Had me an over-the-top, out of control, off-the-chain, most vivid dream of my life last week. It happened to coincide with the discontinued use of my nightly dose of Nyquil so I made certain to write down some of the crazy details as soon as I woke up and was plopped in front of the old eye gaze the morning of the premiere (and so far only) showing of the film in the widescreen my mind.
Enjoy the synopsis and because I’ve always wanted to say it: Spoiler Alert.
The film opens in a department store as a high school symphonic band has gathered for rehearsal in the women’s outerwear section of the store. The teacher is late in arriving so the protagonist — who for the remainder of this discussion will be referred to as me — convinces the ensemble to surprise the conductor by dressing in the full-length fur coats that were on display in front of them.
Cut to another area of the store where a dozen upright pianos are being played loudly and poorly by twelve distracted young boys who clearly would rather be doing anything other than practicing their scales and fingering.
The next scene is outside on a darkened two-lane road in the pouring rain as John Travolta sings an incredibly moving and beautiful power ballad. The song concludes as a car drives off the embankment and explodes into flames in a ditch.
Following the explosion, John and I crisscross our way down streetlight illuminated suburban avenues avoiding various roving gangs of nefarious street toughs.
The two of us end up in a commercial downtown area pushing an empty shopping cart brainstorming a way to make some money. We devise a scheme where we collect those blinking orange construction lights that can be found anywhere construction is being done (duh) and sell them back to the companies we liberated them from in the first place to the tune of $6 a pop.
Next scene is in a massive new and used record store which upon further investigation morphs into an exclusive high-end trendy clothing shop which specializes in amongst other things sports attire for the young and wealthy social set.
As I hide behind a circular clothing rack — apparently John Travolta stayed behind in order to bilk those foolish contractors — I overhear five really tall black guys as they plot to strong arm their way into ownership of the store so they can sell the merchandise for themselves. Being a similarly profit-minded guy myself, I fearlessly interjected my two cents into their conversation by promising the entrepreneurs a steady stream of customers with serious disposable income for a small taste of the profits (of course).
There is a decidedly seventies vibe in the undergarment section of the store as I encounter a small group of men and women who are dressed in Victorian garb — including the white puffy wigs and open bodices — and they keep telling me that we are living in the year 2008. As hard as I try, I am unable to find my way out of the store.
Retracing my footsteps the way I came in, I found myself outside in the bright sunlight kicking around a soccer ball with random children on the cement behind the mall that I had just exited.