Wednesday, September 26, 2012


In my dream, I was wearing a sweater I miss already and glasses of the wrong prescription, riding a bicycle whilst explaining to the other kids in my bicycle gang that I didn't know how.  
It was like that old Smiths video. 

And I realized, in fact, that we were on our way to a big Morrissey lookalike contest.  
It was in a strange part of London that looks like Vegas, or a strange part of Vegas that looks like London.  There was a million dollar reward, and I was convinced I would win without trouble, like I'd won it for twenty years running but I'd spent all the money and it had been a few years and I was back in Morrissey lookalike training because we needed to save the youth center.  
I was separated from my gang and the bike was suddenly gone, like it rolled out from under me and into a wall, where it became graffiti.  Imagine a vast street fair, with every vendor selling bizarre Smiths memorabilia.  On second thought, DON'T.  It wasn't very interesting.  
Instead imagine every other person mistaking me for Philip Seymour Hoffman.  
Strangers say nice things and seem surprised that I like the Smiths. 
 I explain that I used to, but this is really about the youth center.  
I have an entourage, suddenly.  
They've heard that I'm entering the lookalike contest and they're worried.  
My self-esteem is so fragile, they know this, and I look NOTHING like the Mancunian crooner.  
I'm Philip Seymour Hoffman, for chrissakes.  I let them talk me out of it.  
They lead me into an SUV.  They're taking me home.  I keep meaning to reveal my true identity.  
I keep wondering where the real Hoffman is, and why his team was so easily fooled.  
I wonder what the sex with Amy Sedaris will be like, and if she really loves the him I am.  
There's a weird wet feeling of getting schlupped into the mechanics of an alien life.  
I woke up with tears in my eyes, missing it. 
 The sweater, mainly, but also the life.

*photos and films used without permission and without shame.  no one owns a dream.

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