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My deceased father and I are playing Texas Hold Em for Jimmy Dean pork sausages when a smallish Galapagos iguana runs out from under the table with a breakfast link in its mouth. As I look on in startlement, he stops for a moment to look deeply into my eyes with its veiled, lidded, inhuman gaze, then scurries for the shadows. I jump up to give chase and succeed in trapping it under a blue, plastic, garbage basket, under which it desperately skitters and flails. Suddenly, I'm not sure how, it’s out and – Krikey! – bigger than a komodo dragon! (Replaying the events in my mind, I can't remember seeing the pork link at this point, so maybe it has been swallowed, or simply dropped in the hubbub.) The worm having turned, the lizard monster now chases me! I race out the front screen door, slam it frantically behind me and press my weight against its flimsy protection, while making a squeaky, wheezing sound. The dinosaur scrabbles against the screen with its short, stubby arms, snapping, drooling and flickering its tongue suggestively, then lumbers off, swinging its foul tail, into the dark recesses of the cave. From which I hear it singing in a babyish, high-pitched voice, "Here comes Peter Cottontail, hopping down the bunny trail..."
For some reason I can't put my finger on, I remain anxious.
Pop is gone and I feel bad about disappointing him once again. I then become conscious of an urgent need to urinate, and hurrying through long, deserted, institutional hallways, I reach the school restroom and locate an empty stall -- but it’s locked, and I can’t remember my gym locker combination. I ultimately end up relieving myself into a janitor's pail in the middle of the room amid a jostling crowd of schoolteachers, Muppets, mimes and the grim, crusty crew of “The Wire.” I urinate like a burro, whimpering like a dog kept inside the house for 36 hours, while smiling ingratiatingly at the other party-goers and holding a balloon on a string. Oddly, I feel not an iota of relief.
Suddenly the lavatory thrums with menace: it's completely, echoingly empty. I look up to the doorway and my heart seizes in horror: Leather Man!
(As a bit of an anti-climax, Leather Man--with that stitched, featureless, football-like head--proceeds to chase me for what seems like hours until I finally wake up soaked in sweat and making mouse-like "eeek" noises--to the attentive consternation of my cats, PeeWee & Tweeter.)
Sound familiar? Of course it does! This is the archetypical nightmare of a middle-aged American putz who poured one last alcoholic beverage on top of his antidepressants before going to bed. Sometimes, I play pop-goes-the-weasel and round-the-mulberry-bush with Leather Man five or six nights a week! Of course, details may vary. For example, it is not uncommon for a singing, dancing Chihuahua to replace the iguana, or for the cast of "Mad Men" to replace that of "The Wire." Americans of recent Eastern-European descent often substitute headcheese for the breakfast link, and people of faith may see nuns, Mel Gibson and/or an angry Jesus with a cattle prod. Republican variations include an ethnic person in a sombrero, knit cap or turban grabbing the sausage, an assault weapon which jams, and, of course, excruciatingly enjoyable bare-bottom paddling in the loo scene.
Footnote 1: If the sausage appears in the patty instead of the link format, call 911. The reasons will become clear when we discuss the complex subject of sausage-meat symbolism.
Footnote 2: During Leather Man’s six-week summer break, he will be replaced by the man with the melting face; the whack-job in the hockey mask; the evil, clack-jawed ventroloquist doll; Fatty-cakes Limbaugh; or Baphomet, the drooling-severed-head-of-hell, as the guest apotheosis of inescapable dreadfulness. Please join me in making them feel welcome.
Footnote 3: If despite Herculean efforts to urinate, no relief ensues, you are either trapped in a dream or have a serious prostate problem. Go see your doctor: he will insert several cold, gloopy, rubber-gloved fingers up your rectum. If you are dreaming, that will undoubtedly wake you up. Depending on your HMO, there may or may not be a co-pay.
Aloha and welcome back! I’m Dr. Henry E. Panky and our subject tonight is “Burgling the Id: How to Jimmy Open the Compost Lid of the Subconscious Using Your Henry Panky Dream Diary.”
Let’s begin by defining some basic psychiatric terms we'll be using: “archetype” connotes paradigm or, occasionally, depending on context, protoplast. “Incubus,” “succubus” or "Elizabeth Hurley" is the libido’s way of saying “jackpot!” And “Komodo dragon” refers to a large, cannibalistic lizard living in holes on certain Indonesian islands; by placing its yellow tongue in a gland located on the roof of its mouth, the Komodo can detect a rotting carcass at up to 7 miles.
I know: it sounds just like your mother-in-law. Hoo haw! Very amusing! But let's try to stay focused here, people. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover tonight.
So, why would anyone want to keep a Dream Diary, anyhoo? No, please put your hand down, the question is a rhetorical device. Well, first of all, your secret diary will become a magical portal or peep-hole to the wondrously twisted complexity of one’s unplumbed soul: there’s more wiggling and slithering in the humid sewer of the subliminal mind than in a nightcrawler farm the size of New Jersey. For professionals such as Stephen King, David Lynch or Matt & Trey of "South Park," it’s part of the creative process and they do it for the money. And primitive peoples, bless their hearts, believe in a rich gumbo of nonsensical mumbo jumbo about dreams -- crazy, ooga-booga kind of stuff.
“My Oberon! What visions have I seen!
Methought I was enamour’d of an ass.”
But as Shakespeare suggests so beautifully, for most of us, the only rational motivation to record our nocturnal fantasia is to dredge up the delicious acts of congress which -- except for tantalizing and quickly dissolving fragments of lubricity -- we’ve never been able to fully reconstruct and savor in the bright light of day.
Before we go any farther, an important point of etiquette: Nothing is more natural than a special moist tenderness toward the satyrs and nymphomaniacs of one’s dream-life. The rich carnality experienced in dreams is an iridescent soap bubble of joy floating high above our grim, gray, workaday realities, a parallel dimension where even the most unnatural act is delightfully free of consequences. That said, however, your sister-in-law, babysitter, secretary, pool guy, real estate agent, supermarket check-out girl, yoga teacher, starlet and/or royal prince or princess du jour may not be in a position -- legally, socially or emotionally -- to acknowledge the anything-goes intimacies of the previous night.* They may not even remember the tumid saturnalia that has you staring vacantly into space, licking your chops and making small, inadvertent, humping motions in your office cubicle. Be considerate, and remember that nobody likes being taken for granted.
* Footnote 4: The exception to the rule, of course, being your real estate agent: it’s axiomatic that he or she will do anything if they scent the possibility of a commission dollar.
All right: Dream Symbolism! Hoo doggies, big subject! Ever since man loped out of the Great Rift Valley on its hind legs, it has been accepted that everything in dreams refers to one of nine overriding obsessions of the collective unconscious -- namely, the penis, your mama, death, hair loss, your first pet, the boogeyman, homosexuality, lizards and the desperate need to urinate. In the head-shrinking business, these are affectionately referred to as "The Nine Nâzgül of Neurosis.” Now, out of the blue, a colleague of mine, Dr. Napoleon Onan, has kicked up a stink in the psychiatric community by insisting that “panties,” and what he calls the “Wrathful Nut-Cracker of Jehovah” should also be added to the canon.
Close your books, children, and let’s take a moment to address these controversial ideas. First of all, it's obvious that the clumsy reference to divine retribution is simply a minor subset of “boogeyman,” and thus adequately covered by existing theory. I suspect old Boney Onan subconsciously hungers to be punished for an abject life of non-stop abomination -- as no doubt he shall be: “Vengeance is mine!” sayeth the Merciful Lord with great enthusiasm.
However, after months of immersing myself in primary-source research on the Internet, I am now inclined to agree with Dr. Onan about...panties, female panties. Panties...silky,lacy, diaphanous, the merest whisper of habiliment, mystery's mantilla. Mmmm, mmmm hmmm...now where was I? Oh, yes. The detailed reasoning behind my conclusions -- as well as a tasteful, yet stimulating slideshow -- shall be presented at next Thursday’s Happy Hour at The Velvet Turtle restaurant in Milpitas.
Finally, a radical-feminist movement in psychiatry wants to replace the cherished penis (size) fixation with the double whammy of (small) breast/ (big) ass (size) obsession. In a power play quite shaking up academia, they call this ripe and alluring creature, the “Queen of the Nazgul.” My tendency is to consider this a subset of the “mama” complex, and, of course, removing the penis is quite non-negotiable. However, I might be willing to squeeze in bosoms and bottoms by making lizards a subset of pets. Ladies, let’s talk!
All right. As an exercise in dream interpretation, try to identify each symbol in the dream outlined at the beginning of class, and then translate the dream into its narrative psycho-subtext. But be forewarned: the results can be downright creepy -- so don’t attempt it while stoned, depressed or unusually paranoid. Depending on how your baby bits were washed as a toddler, the iguana, for instance, might stand for your mama, your penis, God, death or just a pet lizard who got out of its cage. The Jimmy Dean breakfast wiener could refer to a diminuitive-sized penis, the fear of castration (should a knife and fork be present), latent homosexuality (if you lick or gum the sausage), penis envy (for those so inclined), a popular high-cholesterol breakfast side-meat, or simply a pet lizard without legs that got out of its cage. For that matter, if you're really fucked up, Leather Man himself might be your mother (or penis, or both). You see, it’s complicated. And exciting!
For those of you who purchased the entire seminar package -- unbelievably, for less than the cost of your daily cup of coffee (reference is made to the total annual cost of 365 36 oz, quad-shot Starbucks Venti Mochaccinos) -- we will be covering this and much more over the coming weeks. (A stiff additional charge applies to the panties slideshow.)
One safety tip before we adjourn for the evening: some of you may encounter in dreams a troll doll whose eyes and ears pop out under the pressure of having its belly squeezed. This denizen of the repressed libido -- actually an ancient and malignant fertility deity -- will typically present the face of a trusted talk-show host or high-ranking member of the Bush administration. Besides chatting up a glib line of sweet blarney that would make a mortgage-broker blush, the doll can also fly, float, squeeze through cracks, break dance, sing karaoke and make a perfect cheese soufflé. It cannot be outrun. (In this particular aspect, it has sometimes been compared to the magnificent grizzly bear.) In 2–3% of verified sightings, the dreamer is invited to share a glass of amontillado from a cask in the cellar and never seen again.
Should a sentient squeezy-troll (or, for that matter, Pillsbury Doughboy) make an appearance in your dreams or hallucinations, be polite, but firmly ask it to leave or "scoot." If you have a cow bell, triangle, or one of those long Swiss horns, ring or blow it vigorously. Should you be in the bathtub at the time, get out, carefully remove any hair schmudge clogging the drain (this will be appreciated by subsequent dream bathers), and leapfrog nakedly and briskly into the Light, begging for your Deity's forgiveness. If you're lucky, you will wake up someplace recognizable. Do NOT couple with the squeezy toy -- regardless of its pleas, threats, testimonials, promises of tax cuts, or sophisticated Power Point presentations. Belly-squeezing is permitted if discouraged, but avoid “showing it yours,” even as a quid pro quo, as this invariably leads to intercourse. (The "Show me yours, I'll show you mine" gambit is known as “the presumptive close.”)
If the doll is still present upon waking, keep it away from curious pets and children, herd it into a corner or under a trashcan, and beat it to death with a rifle butt. Then burn the tiny corpse in a well-ventilated area. Do not display any pity, guilt or remorse, as it will leverage such feelings as ruthlessly as any mother, spouse, child or Jerry Lewis telethon! The fact is, you cannot actually hurt this randy, little hobgoblin, and when next encountered, it will most likely apologize for coming on too strong, and then -- to show there are no hard feelings -- ask you to join it in a nice glass of amontillado.
This is Dr. Henry E. Panky saying,"Good night, God bless & Sweet Dreams! See you at the Velvet Turtle!"
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