Posted by: Mark Nielsen | March 5, 2008

#2 Dream: The Beautiful People

The Beautiful People


A Dream Log entry from a few weeks back– on my wife’s birthday, coincidentally.

2 – (sexy&)17 – 08


I dreamed I was at a party in an amazing penthouse apartment with all the beautiful people, and I was one of them. I belonged.


There were million-dollar-grant researchers, models, CEOs, architects, and stars of stage and screen (including comedian Steven Colbert… more on him later). There were Italian guys with salt-and-pepper hair, of unknown but questionable profession, strutting around with their big-haired wives and gorgeous, nattily-dressed grown-up children.  We at the party were black and brown, Asian, white — all the colors of the human kaleidoscope. We were happy to have each other’s company. We drank in moderation. We laughed and sang and talked until at least 4:44 am (for that’s when I awoke from this dream).


My friend Kevin Chatham –another hipster wanna-be like me– was there. But he looked so different I barely recognized him at first. He was very muscular, which made him seem less lanky than usual. The t-shirt he wore had cut-away sleeves to accentuate his thick biceps. Even though it was a look that belonged at Gold’s Gym instead of a fancy party, somehow through sheer confidence he made it work and did not seem out of place. His hair was short and straight (odd for a curly-haired guy like him). He was very tan, wearing contacts, black slacks, and his usual black shit-kicker military/Doc Marten boots.


I can’t be sure, but I think Kevin had brought me to this party –either he invited me or I rode on his coattails. He was with a couple of women, and after a brief friendly acknowledgement of each other, we went our separate ways, to opposite ends of the massive, maze-like apartment.


Early on, a man in his fifties wearing an exquisite Italian suit brought me a beer. “Would you like a pint?” he said casually, and something about how he said “pint” seemed vaguely British. He set the beer on the bar, but then he disappeared quickly, so I couldn’t talk to him.


There seemed to be no bartender, nor any servers– odd, for such a high-class party in an obviously well-to-do home. It was as if the whole gathering was informal and impromptu, like a last-minute”after-party” at someone’s apartment, after a big charity (or political?) fundraiser. At one point a light-skinned black woman I didn’t know offered to get me a drink. I said thanks, and asked if they had any Newcastle “Nut Brown” Ale, because I thought I’d seen somebody with brownish beer a few minutes earlier. She said she would check, but then never came back.


However, a few minutes later I saw a full Newcastle bottle on a table not too far away. I thought maybe it was mine, and she’d just gotten distracted or forgot where I was sitting. I picked it up and began drinking it. But as soon as I walked away, another man walked over toward the same table. I heard him say “Where’s my beer?”, and even though he had not seen me, I set down the incriminating evidence on a bar stool clumsily. A nearby woman saw and heard the whole beer-swiping scene and began laughing quietly. I made a shushing motion, and she smiled, assuring me her lips were sealed. I smiled back and moved across the room, leaving the scene of the crime.


I sat at a table by a window, to appreciate the breathtaking view of the city from this 77th floor perch. Was it Chicago, or Manhattan? In my dream, because of the rich and semi-famous partygoers, it felt like Manhattan. But I can’t be sure.


The building we were in was an architectural wonder, and the apartment’s interior was a designer’s wet dream. The exterior of the building had a slightly gothic style about it, carved and ornate, but cleaner, with angular lines suggesting a more modern influence. It was built with white marble or something comparable, so it felt like a cross between a skyscraper and a cathedral.


While seated at the table by the window, I struck up a conversation with the aforementioned research expert for million-dollar grants. We traded personal stories, but also talked about the building we were in quite a bit. At some point I climbed out the window onto a fire escape to see down below better (this was a dream, remember, and therefore plays by its own surreal rules) . When I came back in, the researcher was gone. So I moved on, to work the room a little.


I was briefly the talk of the party, for having the guts (or gall) to go out the window. So as I walked around, I noticed several small groups of people looking at me.


When I came around a corner, I saw genius fake tv pundit Stephen Colbert sitting on a couch with a man who was most likely his brother (there was a strong family resemblance). I introduced myself, saying not only was I a big fan, I was also a college classmate of his at Northwestern in the late 1980s.


Stephen and I talked school a bit, and about working in the media. I told him how hard I’d laughed hysterically last week when he said to the author of that Lucifer profile book: “I teach Sunday School, motherf***er.” As another fellow Catholic with some serious theological chops, I just adored his juxtaposition of the sacred and the profane. “You nailed him,” I said. “Speaking of which, you have not claimed to have nailed anyone in awhile. You should get back to that.” He said I was right, that he’d lost track of that running gag lately, and should revive it before it faded away entirely.


It was toward the tail end of this conversation that I woke up, so there’s no real closure to the dream.

— — —

Kind of like there’s no closure to this blog posting…

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.


%d bloggers like this: