I was in a hotel somewhere with palm trees, possibly California. I was in a meeting there with two business type folks. One was a guy around thirty, he had blond hair and looked like he spent too much time in the sun. The other was a blond middle-aged woman who was trying her hardest to look twenty.
The meeting was all about them trying to get me on board to direct a documentary for them, though I don't recall the subject matter. I sat in disbelief as they insisted the documentary be fully scripted. I argued that it defeated the purpose of a documentary to script the whole thing, but my arguments were met with creepy fake smiles and further attempts to make me see their point of view.
I continued to decline and things eventually got heated. I kicked them out and said "Do you know what you call a scripted documentary? 'The Office.' When you decide to do it right, give me a call."
As I escorted them to the door, the dream's setting changed from a meeting room in the hotel to my hotel room. While closing the door behind them, I saw Tom Selleck in the hallway, walking past the elevator. I turned to Mom, who was packing our things, and calmly said "I think Tom Selleck just walked by", as if it was a completely normal thing to see.
Next thing I knew, I was waiting for Mom in the hotel lobby while she was getting the van. The lobby was enormous and looked more like an airport than a hotel. There was a group of about a half dozen girls in their late teens to early twenties sitting in a row of seats near me.
In the distance, a guy walks by and I hear a hushed commotion among the girls as they notice him. He looks vaguely familiar, with hair like Hurley from Lost, but less wild. I recognize he's an actor in movies and I overhear the girls call him Jason something. His last name had two syllables, the first syllable having a hard "A" sound.
A few minutes after walking by, he returns, this time just a few feet away. He looks around and starts calling out my name. Unsure of what's going on, I quietly say "that's me." To my surprise, he extends both hands, a newspaper in one, a pen in the other, and asks for my autograph.
Laughing to myself and unsure what to think, I bluntly ask "Are you bullshitting me?" He then tells me he's seen all my plays and is a big fan. Still caught a bit off guard, I assume he means the cartoons and I sign his paper.
"My first autograph,
thanks for this!
thanks for this!