Last night I had a dream involving Petula Clark. I encountered her on a street in London and someone was there to take our picture together — one of those fatuous, grinning selfies meant to imply that Petula and I were great friends. She pretended to kiss me on the cheek.
Two things struck me about this dream. First: Petula Clark. Really? If I’m going to dream about a celebrity, why not someone on the A List? Meryl Streep, maybe, or Jennifer Lawrence? Second: I’m the sort of person who would walk a few extra blocks to avoid any celebrity, no matter how great or small. Under no circumstances would I consider it a good idea to accost one for an autograph or a picture. That’s just how I roll. It’s about dignity, and avoiding traffic.
But who knows where dreams come from? It’s not like I carry Petula’s picture in my wallet or anything. I’m sure I haven’t thought of her since the last one of those PBS infomercials about big hits from the ’60s.
If I were forced to analyze this dream, my first reaction would be that it doesn’t mean a damned thing, beyond a random firing of synapses in the old noggin. If I were really forced to analyze it, I’d probably say that my subconscious misses the ’60s, when I was young and all things pertained — even sappy hits like “Downtown” and “Don’t Sleep in the Subway.” But if that’s so, you’d think my subconscious could come up with something a little more meaningful.