Have you ever read those books?
You know, the ones that tell you how to cope with your daily stresses by giving yourself “suggestions” before you go to bed so that while you’re sleeping you can have your mind suss out all your problems by dreaming about said problems and handling said problems entirely in the dream world? It’s a part of those same books that also instruct writers how to solve narrative problems in their current writing, just by suggesting they want to dream about them. Even for fun, it seems, people can tell themselves they’d like to dream about winning American Idol and voila — they can.
Except no matter what I do, I can’t dream about Whitney Houston.
A group of city cops are faced with a disturbing scenario. A woman’s body has been found in the alley behind their nighttime haunt — a bar where all the cops go to hang after a hard day’s work. Her body, it seems, was tossed from the attic window above the bar, and was dead before it hit the ground. Two of the the most intelligent cops (played by Grey’s Anatomy‘s Isaiah Washington and actor Forrest Whittaker) believe that someone frequenting the bar is the murderer.
Little do they know, they’re instincts are correct…and the person at fault is a total idiot.
The Fonz was in my dream last night.
It wasn’t necessarily the character of the Fonz, it was more like Henry Winkler dressing up as the Fonz for some big old charity event. I was standing near him in front of my own little cubicle getting ready for the event and we were two of the last people getting ready. Downstairs there was paparazzi and flash bulbs going on and I remember specifically saying something to Mr. Winkler:
Me: “Hey, there’s a lot of commotion going on down there.”
Henry Winkler: “Yeah, they must be here to see me.”
Me: “But for what? I mean Happy Days is over. They’re obviously not here to interview you for MacGuyver.” (which he Produced)