Alec Mouhibian

Going to a screening of All About Eve in Hollywood is like watching Big Momma’s House 2 in Compton. Bursts of laughter or applause met Bette Davis’s every crack, wink, and sigh. Occasionally the guffaws set off by a wince swallowed up the following punch-line whole. I was annoyed and then, when motel keys amazingly weren’t thrown at the screen during close-ups of George Sanders, disappointed.

Apparently All About Eve is the gay Roots. The screening turned out to be part of the Egyptian Theatre’s “OutFest” series, sponsored by some activist group that tries to perform the miracle of getting homosexuals involved in show business.

Way to smoke ’em out of the closet, boys!

A few fine men and women (and one impostor) at Columbia’s journalism school have, during the past few months, kept a running chronicle of Brooklyn. Take a look at www.TheBrooklynInk.com 

There must have been a surveillance camera on one of mine:

That’s Etta James and (a few minutes in) Dr. John, for you uncouth, uncultured, hippin-and-a-hoppin young’ns.

They each released an excellent, underrated album in 2004. Here’s Etta’s; here’s Dr. John’s.

What does it say about the Grammys that an album (Etta’s) can be underrated despite winning one?

Each of us has a special talent. Life is far nicer for those who can locate their talent and cultivate it into a tool of everyday living. To do that successfully, according to brochures from the purpose-of-life industry, might even be the purpose of life.

I have a talent for escaping nightmares by way of suicide. Some people despair when they find themselves in an irreversibly bad dream. I look for a balcony. Cliffs, roofs, and moving vehicles obviously work just as well. Only occasionally have I ever had to resort to a butcher knife or a spork. Up a creek without a paddle, I simply go with the current. There’s sure to be a waterfall nearby.

If you ever feel trapped in a nightmare, remember that God rarely closes a door without opening a window large enough to jump out of. Usually this shrewd exit strategy causes me to wake up. Sometimes my reward is omniscience—the dream goes on without me as I observe from above, a la Allah, at which point it ceases to be a nightmare and becomes an interesting movie, all the more enjoyable if the characters involved are sobbing hysterically over my loss.

Not all nightmares start out as nightmares, of course. Often they will seem promising until a sudden twist sends in the clouds. Such cases can be tricky. But even there it never takes me too long to realize, “I don’t have to deal with this,” and make for the nearest noose. In any obvious nightmare the reaction is immediate.

Don’t give me any of that defeatist nonsense about suicide not being a viable option. I’m well aware of the masochistic attitude maintaining that nightmares should be seen out to the bitter end. My mom used to try it on me whenever I boasted of a recent achievement: “You’ll end up back in the same dream,” she’d say. Certainly you might. Then it’s even easier to bolt again—you already know the ropes of the situation, and can use them to hang yourself forthwith. So what if the process repeats? Morning comes eventually. Why face your phony demons when you can turn your back to them and stab your ethereal guts instead, a few dozen times if need be?

The result of all this is that I’m no longer afraid of bad dreams. Especially if they’re set on an elevated plane or contain a staircase that leads to one. Good dreams are far more sinister to me now—cruel reminders of what I can’t possibly have in reality. (Sometimes I think my subconscious must be a woman.) As a matter of fact, I don’t even have textbook nightmares anymore.

Now if I can only figure out how to apply this talent to real life.