No time for love, Doctor Jones. Okay, that’s not entirely true; although I have a heavy workload today, I’m entirely distracted by thoughts of fandom, if not love: Blur has announced a new album — the band’s first since 2003’s Think Tank — out in a couple of months, and I’m ridiculously excited. Part of me is positive that such enthusiasm is a mistake, because how many bands come back after 12 year breaks with great stuff, really? Then I remember how much I loved Damon Albarn’s Everyday Robots album last year, or 2013’s “Under the Westway” single, and my excitement carries me away again. Please don’t suck, new Blur album. I’m not sure I could take that.
Trying to make it real, compared to what?
I wouldn’t call my Comic-Con dream from last night a stress dream, exactly — it wasn’t exactly stressful, for the one thing — but it was an odd one; the key fact of it seemed to be that I had apparently moved in to a hotel room during the show and was apparently living there, getting mail delivered and essentially treating it as if it was my home and not somewhere I’d be staying for a handful of days at the most.
The details of the dream are hazy at best; I remember Rachel Edidin being there, and the two of us talking about the fact that neither of us had really gotten to see any comic stuff just yet (So, just like any comic-con I’ve worked, then). I remember, oddly, the fact that I’d been given a boxset of HBO’s The Wire and feeling as if I should give it to a friend who hasn’t seen the show. And, more than anything, I remember the feeling that always comes up at these shows, that life there is a bubble that feels at once entirely temporary and utterly all-encompassing and eternal. Was there once another world where I lived? Was it better than this one?
The comedy of the matter is, I don’t even think I’m going to Comic-Con this year, and yet I had this dream regardless.
Terry Crews, you really are the greatest.