Another night, another embarrassing dream. I'm lying on the beach with a puffy Roger Clemens and...gulp...we kiss. In waking life, I'm not traumatized by this strange reverie, nor do I feel unfaithful. The connection comes from a brief foray into sortofprofessional sports, not by me. My circle of friends included many athletes in pastel lycra. In this current season of daily mental fitness tests, maybe Clemens's appearance is meant to encourage me. In the sport I knew, doping happened, though I never saw it. I encountered intense personalities whose physical goals seemed insurmountable. Nine hours of training, you pee in your uniform, battle crazy egos and conquer painful hills with younger people chasing you down. I remember watching Roger Clemens pitch during a bout of the stomach flu. At my computer, or scurrying home to avoid the subway, or listening to voices without choking on my breath, I'm assaulted by what feels like unending panic. Clemens and my old friends would die laughing at this extravagance. [Notice coming segue]As would Sally Field, which she makes people do in Punchline. In one scene, she and Tom Hanks make out, which seemed blasphemous to me. Why? Oh right. She plays his mother in Forrest Gump. I can't wait for Tom Hanks to do Viagra commercials to rival Sally's Osteoporosis commercials.
Speaking of nothing in particular, Dish may be stuck in the 80s but Morris Day and the Time singing "Jungle Love" on the last night's Grammy's made our heart happy. We even did the dance.
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