My Marc Maron Nightmare

Last night I had my Marc Maron dream for the third time.

In the dream, Maron plays one-half of a hit man team along with Billy Bob Thornton. Billy Bob is the mean one and Maron is, of course, the funny one. Maron is determined to kill me, mind you; but he goes about it in a Maron sort of way, which is to say that he explains and apologizes while sub-referencing politics, relationships, pop culture, his own neuroses, and all matter of fucked-upedness plaguing our planet.

Anyway, in last night's edition I was trapped in the bathroom of one of those anonymous, ubiquitous condos that keep springing up on once-crappy stretches of various Manhattan avenues. Maron and Billy Bob are pounding on the door; but Maron somehow sneaks in and lets me slip down the service stairway before Billy Bob can shoot me full of holes. (Maron has let me escape in the two previous editions of the dream, too.)

So what does this all mean? Freud would probably say, "The comedian you are dreaming about represents your father." Albert Ellis, who died yesterday, would probably say, "Who gives a good goddamn what it means? Stop trying to explain it. Avoid irrational thinking. Oh, and have sex!" (This is not bad advice in general.) My siblings would probably say, "It means you are gay." Fans of the late, great "Morning Sedition" would probably say that the dream is an expression of the emptiness I feel at not having Maron to wake up to. And the new owner of Air America, Mark Green (not to mention all of that wretched network's various and sundry owners and executives, current and former), would, quite properly, hang his head in shame when asked anything about Maron.

I welcome your interpretations of this nightmare. Oh, and if you live in Scotland, you can see Maron at the Fringe Festival in Edinburgh next week.