Michael Moore: My Dream Man

(More Bridget Jones-style journaling...)

~ September 12, 2005

Weight, 275 (feels like, really just hovering at 150)
Cigars chewed on during show, 2
Alcohol units, 0 (v.g... actually, too tired to drink)

2:45 pm
Okay. So, Michael Moore.

Last night after the show, I had a bowl of oatmeal. The oatmeal was a stupid move, considering my eyelids were already drooping and I knew I wasn't going to be able to stay up 2 more hours. (Oh, new rule: must stop eating 2 hours before bed). But I was in the mood for carbohydrates... and there was no chocolate. Having absolutely no fuel value, it's going straight to my ass, I know... but I don't care. (This really does have a connection to Michael Moore. Bare with me.)

In my post-oatmeal stupor, I fought to stay up until 1am, watching horrible Jon Lovitz SNL crap on Comedy Central, wishing that Jon Stewart were on instead. Oh, the joy and glee that Jon Stewart and his co-horts bring me! Oh, the humanity, to be forced to endure the wrong Jon.

My friends all headed off to the bar, Shawna begged me to come along... but how could I go drink, when I'd barely enough energy to kick the footstand up on my Laz-Y-Boy?! Oh, the humanity! No, sir, I couragously held my ground on the living room barkalounger, slowly processing my hi-fiber midnight snack, fighting to stay awake. Finally, I got up the energy to drag myself off to bed.

Early this morning, probably as a result of eating too late at night... I awoke groggily, only to realize that I'd dreampt about Michael Moore.

Here's the dream, if you have the courage to read it:

I find myself working for Michael Moore, in his production office. Sleek LA office, lots of windows and polished chrome. Probably not at all what Michael Moore's production office looks like. Still, I'm there, and I'm working with lots of young, smart, idealistic film-types. We're all sitting around, laughing and working, when Mike enters. We sit around talking politics and laughing with Mike, naturally... like ya do... for a few hours. We all obviously adore him, and he adores us, his little worker bees. The day draws to a close, and one by one, the other interns and employees leave, and Mike and I are left alone, just talking. And... one thing... leads to... another.

Now, I know, I know ... Most women out there are probably dreaming about... I don't know, Orlando Bloom, or at least Prince William. But, dude, check it out, I have an explaination: This is what George W has done to my psyche, people! I hate that little fucker and his Facist followers so much, that my dream-- literally-- is for Michael Moore to swoop in and sweep me off my feet.

I wonder if anyone has ever told Mr. Moore that he is their Dream Man. I think he's married, so I imagine the woman he's married to thinks quite highly of him. But, c'mon, are there legions of Michael Moore fans out there having sex dreams about him? I may be one of the few, the elite!

I am tossing around the idea of just writing Mike a little note. I mean, really, it isn't every day that one dreams about doing naughty things with a scruffy, midwestern documentarian... I would think he'd want to know! Maybe he'd be flattered. Maybe he'd mention me the next time he's on Leno. Maybe he'd even write back, and ask me to come work for him! Just think of it... Cara Burdick: Key Grip on Michael Moore's next film. Content Manager, MichaelMoore.com. Campaign Manager, Moore For President 2008!

As entertaining as this post has been, thus far, I probably should get going. Weekend packing to do, a show tonight, then a long drive to L.A. to visit with Best Friend.

Word.