I’m not truly sure why I’m bothering to post about this on here, other than the fact that it might shed some light on just how necessary this blog is to my sanity. A night after writing my long Conan O’Brien post, I had a dream that centered around his first time hosting The Tonight Show. I had a front row seat, with the front row being right on top of the stage. Close enough that during his first bit, I was able to directly talk to the tall leprechaun. The audience didn’t seem to enjoy the bit too much, but I told Conan I enjoyed it. He replied with an invitation to come out with him and his friends after the show. Beer and poker was mentioned.

The next thing I remember was being in his surprisingly modest apartment ANALYZING his show. I was giving Conan advice as to how to run his show. There was no partying, no Conan being hilarious, only me fucking talking about how I felt his interaction with the audience and guests were what made his Late Night show especially awesome. I bet this is probably what I would do in real-life if I was friends with Conan, and that’s what makes it so sad. This is why I need to get as much critical analysis out of my system on here as possible.

My other pathetic dream involved me being able to take BP at Citi Field during the Mets’ first practice there. Now, that dream within itself sounds pretty cool, right? Taking the batting practice and realistically sucking is not cool. I haven’t swung a bat in a year, so there’s no doubt I would suck if the opportunity actually arose, but this was a goddamn dream! Why cant I drop bombs like Delgado in my dream? Why can’t my subconscious let me have some semblance of fun? I want to have one of those lucid dreams everyone talks about. Instead, I manage to take fairly awesome premises and turn them into totally boring and pedestrian dreams. Fuck you, brain.