Dream • Rainbows from a Train

A fragment of a dream that returned upon reading about aurora's on Mars (How the Sun Helped Murder Mars:  http://time.com/4099730/mars-atmosphere-maven/). 
I am speeding along on board a silver train with large windows. There are others aboard and we are suddenly aware that rainbows are appearing on the horizon. Not just one or a double but many with standard appearance and varying sizes. They seem to emanate from everywhere and excitement mounts on the train as new ones sporadically appear and are pointed out by the passengers who ooh and aaah. At first appreciation is in unison, then, because of the unexpected number, the shouts are more singular alerts as to a new version in the sky. The larger ones are multi-concentric and variegated with complex designs and color patterns, somewhat geometric but still in a circular arch formation. The windows on the train don't seem to accommodate the magnitude of their scope and I must bob and weave my head to take in the full arches between the mullions. Passengers crowd around the southern windows of this west-bound train to witness the unfolding phenomenon and accumulation of rainbows. I am entranced, but begin to question the puzzle and scientific reason for this happening …quietly to myself.

Dream • X-Town Sprint

I have arrived from a dream-forgotten locale at a miniaturized chapel version of Grace Cathedral. The building has rough hewn light-colored stones and is elevated from the street at the crest of this (Nob?) Hill orientation and location. There is much street traffic below and people are arriving and milling about in anticipation of this production of Little Shop of Horrors on the elevated plaza near the box office and entry. I am waiting for a friend/Diane Komater and decide to enter and simultaneously realize I have left my ticket at home. I gauge the time it will take to retrieve it for this rather expensive production and decide I can traverse the City and return in time. I give a BRB signal to the ticket-taker and head down to the street to catch a cab. There are none in sight and I proceed down California to further my forward progress toward Van Ness. I pass Komater on her way to the show and quickly explain I will meet her when I return. I keep checking over my shoulder hoping to snag a taxi. I am resigned to hurrying toward home on foot while estimating my remaining time. Along the way I pass various street life happenings and a small homeless encampment at Market. I cross Market and realize I am near Komater's studio and decide to duck in as it is raining and I am drenched. (It is raining IRL this AM) Komater is there and calmly working, she has decided to forego the show despite having her own ticket that I have paid for. She apparently has caught a cab back and arrived here before me. We are joined by Bill Murray from a back room. He offers to drive me home and we prepare to leave in his old woody station wagon. It is parked in the studio so there is much back and forth maneuvering to turn it around. As we are near escaping the driveway space, a large truck filled with vinyl records backs into and blocks our egress. As Bill and the drivers negotiate, I rejoin Komater and begin to acquiesce to the inevitability of not making it back to the theatre. There is a physical sense of 'letting go' of my mission while Komater is oblivious or uncaring of its perceived importance to me.

Dream • Audience Recruitment

I am working closely for and with a club owner producer. We have a great friendly relationship beyond his high-powered business dealings. He considers me a valuable right-hand to his business. I am privy to all, but my initial and intended services are a small part of a larger show business venture. Very Glenn Schwartz (though I have never met him IRL)
The club he uses as home base is in a cluster of similar venues in a North Beach-feel part of downtown (Banana Republic corner of Union Square) It is all but invisible during the day until the nightlife springs full-bloom at dusk. Access from the street is down a flight of stairs to a dark, brick-walled, painted black showroom. The nook/office we sit in to to conduct business is near the entrance door. The club spreads out and there seems to be 2 stages. The main stage is glowing, well-lit and blindingly hazy even during the day, while the other on the opposite wall doubles and converts as easily to theatre seating. The wooden structure raised platform creaks like bleachers as you walk up to your seats. Access is a collapsing spiral stairway that fans out to create steps down to the floor. I traverse this more than once and am always intrigued by its construction and the height of this stage cum ad hoc table-less seating. 
We are dealing with day details when a call to inform him comes in, as his venue is to host a secret show for a high-level visiting performer. There is such secrecy, the name is dream forgotten or consensually known as a BFD. Think Eddie Murphy or Robin Williams. Understandably, there is much excitement and the handful of people privy to this knowledge know to keep it under wraps. We flip into high gear to prepare for the one-time event. There is much scurrying around, alerting interested and deserving parties and ramping up in general. I am allowed to invite my close associates and racking my brain to alert one particular dream forgotten industry person to this special event. but am having trouble remembering and dialing a specific number on a brick of an antiquated smart phone I have borrowed from Mike Lynch. The numbers keep eluding me, even as they are repeated patiently by Mike. They are an amber, early calculator display font. I go upstairs and outside to clear the place before the arrival, get a breath of fresh air, and meet some invitees into the stealth entrance.
Outdoors, street life parades by and as we collect around the corner, away from the front door to await for the club to be readied for our entry time and the star's big show. A young bespectacled girl approaches with sheet music in hand and a question as to where to audition as a jazz singer. We point out some nearby clubs and we ask her to entertain us until they open for business. She is anxious to show off her chops. There is an upright piano on the street and she does a sufficient job to qualify for more recommendations. She is invited to join us as we enter the club back around the corner as showtime nears. The invitees are sparse, not cause for alarm, but I fret and continue to call friends so they won't miss out on the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity this will surely be.

Dream • Bright Ideas and Gummy Pills

I'm working on a large scale film production on location in one of the Embarcadero high rises. My contribution is a small cog part of the bigger endeavor. There is much activity and my small crew is pulling its weight and representing well. I have a clever idea to add to the movie or have found some sort of shortcut to make things roll along easier. I am about to explain at a production meeting, but a crisis arises and I am asked to finish up with one of the producers who sees the brilliance in the beginning statements. As the crew disperses to address the issue, I am told to meet with the producer, Allison Janney in another part of the building to continue laying out my plan/idea. I am excited as I know the idea is a winner and will likely garner me seat at the bigger creative table. Allison Janney is attentive and encouraging. We get along as old friends and I quickly become her confidant and sounding board. The collaboration will bear fruit for both of us. There are more meetings planned and I must stay in the vicinity of the Embarcadero to be available for them.

The dream dissolves to an adjacent familial place where I am awakening from the activity below. Kathy Hughes is in the house and pills have been replaced in a regimen intended for her feminine issues. I have the instructions taken upon delivery. They are heart-shaped and gummy and fit into a recessed tray. They keep getting jostled and I repeatedly realign them. The ragged Berber rug remnant by the bed has some industrial end-of-the-roll markings in a fluorescent lavender spray paint. This is a makeshift bedroom to accommodate my lingering. Hugh is around and busy with the hubbub below this bedroom alcove. He is attending to family, which seems to include Kathy as his wife. Upon hearing of the replacement pills, he devolves into Mark and regrets that he was the one that took them by accident in the rush and misunderstanding of his life. This version of him/Hugh is less friendly and sweet and caught up in the overwhelming busy schedule of his daily existence.
This dream is likely a product of watching the Side by Side documentary and the noise of the Canadian families' morning activities at Ron's in Montreal.

We interrupt this dream journal, to bring you a dream come true.

The delightful Miss Dornacker and Miss Goldberg, with hats.

Some years ago one of my photographs was included in a feature on SFGate.com's blog. There is plenty of nostalgia for those days in the Bay area and many die-hard fans –gods bless them! Enterprising journalist, Peter Hartlaub, haunted the SF Chronicle's photo morgue to unearth some gems. The dream-come-true: receiving a proper photo credit for this photograph of yore. Even more amazing that it survived along with this timeless image. Seems just like yesterday…

Whoopi arrived for the session early, so we perched in my front window-seat and talked 'comedy' while we waited for Jane. At the time, she was working with Berkeley's Blake Street Hawkeyes and already honing her characters—the junkie Fontaine, the Surfer Chick, the Crippled Lady and the Jamaican Woman—that would become part of The Spook Show. These staples were likely part of her show at the upcoming Great American Music Hall with Jane.

At that time, many comediennes chose the stand-up joke telling model which assured them booking in nightclubs and bars, where the short attention span of drinking patrons was rewarded with quick get-to-the-point punchlines. The tougher road to forge was character sketches, which seemed an inherent female talent and the province of theatrically trained actresses. Those that ventured into character work were a tougher sell to the club bookers and their audiences. Conversely, as a showcase for television or films, it was ideal to show ingenuity, range and versatility to possible casting agents in the crowd… if you could book yourself on the club circuit to pay the bills while waiting for your big break.

The most memorable part of our conversation, was her certitude of success and fame. She knew she was going to be a big star, and said so, out loud, in so many words, with conviction. Impressed with her confidence and long a believer in 'naming your intent', I had no argument with her sharing her mantra and plans for destiny. I understood the ego required for performing, so it was familiar in my world, not arrogant, rather matter-of-fact. She knew fame —big fame— was coming, maybe not knowing how it would transpire, but assured it was within her grasp. This was nearly a year before her off-broadway debut, Mike Nichols's 'discovery' of her talents, and 'the rest is history' inevitability…

Jane finally arrived in true glamazon style, costume changes, props and make-up bag in tow. The style contrast between the two was apparent, unimportant, so unmentioned. We got down to the business/fun of capturing the right image for what would become a flyer for the show. As an improviser, I was ready to play with their ideas and add mine to the mix, on-the-fly. Good photographic practices call for a variety of poses to yield surprises during the session and a range of choices afterwards. A bit like bracketing for exposure, it's a way of covering the bases while the talent is in the studio. During the shoot, despite encouragement from Jane, then me, Whoopi was reluctant to remove her hat for some alternate looks. It may have been the vanity of a bad hair day, but she was not having it, demurring our requests with a child-like reticence. After the bravado of her future trajectory talk, it seemed like a contradiction to her fearlessness and self-assurance. To this day her reaction still puzzles, and while we did convince her to de-hat for a dozen shots, I will honor her mysterious reasons and keep those in the vault for a while longer.

By the way, I believe Whoopi's dreams came true, as well.

Re-animated fun from that shoot…
an ill-advised and out-of-character idea from Jane's prop bag. 

Dream • Row U Seat 22

Walking and exploring a neighborhood, somewhat familiar as around the Market Safeway and around and down Bartlett at a leisurely pace. There are stops along the way, a motel balcony where friends are conversed with and many dream forgotten incidents relating to school, bushes of lilies that are quite fragrant and beautiful, children of others coming home from school and ?. As I meander on my way home, I encounter Carrie Snow who tells me of a large concert event being held in an armory like building on the west side of Bartlett. It may be just a speaker of some import and interest, but I can still get tickets at the venue and double back to do so. There is much confusion with a Philippine man at the door as to whether I have a ticket. He assumes I am in need of two tickets and charges my cc around 40 bucks with handling fees. The tickets come with hotel accommodations as it is assumed everyone attending is from out of town. I realize he has given me two room keys with small medallion fobs. I am not concerned with the overcharging and rationalize the low cost overage. He gestures to my seat: U 22, which is uncharacteristicly  in the front row among other unoccupied seats in the filling up amphitheater. I notice most of the attendees are my age or a bit older. I have some time before the show starts so I decide to walk up the wide stairs to further explore the hall toward where U 22 would logically be, although I realize these seats are numbered laterally across the room in alphabetical sections. There is a projection area that has a certain amount of rusty cave coloring on the white walls. No one is manning the space and I am free to marvel at the huge stalagmite that inhabits and bifurcates the space. It is a crusty, crystallized formation, mostly orange red in color and it seems the building may have been built around it. The speaker is about to commence and I know I must return to my seat in Row U seat 22.

Dream • Food Expedition

Kathy Jones and I are taking care of her gangly teenage cousin as we walk around a small town of hers, possibly Fremont, shopping and taking in a bit of touristy stuff. We decide to eat and are joined by Jimmy Kimmel. Jones and I decide to impress them with a well known and well worn approach to the restaurant row of this town. The entrances are secret and back-room, underground and near-kitchen access.
We jump up on a counter located at the back of a bar, swing our legs over to jump into a dirt basement, the bar's freight-receiving cellar and proceed up stairs with brick walls in one of many passageways to our destination. It is meandering and byzantine, also fun to lead the group and show our prowess and knowledge of this little-known back of the house approach. There are some outdoor segments but is is long and convoluted skirting the restaurants we are working our way around and past. The restaurants' noises of conviviality are muffled but heard as we finally make our way to the destination of an Italian restaurant. Jones usually eats heartily and this is her favorite cravings place. There is much anticipation from Kimmel as he has bought enthusiastically into the adventure. The cantankerous counter waitress that will take our order says we must partake of their new setup/menu that includes a Wednesday-Friday inclusion of a comedy night, beyond the food offerings. Jones's young cousin announces she has $1.81 to spend and I make a note to self that I will cover her meal. Jones has pulled away and is mumbling about not being hungry. I believe it is because of lack of funds and assure her repeatedly "I got this". Meanwhile Jimmy Kimmel is making his dinner choice from the huge price fixe meals which include many courses. Jones and I have always come here for our favorite salmon entree with antipasto.
We finally find it buried in the new color xeroxed menu and proceed to order. There is entertainment going on in an adjacent room, but we are uninterested as it is not our style or we have seen it many times before. Everyone in our intrepid party is in good spirits and impressed with the path and trail we took to get to this special place with amazing food. It feels like Bruno's in decor, but the waitress has a NY vibe and no-nonsense manner about her.

Dream • Record Drought

Drought related business is booming in a Brill-type building (or the locale my dentist's building) Simone Joseph is the successful business owner making a killing on karaoke-style musical songs  about the drought. A friend confides the details of her $uccess, which delights me for her accomplishment.
A yellow barrier tape is evident while I record my own drought single. It is something I must do prior to leaving on vacation for parts unknown.
Returning home to pack I am greeted by backed-up toilets in serious need of a plumber. The sub-letters, guests or visiting group have left a plugged toilet and small shit pile dump on bathroom floor where ants have swarmed, as I prepare to clean up.

Dream - Slippery Slope

Staying in a long resort house, the large living and TV room at the front of the house are. connected by a long hallway to the back kitchen and entrance. Another door in this hallway leads downstairs to a garage area room where the cat litter box for 2 cats and a neighbor's cat hang out. The cats are apparently difficult to wrangle, and they eye me suspiciously when I am introduced into this room. Their owner, a Kristen Bell-type woman is energetic, athletic, in charge and prepping for a day of skiing with her husky, heavily bearded ginger husband. They are endorsing new ski equipment on this trip and I was brought along to watch their cats. Later, I try on the newly designed skis that are supposed to feature a sharp blade cutting edge, but the snow pack is hard-crusted and completely frozen. The sharpness will be useless, as I demonstrate by trying to tap and cut through the glistening surface, tentatively with the ski edges. The impending slope is going to be treacherous and dangerous for a beginner like me, so I fret and lay on my side at the top of this house-connected partially indoor track afraid to stand up as the icy slickness will certainly propel me down the hill and certain injury. There is no reason I must join in except the woman is being inclusive and competitive with her superior skills. She will appear even more Olympian in contrast by conquering the descent with ease. The husband is ill-suited to the athleticism at hand and seems to be steamrolled into the activity by his wife's self-serving agenda and lucrative endorsement deal.

Dream - Making Movies

I am attending a gathering on a dock in SF with burning man circus-dressed individuals partying for some event or possibly a protest. I am scheduled to leave on a private boat with Harrison Ford to an estate across the water. The plan is to use a new fresh food delivery service that arrives after items are chosen from a well-designed menu hand delivered from a small dingy. The choice is a large bird, possibly an eagle, still with feathers, claws and a suspicious looking identifying tag that must be removed. I struggle with it in the kitchen with Dayna West. She takes a short cut to alleviate the problem by cutting off the tagged leg. There is still much plucking of feathers to do, but I am distracted by the other activity.… creation of a movie in a suite of rooms, notably an elegant bathroom and the main shooting set, a bedroom with a large bed. I go about doing lighting tests by cranking up any number of dimmers that illuminate the scene from bucket lights in the tall ceilings. There seem to be an inordinate amount of light switches throughout the suite, which I am toggling back and forth to ascertain their source connection. Harrison Ford has now turned into Rob Lowe, who is a close friend. As he lays on the bed, we discuss the type of movie we're creating as I take Polaroids for the lighting tests. I have only one package of the film along with a digital movie camera I assume will be used for the filming. Rob expresses his desire to make the film using mostly stills from the Polaroids. My concern is how to acquire more Polaroid film for the completion of this new idea. John Elk is present and contributes his dismay that he never had such an opportunity with a set or star such as this. I am undeterred by his complaints as there is much to do and I have not had an inspiration for the sauce to be prepared to for the bird, yet.

Dream - Chaos Cab

There is much chaos in the streets outside, several celebrations are happening i.e. Critical Mass, Sunday Streets etc. and most seem to have devolved into protests of disgruntled mad max mobs. Their war cries and whooping coming from near and far. Those on bikes are circling intersections and holding cryptic signs. One reads: We are all born in a box to live in a box. It is held by a guy riding on the shoulders of another guy pedaling an elevated tall bike among other contraptions. There seems to be no cohesion to the groups, just restless and relentless discontent bubbling up. It is dusk so the light is eery and oddly multicolored. I have a ticket to a play downtown with an 8:00 curtain. I am not concerned about entering the fray, but decide to flag down a cab at 24th and Mission. Traffic is impossible and he decides to take South Van Ness, which is no better. This older cab driver has a silver short cropped crewcut and seems Slavic. In defeat, he pulls over to the old Cala parking lot as I decide to seek other transportation to the play. It is already late and I am calculating my time and wether to return home a few blocks away. The meter reads $71.41 and is obviously a swindle, so I begin to argue with him. He's an old pro at his scam and shouts invectives and threats back. I give as good as I get, eventually screaming "Fuck you" and walk away from the scene without paying. No one notices as there are small fires, mayhem, many brawls and much chaos as previously mentioned.

Watching the Watch

You can lead a horologist to Watch, but you can't make it tick.

Sexy sexagesimal celebration will soon ensue…

It's about time for my #appleWatch

Take me to church! I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your wise…

https://www.apple.com/watch/guided-tours/ … #appleWatch #aDay #hozier

Googled 'the answer to life, the universe and everything' for my ultimate #appleWatch question…WhichWatch? #tickTock

The clock is running out for my old trusty timepieces…

Watches: Past, Present, Future

#appleWatch #funTimeFlies 

2 minutes past midnight…$500 & I are quickly parted.

2 weeks & #appleWatch lands on my wrist. Siri smirks in silence…

Rest of today spent prepping iPhone for the arrival of my new baby Watch tomorrow! #appleWatch #nerdCred #giddyBrag  

Watch health benefits already in play, jumping up from the couch every 5 minutes thinking I hear the big brown delivery truck. #appleWatch

Feature or Bug? Wearing Watch in #sleeveTalker mode—inner Left Wrist w/ Digital Crown on Left Side—confuses the motion sensors… #appleWatch

…and only a downward karate chop will wake/activate the watch face… at its nadir. Up is down & down is up. #appleWatch #notWearingItRight

Setting Watch face to greyscale=2 full days of battery life. No daily workout also minimizes its charging…& likely my lifespan. #appleWatch

Watch battery life tip: Power Reserve mode on non-charging night saves a mysterious 20% while off-wrist & I'm off in dreamland…#appleWatch

Despicable Done Right

After attending a performance of Moliere's Tartuffe at Berkeley Rep and asked for feedback on the performance.

I had been warned that the show was dark, disconcerting and this side of disturbing, which piqued my interest in just such a theatre experience. Berkeley Rep never disappoints in your thought-provoking and cutting-edge productions. 

I have never heard 'congratulatory booing' from an appreciative audience applauding an actor's bravura performance… until Steven Epp's portrayal of Tartuffe. He has proved himself likable and entertaining in the past and he continues to be a one-of-a-kind performer… It is no small accomplishment to dance on the thin edge of the wedge between love and hate from a crowd so torn between the success of a portrayal and the deep visceral disgust for the character and his machinations. Bravo, you bastard!

Suzanne Warmanen's reasonable and feacetious indignation & Nathan Keepers's silent background ballet and mincing interplay were equally splendid standouts and incredibly enjoyable as a balance to the dispicable delight of Epp. I'm still awed by the animosity and anger he wrangled from me last night. Thank you Berkeley Rep for rattling my cage.

Dream - Vomit, Muppets, Jonathan

I realize I am late for a performance or show in Berkeley that I normally attend. I leave the house with my Clipper card and cross the street. At this point, standing in the BART plaza I know there is realistically not enough time and return home across the street.
As I open the street door, I encounter some sticky vomit on the lower entry stairs and the guys that live downstairs are coming to clean it up. One new ambitious magical slightly balding, bozo-haired roommate is offering to put down some white rug netting to alleviate any further problems. We all discuss the viability of the solution and realize it will not wear well and only get dirtier with use. His girlfriend and I go into the boy's room and discover its sparse furnishings and the origin of the netted mat from an old suitcase in a small closet.
There is a gathering of comics in a familiar corridor (downstairs?) I walk down the long hallway, squeezing through as I encounter throngs of local comedians. The one that I look forward to seeing is John Riggi,  I see him at the end of the hallway approaching and am thrilled and expectant at our soon-to-be reunion, but as we get closer it's apparent he will continue walking and only nods  acknowledgment as if I am just a passing acquaintance not worthy of a longer conversation. His dismissive acknowledgement astounds and befuddles me and as he walks further down the hallway away from me I call out to him "Really Riggi?," He turns around still uncomprehending how important he was to me and turns away. I am crestfallen and proceed sadly and resigned down the hallway where I next encounter Jonathan Winters. He is being shepherded/handled by Lorne Michaels, who disappears to schmooze elsewhere. We are both  waylaid by a television with a YouTube playlist of Muppet highlights, specifically small inchworms that are singing and wiggling in unison. We are laughing and enjoying the sequence of highlights of there well known and infamous career. As it comes to a close the conversation turns toward Robin. I compassionately express 'what a loss that must've been for him'. His face darkens and he starts to reminisce with some solemnness, obviously brokenhearted and missing his old friend. The insights he offers are hushed and I can barely make them out as he remembers what a genius his colleague was. He also voices some personal knowingness into Robin's character and reasons for his demise, possibly matching his own considerations for such an end. I am aware that despite the vividness of the conversation and trust Jonathan is showing me, he actually preceded Robin in death.

Dream - Play Disruption

A small segment remembered. Verla and I are in NY for a Broadway play. We're both excited and talking animatedly before the show starts and we find our front row seats. Our view seems to be obstructed as we are sitting very close to stage right. A large box structure gives us a sliver of a view. We are commenting and concerned as the curtain rises. I cut myself off mid sentence, but Verla seems to want to prattle on. She seems naive to the etiquette and respect of hushing the fuck up when the curtains rise. I give her a couple of arm touches and a disciplinary look to signal. The box is moved offstage and our seats have become great and wonderful for the vantage point. She can't help but continue to comment. Jonathan Groff is the star and begins. A house manager, voice comes over the loudspeaker, announcing someone is making a racket down front and the play must be interrupted to deal with the interruption. On cue, Groff singles out Verla and brings her up onstage to make an example of her, proceeds to humiliate her and use it as a teachable moment for the audience. Verla is quite oblivious to her faux pas and is enjoying the full spotlight of being part of the show. I am embarrassed and amused and during the intermission, I retreat to the back of the theatre to touch base with an acquaintance and gauge just how bad the incident was. There seem to be no repercussions although I feel the need to apologize to someone, while subtly disassociating myself from the clueless Verla. She will tell the story in full gory detail with her center stage antics as the gist of the tale.

Dream - White House

I am with a large group of people playing a sophisticated survival game, possibly televised . Our task of several different groups is to survive challenges in the White House. We have access to almost every room depending on the challenge. My group talk of strategy and have a scarf talisman to identify us to each other. Early on after the first successful challenge is completed to continue in the game, I am traded/separated from my original group. As my cohorts leave me, I join a new group who are doing food tasks. We are seated at large dining tables and must choose foods to consume as we wander among staffers. After having a great meal, we are left to choose a desert. I choose a tall ice cream cone of my own making. I must juggle the assemblage by putting my pinkie in the bottom of the cone and flip it right side up in a ball and cup manner to add the final topping. There is an eagle? component that endangers it from getting snatched. Surprisingly, I do this twice successfully, seeming to have an aptitude, which is congratulated by Barack as he sits and and nods approval while casually talking to another head of state on the phone.  Several other team members join me in looking out a picture window that reveals Alaska/Hawaii where a person walks by as Barack comments on the view and its splendor. There are also several raccoons that gambol thru this vista and a dock leading to a serene lake. I decide to wander/explore into a hallway where a large art is displayed. I ask permission to do this and am OK'd by WH handlers. I encounter other team members with their various foods. I start to peruse the art, down the hallway. Some is classical, but many are large format color political cartoons, left over from other presidencies. I stop to identify a large eared George. Bush cartoon- he's in a speeding out of controller car careening off an overpass. I am aware I should be careful not to spill my cone in this great carpeted hallway, and am warned by a housekeeper as she leaves for her day. There is a general hubbub and I join others of my team in another room to play an odd pinball machine with golf balls that overflow the supply slot after I win. Barack is there again being briefed by staffers and looking out a window and has the time to notice my accomplishment. I do this all while continuing to juggle the ice cream cone. I pick up some of the golf balls to clean up the overflow as Barack wanders by again in what is obviously the Oval Office. He jokes with staff in what seems like a very convivial atmosphere. My team is assembling again to begin a new task.

Dream - Pig Roommates

I am sitting in front room rocking chair talking to Tina. She heralds the arrival of a small baby pig into the room as others come up the stairs. It is not only a Francisco-like tall man roommate, but his young short blonde girlfriend. She is moving in unexpectedly and my first reaction is horror and dread. I am not able to hide my reaction from her, even as she is placing a check for $40 on the desk as her half of the rent with her tall boyfriend. He is not visible yet, has not warned me of this change in the living arrangement or even asked. The young girl is some sort of desperate straits, and is relieved and not wavering from the inevitability of moving in. This is a done deal as far as she is concerned and may be saving her own life from the previous arrangement she is fleeing. The little pig is running around, perhaps playing with other small dogs in residence, in a very happy frolicking way. I begin to see the writing on the wall and apologize for my initial reaction. There are hugs and general making nice. She is a sweetheart and I start to make mental adjustments to my new living situation, even asking if she is working during the day. She replies with an "I wish" negative. I have to answer the door several times and knock collected papers to the floor at the bottom of the stairs. I have to pick them up again and again, re-stacking them in their wire basket cubbys attached to the wall. Inconvenient and obviously inefficient. Chris Frieber comes upstairs or is on the street with conversation as one visitor. He also shows me a picture book(?) of old weathered French doors of great architectural splendor.

Dream - Biking Guide

I have left a dream-forgotten situation in the Richmond and am on a standard bicycle wending my way through a series of right-angle wooden covered tunnels as an approach to the GG Bridge.  I encounter and avoid oncoming tourists who may or may not be on the right path, as it is narrow and does not seem to be designed for this double passage. I am not traveling at top speed so this is more of a pleasant surprise when they pop up from around various corners. After what seems a long convoluted and Byzantine journey, I finally come out near the ramp to the Bridge. I must walk my bike and avoid a muddy patch of long grass that leads down to a path. Tourists from both directions are milling about and I give directions to a few who I overhear talking. I correct their confusion about the name of their location, but restrain from telling them the history of the buildings in the Presidio and the architectural timeline they portray.

I never really knew Robin Williams

Robin and me, Comedy Day, San Francisco c.1984
Photo Credit: Sue Murphy

Everyone that survived the 80's comedy boom in San Francisco has at least one story that includes Robin as the main attraction. We all wanted to share the stage with one of the best and brightest, hoping to up our own personal game or just bathe in the same spotlight while hoping a little of the fairy dust rubbed off on our otherwise meager talents. As is the nature of ego, others may have hoped to hold their own with his rapid-fire brilliance, or even best the genius of his rolodex mind. I often witnessed the self-satisfaction of lesser talents basking in landing a personal bon mot in front of his adoring audience. The crown jewel of achievement was catching him off guard and actually hearing his surprised chortle of amused recognition of your bit of funny. I often thought his gracious appraisal was at once congratulatory and encouragement to fly further with him to the rarefied air of his orbit. Few did; all tried.

Certainly a recounting of that moment was shared and re-shared in pissing contests with others lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time, a battle of "Oh yeah, well once he joined me after my set and..." those encounters became legend in each of our minds and were told as proof that the possession of genius was ripe for the picking, and not the sole proprietorship of one freakishly talented individual. Those treasured moments were likely looped in memory to revisit the thrill, perhaps elaborated and enhanced, and likely called in to service as self-soothing on nights when the gig was less than stellar, singular and truly lonely on similar stages with hacks and wannabes. Our minds, when left to our own devices, yearn to be special, unique and above the pedestrian. The brutally honest part of a performer's brain, or maybe the built-in insecurity and doubt, knows better. That moment was certainly hard evidence of our untapped abilities and the destiny of greatness in the pursuit of stardom; the type of stardom that Robin was scouting ahead and dancing with before our eyes. It seemed wonderful and magical and within our grasp, at least in that glimpse of a moment. At least, at that time within San Francisco's comedy enclave.

One of his kindest contributions was graciously sharing and collaborating, even as his circle was widening beyond the hothouse environment of SF. He allowed us a peek behind the grander curtain, what it was actually like... each bringing our own hopes and dreams of belonging and being included in the exclusive club. I suspect that he also loved to play and required playmates who understood the shorthand and lingo. Maybe just a stretch to keep the comedy muscle tuned and limber, but he was likely seeking the joy of collaboration or making something out of nothing, disengaging the calculating brain and leaving the imagination to its own devices. Nothing is better than being surprised by your own mind and the wonders below the surface waiting to be tapped and un-trapped. It has its own addictive qualities, to recreate that high of the high-wire, to be blameless and shameless for a shortcoming, failure or transgression and move on through the glorious pell-mell of creativity unleashed.

For many he was the reason that comedy as a vocation became a way of life. I watched him burst forth from my small TV on a local comedy show filmed at the Great American Music Hall, on a bill with other rising stars in the comedy scene. He smoked every one of them; that’s not to say they weren't entertaining and garnered laughs, but Robin erased their triumphs with a new kind of authenticity. No one was like him, as his methods were madness and otherworldly; almost foreign and incomprehensible to translate what was happening in real time in this new way of funny. He was the undeniable star of the evening and soon to be for his generation/the ages. I was left speechless, gasping and sputtering with incredulity and vaguely grokking my new aspiration, perhaps similar to mortals gazing on the gods when they deigned to appear before them. That night his talent soared from the stage through the audience and into the stratosphere, transmitted by way of a 13" television. My subsequent journey began to steep myself in countless improv workshops, learning the way of those before me to honor the ancient craft, then performing, and hanging out in comedy clubs for further research or as an insatiable sponge for all things funny. My fellow travelers were possessed with the same compulsive desire and the City's fertile ground nourished and sprouted all sorts and stripes of humor.

Robin stops by to play with Femprov at Cobb's Pub in the Marina
Terry Sand joins the trio in a Madrigal.
Photo Credit: Mark Pitta

Of course, my path crossed again with Robin. When he was in town as a respite from his burgeoning career, he also turned up in the small clubs we frequented to grab a bit of stage time. His presence was always met with a murmur of excitement and anticipation among the comics. We knew the night had already become special and we were about to become audience members held in his thrall. The scarcity of patrons in the club magically transformed into SRO. Somehow ‘word on the street’ spread like wildfire and a literal stampede engulfed the room. The subsequent roar of the crowd when he took the stage upped the ante and the energy became electric and immeasurable by standard comedy gauges of entertainment. Everyone sensed, no, knew, they were in the presence of a remarkable entity and it was now our job to witness this shooting-from-the-hip superstar.

Among the working comics, ambition and competition were temporarily put on hold... it was time to be entertained and schooled. Heads up, the Rosetta stone has taken the stage and we had yet another front row seat and chance to decipher the method to his hilarious madness. The clues had to be there, it was just a matter of paying close attention. Doing justice to these performances is feebly captured with mere words. Take yourself back to the first time he flabbergasted you; re-conjure that for yourself and attempt a description. Mind-blowing and boggling all at once, preternatural and spellbinding, and oh-so-very funny only begin to scratch the surface of that singular experience. I’m guessing you’re smiling, but words fail.

Afterwards and off stage, he was friendly and extremely gracious, even as he was inevitably accosted or ogled by a spent and grateful crowd grasping at the hem of his garments. After hours, backstage when the club closed to the public and the ballyhoo had died down, he was one of the gang, all of us still amped from performing or just watching him weave his stream of consciousness.

Was this a form of recharging and a touch of normal he welcomed from the juggernaut of his meteoric rise into the Show Biz firmament? I like to think we offered him a small remembrance of familiar things long since passed by (recently lost) in his life that had suddenly and deservedly leapfrogged over our earthly struggles. There was no turning back from his inevitable path now, but one often yearns for simpler times with mundane surprises. Who hasn't revisited their grade school or attended a HS reunion to take stock and gain perspective on a life's passage? He was shy, respectful and humble beyond the talents he obviously possessed... or maybe just observed our foibles while some were searching for any small acceptance in his eyes. Still, most welcomed his down to earth attitude, and the grace with which he tolerated our embryonic state, as an example and proof that fame and fortune did not necessarily have to expose the inner asshole we all harbor and hopefully keep at bay.

Linda Hill and I create a Robin sandwich, backstage at Cobb's

He gave, but boy did he get. I had a small taste of the thunder and lightning he absorbed from a crowd.

Traditionally, Comedy Day in Golden Gate Park was headlined with an appearance by Robin. He followed an amazing roster of local comics who were loved in their own right by an appreciative and knowledgeable comedy crowd gathered for an entire day of back-to-back 5 minute sets in broad daylight in a polo field full of funny-loving folks. In some years the numbers swelled to thousands. Not an easy room, especially for performers used to working small darkened clubs with intimate crowds, half in the bag, focused by a singular spotlight on a small stage. Few of us had arena experience, although it felt like rock star proportions when you took the sun-lit stage.

Obviously, the adoring masses had been hopeful they would be rewarded for their patience with a lengthy set by Robin. If he was in town, he did not disappoint. All kibitzing among the comics backstage came to a halt because it was time to watch him unfurl his brand of magic. The response to his introduction, standard by now, made us all realize the laughs we earned earlier were mere titters by contrast. He was their maestro, orchestrating their now-forgotten exhaustion into a frenzy of joy and laughter. It was mesmerizing to watch the puppet-mastery of it all on the faces of an audience reacting in perfect unison, just as Robin intended. You might think this hyperbole, but I assure you, no exaggeration is required.

When he could finally end his extended set, despite further protestations by the crowd, all comics would join him onstage en masse to take a final bow and thank the audience for being there. Honestly, we all wanted a piece of that goood stuff Robin had whipped up. All of us clambered onstage and I found myself near the front behind Robin. The roar of the crowd was crazy good for the soul and the greedy ego that fuels us all, enough for a lifetime. We were all soaking in this field of people on their feet, clapping, screaming and literally barking with approval. I noted my vantage point behind Robin was pretty special, as most of this adoration was rightfully focused toward him. His sight line was spectacular and this POV allowed me to imagine stepping into his performing shoes.

Comics traditionally returned to the stage to thank the audience…
and take one last bow after Robin's closing set on Comedy Day in the Park (1984).

Knowing when to leave the stage is just as important, so you 'leave 'em wanting more' or, realistically, don't wear out your welcome and the goodwill of those applauding. Expertly, Robin took the initiative; he turned around and reflexively hugged the first person in the sea of comics. It happened to be me. Robin was a hugger, so this did not seem out of the ordinary from the regular hugs received over the years. What I wasn't prepared for was the combined energy from performing and the subsequent received love from his crowd. The hug transferred all of it to me in that embrace. Yikes, like nothing I have felt since. Electric and visceral in impact. A sonic boom of quantum force. It would have knocked me on my ass if he had let go. When he did, he met my shocked look with a knowing gaze, as if to say, "That's what the real stuff feels like every time." I had my share of loving and thrilled audiences and the occasional standing O, but I was never able to replicate or receive that feeling on my own. It was an unexpected gift and a sudden realization of how unique Robin's experience must have been.

Though I flatter myself as part of the 80’s comedy inner circle, San Francisco’s up and comers witnessing and cheering on a comrade’s launch from our ranks to the highest of heights, I have no legitimate claim to really knowing Robin. His recent passing and our cumulative clumsy attempts to make sense of how someone who meant so much to so many could exit a world of such adoration is obviously beyond our ken. Abandoning all that… and us, calls into question our own capacity for handling all the varieties of love he received. We flounder in our own shallow and vapid imaginations about the perceived perks of his life…or the incomprehensible and attendant pitfalls.

Perhaps he had sated the adoration-seeking aspect of a performer’s life long ago; maybe that was never his concern. I cannot fathom the depths of his clinical lows or the heights of the joys he experienced, consistently touching countless souls of several generations along the way, each and every one believing, for that moment, he was our closest compatriot in this folly of existence.

By happenstance, I had a sliver of insight into his world one sunny afternoon 30 years ago. Despite this minimal proximity to a kind and generous man, I am comforted by the certainty that he wasted little time in fully living an extraordinary life. Good speed, Robin.

Dream - Encouragement

I am in school and working on a story, perhaps illustrated, perhaps being hammered out in storyboard form. The pages are laid out on the floor of my bedroom. The book is colorful and may be in watercolor. Barbara Scott is a fellow student and Robin is there in the capacity of teacher. We are looking at the pages and pondering what is not there yet and needs to be filled in where there are missing pages of these brainstorming doodles. There is some discussion and encouragement from both. Robin is also mindful and expectant of an approaching deadline. I am on the stairway finding places for some colorful books to be wedged into niches of the back of the door. Later or the next day, we are now downstairs and the book is laid out on a table. Robin comes to check on my progress that is no further along, though he reads a later chapter and is optimistic about its content. I have other studies and classes that need attending and tended to. I now must take a station wagon across the bay and leave on my trip. On my way I pull over to rest or attend to something on a country back road, and do so in a covered roadside gas station, likely abandoned. When I pull out to continue my journey, I pass Hispanic women crossing this pastoral road, with large sparse trays of cupcakes, the others having been delivered to a school on the right. The frosting is colorful for celebrating a holiday. I imagine their homemade goodness.

Note: Robin Williams committed suicide yesterday - August 11