This was one of those dreams that took place within ten minutes of my alarm clock sounding, just after peeking at my cell phone for the time, and attempting to cram in one last adventure before resuming my normal life activities. The events of this dream took place in an environment in which I shared a house with a bunch of other guys, not too different from in my university days. I cannot remember who my housemates were aside from my brother, but I think I had probably pulled a few faces from some random places in my life. What would possess us to invest in real estate with some dude I was stuck behind in line at a Canadian Tire and a background character from Old School, I have no idea. Dreams work in mysterious ways!
It all began with a knock at our door. We must have known who was on the other side because it put us into a panic. I wouldn’t say that the person banged on our door particularly aggressively, but it was no “Shave and a Haircut”, that much I remember. We saw the stack of mail next to the coat rack, and instinctively knew that’s what all the commotion would be over. You see, the mail was not addressed to us. It was seemingly a random collection of packages for a variety of people with a variety of addresses on them, yet we somehow possessed them. Someone grabbed a medium-sized cardboard box, and buried the mail within the it, using an assortment of DVDs to further cover them up. With everything set, I opened the door, and was lightly shoved aside.
Ice-T was among the group of men who came in to search the house, and there may have been a few actors from The Wire as well, which would make sense considering one of the hidden packages was addressed to Avon Barksdale. I didn’t dream up the entire backstory of why these men arrived. Did one of us take the mail from their doorstep, and was spotted? That would make the most sense. Anyway, as they were searching the place, they’d make light verbal jabs at the furnishing and décor. They’d get dangerously close to locating their mail, but would delay their search whenever an interesting DVD made its way into their hands. Who could blame them? Everyone likes Goodfellas!
After a few minutes, the place was literally packed with people, most of which had nothing to do with the original search of the premises. Hell, I don’t even know if the first wave of men located their mail because I would soon become side-tracked. It was now developing into a party-like atmosphere, which may have to do with the fact I watched Office Christmas Party the night before. It’s a shame there were no women at this party. Even in my dreams, to paraphrase David Brent, I’m so unlucky I could fall into a barrel full of tits and come out sucking my own thumb.
Naturally, some of the uninvited guests were eyeing my vinyl collection, and one of them made himself right at home. He looked rather familiar. He was, in fact, one of the cast of the sketch comedy show The Birthday Boys, Matt Kowalick. Like Ice-T, I’d normally be thrilled to meet him, but he was meddling with my stacks. He had pulled out one of my records (the comedy album Bill Cosby Is A Very Funny Fellow Right!), and took a pair of sewing scissors to trim off the original, partially intact shrink wrap that remained on the album. I wasn’t having any of it that day. I told him to to put the scissors down.
“I was just tidying it up!” he protested.
I took it as an insult in my ability to upkeep my media collection.
“Well, then get out of my house.” I utter calmly.
After giving me a puzzled look, I repeat.
“Get out of my house.”
I rapidly close the distance between us and proceed to strong-arm him towards the front door.
“Get out of my house. Get out of my house! GET THE F*** OUT OF MY HOUSE!!!” I conclude with a volume I’ve never approached in my life, and with a rage I’ve never even seen Susie Greene unleash on Larry David. All eyes are on me, and my cell phone alarm finally sounds to end the scene.
For those who are more picture-oriented, here’s an illustrated version of a quality one might expect to find on a third-grader’s book report. I’m the only person with eyebrows given that I was the only one acting overly emotional. The house was also more crowded and furnished, but my Cleric t-shirt is about as good as it’s gonna get for detail.
It got me thinking what would get me to fly off the handle in terms of someone tampering or mishandling my records, CDs, or other items I collect. I wouldn’t miss my Bill Cosby records of all things were it to get damaged or lost. I’d still find many of the bits funny, but the recent headlines he has made haven’t given me that urge to spin them. Even if Cosby retained his family-friendly image, many of his albums could be found for a buck at thrift stores.
I’m usually careful with my collection. In general, I try not to lend out albums or movies to people because I’ve been burned in the past. Some people don’t return them, don’t treat them as if they were their own, and I’ve also come to realize that the convenience of internet resources makes physical lending no longer a necessity. I still make exceptions if I really want to introduce something to somebody, and I find it hard to say no if I get asked directly.
In this particular case, I would probably still have a significant amount of anger. Not enough to peel the paint off the walls, but anger nonetheless. It would have more to do with the situation (my house being invaded by strange men) than what he did to the record, which I could shrug off in most cases. If it was a favourite album of mine that was hard to come by, I’d definitely be more upset, but the brunt of the damage would have to be on the record as opposed to just the packaging. I collect, but with the intent of listening 99.9 percent of the time.
It was a rather odd dream, but I only woke up with one regret. Why didn’t I think of showing Ice my vinyl collection? I’m such a rude host!!