When I'd awakened, all I remembered from my dream about this year's Oscars was the deafening applause and the awards themselves:
Best Film: Hawmps! (1976)
Best Director: Joe Camp, for Hawmps! (1976)
Best Supporting Actor: Slim Pickens, for Hawmps! (1976)
Best Original Score: Euel Box, for Hawmps! (1976).
Best Costume Design: Tom Bronson, for Hawmps! (1976)
It went on. "Hawmps!" swept the Oscars, 44 years after the fact.
I made breakfast and returned to the dream, still a bit fazed. When I reviewed what fragments were still reachable, I realized something else: no one was in attendance at this awards ceremony, just John Denver at the podium reading the results in a stolid monotone.
I threw back an entire pot of coffee before finding the courage to open the paper to read the results (I still read the paper). I lost all interest in the dream to focus on the report that every attendee at last night's Oscars stood in line for the sole purpose of being punched to death by Ric Flair. Bodies were tossed onto a slagheap and burned. This kind of crap didn't happen in the 70s. What the hell? I used to make documentaries. I made documentaries that mattered and this kind of anarchy deserves a sternly worded letter.
