Graffiti the Ghost

Desperately seeking Owen

I am not a star fucker. Not to say that I wouldn't break off a little piece for my boy Johnny were he to come pokin around (can I get an amen, ladies?), but aside from the occasional scan of Defamer or flip through People in the grocery store line, I don't follow the celeb scene with very much enthusiasm.

So I was a bit taken aback when last night I had a star studded extravaganza of a dream. It was the lamest movie you'll never see. Several celebs made cameo appearances, but I really need to have a talk with whatever part of my brain acts as casting director for these feature presentations. To start with, cast in the role of my best friends were Joss Stone and Kate Hudson. A girl could do worse, I realize. I mean, I'm not even gonna touch on the nightmare that would've involved a friendship with Paris Hilton.(No worries about offending dear Paris, by the way. She doesn't read this blog. In fact, she can't read at all. Yep, not even a menu in a restaurant. It would be sad, really, if she weren't such a cum drenched gutter slag.)

But were my conscious mind in charge, I might have chosen a Parker Posey or Drew Barrymore for the best friend role. Parker cause she's so damn cool, and Drew cause she's so damn sweet. I think the three of us would have an amazing time together. We'd go out on the town, down some cosmos, Drew would flirt with all the cute boys, Parker would talk us into all the hot clubs. It would be awesome.

But ok, so what really disturbed me was that rather than taking full advantage of this stellar opportunity to have a celeb boyfriend for an evening, someone I could really sink my teeth into like an Adrian Brody or a Joey Santiago, who was cast in the role of my boyfriend? That's right: Owen "I have a penis on my face" Wilson.

Now, I like Owen for the most part. First of all, he's funny, which is huge in my book. Second, I really like Wes Anderson movies, in which he co-writes and stars. But boyfriend material? Not the first one who comes to mind.

But I know what you're thinking. He's rich, biatch!! And famous, to boot. Yes yes, that's true. In real life. In my dream he was neither. In fact, he was broke. He didn't even have a car. Ok, here's the kicker: his mom drove us on dates. I shit you not. I'm dating a 36 year old man whose mom is driving us on dates. Needless to say, we did not get freaky in this dream, so don't even go there. There are some lines that even dream me will not cross.


So I awoke from this dream in a cold sweat, looked around, said "what the fuck?" and got out of bed. I wasn't going to take a chance on going back to sleep after that. But I really want to know what it was all about. After thinking about it over my morning coffee, I've decided that it must mean something. Owen Wilson does not just pop up in someone's dream for no reason. So I've come to the conclusion that maybe Owen is my soulmate. The whole mom/car thing is really just connected on some level to my desire to have children with Owen and become a soccer mom. So, if the theory of six degrees of separation is true, someone who reads this will know someone who knows someone who knows someone, etc, who can put me in touch with Owen. There's no sense in trying to deny our destiny, O. Call me, baby.

Or, then again, maybe that's just what happens when you fall asleep reading Vanity Fair. Who knows?

posted by Jess @ 10:48 AM