Why hello Brad...

I had a dream last night.

I was in my mother's car. In Chicago Heights. Joe Orr Road. Waiting at a stop light. Dark. Stormy. Wicked stormy. Just-so-close-to-a-tornado stormy.

Two tall men are running in the rain to my car. I can tell they're running with the intent to get in and take over. I'm afraid.

C'mon I'm in Chicago Heights at some god forsaken hour with 2 tall men coming at me, how could I not be terrified?

One of them gets in the driver's side, pushing me over so he can take control. The other gets in the back seat.

The guy in the driver's seat is Brad Pitt.

His friend is George Clooney.

They're both grateful to be out of the storm and George is beaming and laughing and chatting away.

I'm so stunned I don't question why they're here or where Brad is taking us.

I find myself in Brad's home. I guess he has a place in Chicago. Or Indiana (Chicago Heights is very close to the state border). Or maybe he drove us all the way to New Orleans and I didn't notice seeing as Brad f*&king Pitt was driving me with George Clooney in back.

I'm immediately handed a pomegranate martini. Organic natch. People are milling about. Friendly vibe. But VIP as well. It's some sort of secret underground fundraiser. Only the really cool, hip, smart -- yet incredibly kind -- people have been invited. Brad wanted to make sure I got there. His home is amazing. Beautiful. Modern. All sustainable. Everything in there is recycled, organic, environmentally and politically conscious.

It's kinda David Lynchian tho...

Downstairs a presentation has begun. A woman speaks. She's a former drug addict gushing with thanks to Brad, George and their foundation for pulling her out of her self-induced gutter and saving her life from drugs. We're all crying from her story. She buckles over. I see her convulse as one does when vomiting. She stands back up, wiping her mouth, uttering "I'm fine...really I'm fine, dont' worry I'm fine" She's obviously wasted in some meth/heroine wacked out desert.

My body is kidnapped by horror. Shame. Despair. Failure. I quickly turn away and walk as far from the presentation as possible. I can't take it. I can't handle watching the failure.

And yet while walking away crying, shaking, praying I'm also thinking "whoa I hope John Cusack is seeing how deeply touched I am by this woman's plight. He would totally want to meet me impressed with my sensitivity and depth."

I overhear Brad or maybe George on the mike announcing to the crowd how everything is ok because my mother is there to help and she has already rescued the woman. He goes on to agree with everyone on the greatness of my mother-- her saint-like life. Everyone applauds and celebrates the good, selfless, miracle-giving life of my mother the heroine.

I get myself together and return to the main room.

It's clear while I was gone wait staff served organic, locally grown gourmet vegan and raw food. Exotic food too. All indescribably yummy. All untouchably expensive and rare.

But now it's all gone. I get a crumb of some goat cheese off a plate.

People wander finishing off their 2nd drinks. Champagne. very very very insanely expensive and delicious champagne. I want to have a glass, but the staff is cleaning up and the crowd is thinning and I worry if I grab a 2nd glass I'll look desperate for the alcohol and, thus, labelled an alcoholic.

So I just stand there. Alone. Hungry. Sad.

Feeling like the poor, hungry outsider I've always felt like growing up. Standing in the classroom alone watching all the kids laugh and play on the jungle gym. Sitting alone in my apartment watching all the people giggle and stumble with each other down the sidewalk late into the night.

But I shared this dream with my mother and she said it's positive. And I think, "Brad Pitt and George Clooney get into my car and insist on driving me to a VIP party at Brad's home--- you needed a degree in Psych from the University of Chicago to decipher this as a positive story?"