I come from a family who loves recounting their dreams only to diagnose the meanings. Although I notice you, dear Reader, hate reading about my dreams the few blog posts I've written on the topic.
I had a dream last night that got to me so bad it woke me up. It wasn't scary, it wasn't sad. It was irritating and pushed all my buttons.
I was with a group of people I knew way back and we sat around a table in a high school cafeteria. Each one of us tried different ways to support ourselves in this bad economy. Sounds about right, you know? My contribution was to sell my books, another their music and then there was the dullard, Hank.
Hank came up with this idea of selling an oversized glove. One.
In retrospect, it reminds me of a goof my sister played in her 30's - "Mitt of the Month Club." She discovered near her small town an oven mitt factory where they sold irregulars. She sent me one oven mitt from a guy named Norman. This fictional character had a crush on me and showed it by enrolling me in the "Mitt of the Month Club." I found it hysterical. Each month, my sister sent me one weird oven mitt - sometimes it was the strange pattern on the fabric like the Hanukkah one, sometimes it came with two thumbs or lord knows what they had in mind. Stuffed inside the mitt she placed a poorly written love letter from Norman. Over the months, the story unfolded, wilder and wilder via the notes where Norman was inside of prison and escaped, making his way to me...
Have to admit, that was the funniest shit she ever pulled. I only have one oven mitt left, a fish one from the 1980's, way before fish-anything became popular.
Now I know where the oversized glove concept in my dream came from; the distinguishing difference (because it did resemble an oven mitt) was that it was made in a soft, molding plastic that felt terrific. It made no sense, but he called it, Hnd Puppt. It was a hit, hands down. People couldn't get over the feel of this thing. Once they picked it up, they simply couldn't put it down. The test group, a table away, fought each other with fists to wear the glove.
Wresting it away from the focus group, Hank then brought it to the table where we sat. I looked at the thing with disdain. I picked it up, put it on my hand, felt the velvety texture, yet didn't get the appeal. Looking around, I noticed my friends didn't understand as well.
Meanwhile, Hank became a millionaire almost overnight. He hired factories to churn this glove to an avid American audience where demand exceeded supply. I foamed at the mouth because the thing was priced around $50 and I couldn't even sell my books for $9.99.
That's when it hit me. The appeal of the glove, a trendy item was because there was NO appeal to it. It was trite and banal. Mediocrity at its best.
The group met at the table and Hank sat there gloating about his success. A millionaire due to creating something Americans couldn't live without: a soft, moldable, ugly, oversized glove.
I raged, "Of course it takes one idiot to appeal to the majority of idiots in this country."
He smirked and said, "One of these days you'll get over it and we'll talk about it should we be friends again."
"Oh," I sneered, "I get it - we're not friends now." Strutting out of the room, I yelled over my shoulder, "At least I didn't create a glove to jack off inside because it feels so good."
And then I woke up.
What does it mean?
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