guest. I don’t recall my skillful challenge-questions, only that it became quickly clear that, to them, the Guy was just some random ‘hairy-eyebrow’ fellow with a German accent… and a suit he probably hadn’t bought at Sears. Onward…
2) To do my sound-asleep best to help this man, whom I genuinely respect, to feel comfortable. I think I led off with: “Probably not the first ‘Vielicht-Vogel’ (possibly-chicken?’) you’ve had the pleasure of giving eine Augenblick?” (an eye-blink‘)” Thus re-assuring him that quasi-faux-Deutch wouldn’t be a problem, in extremis. Hey, it’s a dream. Sue me.
He smiled, which was a good sign. I adjusted the pillow for the long haul.
And yes, I have No-Idea’ why I dream this stuff. I had e-mailed my brother the night before that our negotiations for a sibling division of a communal property reminded me of the Geneva disputes over the shape of the table. Perhaps that was the cue. Gehe vays?
Anyway, with all the other ear-shot guests at a loss as to what small-talk to exchange with this foreigner, I launched into a Complex Question, which I’d estimate took about two hours, dream-time, to express. I asked the veteran diplomat across the table, while he tried to feign love for the cole-slaw, about his thoughts regarding our current ‘peace-partners’. Specifically, to what extent, (or not), they hold themselves to some ‘duh’ basic Socratic mantra, where when the facts are obviously not in their favor, they maturely admit such and accept the Truth.
Mister ‘K’ seemed to appreciate the question, but at the same time glanced side-wise before answering, Any hint of some previous expertise in the matter might telegraph to the feast-goers
that he was ‘special’.
My son gave me a ‘WTF?’ look. Ditto my Mom, for whom the Chicken, its flavour, et. al, was, hands-down, the only ‘uber-alles’ on this occasion.
Finally, he opined, conspiratorialy:
“Ja,natürlich. Sie hab’n keine Ahnung!” (‘Of course. They haven’t a clue.’)
My Mom, no stranger to German, overheard and thought only about her poultry: over-cooked/under-cooked?
All in all, I decided that I’d done my part for Peace in the Middle East for one night. It was going on 4:30 AM. A quick break, to piss, and I forgot the whole escapade. Until just now.
Henry is already on a flight to Frankfurt, or Dulles. I may learn more tomorrow night. Thanks, meanwhile, for your attention./JS/ Tel Aviv
Comments (31)
I want whatever you ate before bed.
@Kellsbella - Greek Kebab, grated left-over pizza cheese, Romaine lettuce, a touch of cilantro, 3X local ‘good enuf 4 the natives’ 6% beer. That’s the secret formula, but your results may vary. Say ‘hi’ to ‘Hank/Hans’ if you see him/ js
@jsolberg - Now I’m craving a gyro. I make mine with stewed lamb, feta, tomato, and a crisp garlic pickle spear on a tzatzini pasted pita bread. You think that’ll do the trick?
That is an awesome dream. You definitely seem like someone who would dream about Kissinger. The last celebrity I dreamed about was Alan Alda and a house with a forest in it.
i want a celebrity dream! where do i pay?
The pitch of his voice is so low it usually gets mistaken for a distant jackhammer or earth moving equipment. And it gets lower with age. I wonder who’s Kissinger now?
@lanney - Good to hear. They are both kinda father figures, I’d say. Fascinating trying to figure why we have particular dreams, and when.
@promisesunshine - It’s $59.95 not including desert, but they don’t guarantee who you’ll get. Cereal killers have been known to appear, or worse.
@we_deny_everything - He didn’t speak much, probably in an effort to hide his identity. See, the over-riding ‘feel’ of the dream was my trying not to make a public deal out of who he was. I called him ‘Stanley’ all night, and got knowing winks for it. Trick won’t work with Turentine though; need to remember that.
Would you classify that as a dream or nightmare?
not to scale…bahahahahaha! I was just talking about dreams. I’m still mad at my friend from the dream where she shorted me $400. I still remember it was $400!!! It’s not good, when dreams are that real.
@ordinarybutloud - Excellent point; not good when too real. I remember that dream-story you told very well. It’s up to $412.88 now with interest and fines.
But seriously, I spend an hour each morning trying to pin down thwe sources of my dreams, and often the same effort in forgetting them. Telling myself not to count on the money, you know.
@DEISENBERG - Oh definitely a sweet dream. I proved my social skills quite well, not making any ‘Oh gee, hey look here everybody!’ noises. Plus, get this: he said a bunch of things in German which I didn’t understand perfectly. So I went to Google-translate after I woke up, and bingo, looks like I learned 2 new words in my pajamas(!) Now *you* tell me who’s the writer of these dreams, me or Henry?
Yes, we Xangans are amused, and who could deny,even amazed that you are so special, especially over Kissinger. If you have a difficult time thinking of something to write, all you have to do is dream.
@an_OM_aly - Everybody’s ‘special’ of course. I just make a *special* effort once in a while to write it down, lay it out on the table, along with the upside-down chicken, in order to ponder the Message as a group project, if one exists. It *is* the collective unconsciousness; belongs to all of us, right?
@jsolberg - but only you could subsume (consume?) chicken and Peace
You got Kissinger, I got a lethargic blue-black scorpion the size of an impressive lobster. Suddenly I see similarities that I hadn’t considered.
@HappierHeathen - Yeah I heard of that: everyone studiously not talking about the “Scorpion in the Room” They only sting if you make eye-contact.
Henry and I got along well, but of course I had him by the nuts, protecting his anonymity and all…
Was Barbara Walters nowhere in the dream? I still have a hard time grasping that twosome as a twosome.
@jsolberg - that’s too much money to pay for someone who might end up flattening my cap’n crunch. guess i’ll continue to dream about bus drivers and penguins.
@promisesunshine - Haha. But be careful what you dream about. And thanks, scared to go to sleep now. A whole night on a runaway bus driven by a crazed driver in a penguin suit awaits me.
@twoberry - Wow, that’s proof who writes these things. I’d forgotten about that part, and Henry would have brought her were he in charge of the script, I assume.
@jsolberg - i suppose it’s not very nice of me to laugh. i’m going to dream about jeffrey daumer eating frosted flakes on a deserted island inhabited by chickens.
Awesome! You have skillz with handling celebrities! As for Mr. K – he is “special”. How else do you explain his ability to have a nubile woman on each arm and him with a face only his mother could love??
I read the whole thing. My analysis: the chicken was delicious. I mix up the names of my younger daughter and my youngest sister. It must be normal for some people to do that.
@dirtbubble - fascinating to hear about a similar mixing-up. And so we’re together on it, it’s not a resemblance or like-sounding names, it’s some deep inner-child confusion over their place in the personal pantheon. Bothers me actually.
@murisopsis - Probably they love him like mothers then. He looked so lost, sitting there dicking with the fruit-cup. You get that until 8AM in my dreams.
“Brad Putz”
I Love it.
Henri must be save home now. Too late for the Hague Arrest Squads to do an Eichmann on him to the International Hague court. Still, forgive and forget? Well, forgive … maybe.
Anyone who reads history knows he prefers General Tso’s Chicken and had clearly mistaken you, with your quizzical query, for Premier Chou.
My question: did he seem to treasure the drumstick? I heard tricky Dick never surrendered the dark meat.
@Defunked - Yes he took a special pleasure in choosing the cut all by himself, unfettered by the quirky RMN. Not having the guy to kick around anymore, it made even my Mom’s bouncing chicken a culinary delight.
I don’t think I’ve ever dreamed about a diplomat. I don’t remember Kissinger well enough to dream about, although I would recognize him in a crowd.