Last night, in the name of improving my health (something I never thought once about until I hit that age where AARP began surreptitiously and erroneously sending me mail), I forwent my regular junkie-like habit of capping the night with a blended coffee (everyone has a price, and this drink is my currency). Subsequently, I was out for the count before nine, asleep on the sofa in front of Kathy Griffin (her show, not Ms. Griffin personally), forgetting all of my cares—as well as the reminder I'd put on our TV to watch Play Misty for Me. At nine. Fortunately (or unfortunately; the jury's out), my husband picked up the slack and put it on while I slept.
Now, I don't know if the absence of my usual caffeinated crack could be to blame, but that film lodged itself into the deepest recess of my subconscious and shot me out like a rocket into a void of incomprehensible terror. Not unlike the feeling I experienced two weeks ago when we walked up to the pearly gates of DVD Planet, only to find that it had closed. Closed! The building was gutted, and so were we. No Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge on DVD (slowly rebuilding much of the collection I lost by loaning films out). Side note: it's coming to Blu-ray with Dream Warriors on 9/27!!
So, what happened in my dream? Well, while Jessica Walter's lips were moving, the words that were coming out sounded as if they were being voiced by Mercedes McCambridge! I know! As I slept, my brain was filtering the information coming from the TV, and distilling it into some sort of terrifying mash-up—Play Merrin for Me, if you will. Truly the most terrifying dream I have ever ... uh, dreamed.
Anyway, now I'm obsessed with seeing this mash-up in real life. I have this completely ridiculous-and-especially-for-a-woman-my-age need to re-watch Clint Eastwood's directing debut (and my favorite of his films), except this time featuring Jessica Walter's crazy train colliding with demonically possessed Regan's loco motive. Now I know how the pretentious foodie who discovered chili-infused chocolate felt when he thought he was sprinkling cinnamon on his hot cocoa. How the first desperate housewife felt when she saw a taxidermist work on her cat and thought, "I gotta have something like that for my face!"
We're not that different, us genre fans. We tremble from that horrible nightmare, but we relish and retain its terror like a sweet sap, putting it away for later use. As frightened as I was coming out my dream, I couldn't wait to tell John, and then blog about it.
Another thing I can't wait for? My blended coffee—I'm getting one tonight. I don't want to dream a mash-up of The Evil Dead with a rerun of "The King of Queens."
