The Party (I'm not at)

A modest house in a wealthy part of the world. Somewhere near the ocean, probably East Hampton or maybe on Shelter Island. Old, tall trees, a well-kept lawn, salt water smell, etc. I drive up, knowing that I know the man who lives there. The house looks quiet. Perhaps no one is home. I get out of my car, walk around back, glance at the pool, peek into the garage where there is a parked car, and walk to the front. No lights are on; car in the garage must be a sporty job for the highway. A moment goes by, and then a car pulls up. Out gets my friend, Mr. High Powered New York TV Producer. Oddly, he parks his car in the street and not in his driveway. But he gets out and recognizes me, which I find surprising on account of my beard. He greets me, and asks what I'm doing there. We smalltalk for a bit, then I offer to help him carry in a few things he's got in the trunk of his hatch-back. I take them into the house, where I discover a rather raging party is under way. The first person I see is a scraggly-bearded Joseph Fiennes. Then I spot another celebrity, then another and another. I realize this quiet little house is packed to the rafters with not-quite-A-list-celebrities. Beautiful people. Scenesters. And it isn't long before I'm taking what I brought in - cups, ice, bottles of beer - and not just putting them at the bar, but serving people. Coiffed, aloof, smart alecks who are hectoring me. Making me drop things. Ragging on my clumsiness, the fuckers. Then, insult to injury, I run into several people from an old freelance job, people who are decidedly not celebrated stars or starlets, who have apparently been invited! A deep pang of resentment hits me. THEM? They're invited? I KNOW Mr. High Powered New York TV Producer. WTF?

And then I realized that I am not only the help at a party to which I so desperately wanted to have been invited, I am the uninvited help.

This was the dream that awoke me four minutes before my alarm went off this morning. Surely a direct psychological conduit to my career, as I see it. But I suppose it's also my outlook on life in general: I'm missing the party.

I'll print this one out and send it to my psychotherapist. I suspect the diagnosis will be Persecution Complex, Inferiority Complex, or Gay Panic.