My friend Sig Freud used to share his dreams with me, long ago when we were college studenst in Vienna. His consisted mainly of childhood nannies whose breasts were made of chocolate cake and phalluses the size of sperm whales whizzing by on train tracks.
I, Zamboni myself, do not often remember my dreams, or even have them. Because Zamboni is living his dream, my nighttime headspace tends to just be almost still landscape scenes of the Nebraska plains, or a panoramic view of Elizabeth Taylors face, left to right then back again- but last night I had a dream of Mad Men.
Not an actual episode, but a very choreographed series of shimmering scenes. Pete Campbell sleeping on a bean bag chair in his office. A long line of models marching through a space more Cecil B. DeMille than Sterling, Draper, Cooper and Price. And, finally, as a perfect blonde strode by, a woman’s voice, like Meryl Streep as Don Draper, selling me on something, staking a claim for a house of cards to stand for a millenium:
“As always, the heart of glamour is Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup.”
So true, no?