Last night I watched the film “Igby Goes Down.” It’s about this rich kid with an institutionalized father and a bitter, valiumed-out and chardonnayed mother. After a youth of boarding schools and hating his mom and his life Igby escapes and runs around New York City with all kinds of characters. It’s a comedy and it seemed a lot more real to me than, say, anything Edward Burns might film. In the end Igby is falling asleep on an airplane smiling, on his way to California.

This morning I dreamed the sequel. In my dream, Igby traveled all over Europe. He died his hair yellow. I watched him ride a scooter through Paris, his yellow hair blowing in the wind. Then years passed and Igby was like 45, still with yellow hair, but with tan wrinkles on his face. Now he was hanging out in Florida. I’m not sure he lived anywhere, I think he just lived in Florida going from place to place sleeping with women and then leaving because he was afraid of commitment. His brother who was the budding Republican alcoholic in the film lived in the Florida Panhandle so Igby went there to see him and instead slept with another woman. They were done and the woman said to Igby “would you like another custard?” Igby said, “that would be wonderful.” Then he pretended to go to the bathroom and left. Outside he ran into the Jewish girl from the film, the one that he loved first but who was then seduced by the asshole brother. She was talking to someone about how pissed off her liberal parents were that she had ended up with a career in marketing. Then I woke up.

After I watched “Igby Goes Down” I watched “Showgirls.” Sadly, I cannot remember dreaming any sequel to this one. Maybe I did and I just don’t remember. Maybe Nomi Malone goes to the White House and gets a job fighting terrorism. In my dream, if I had one, I don’t think she had to put ice on her nipples anymore.

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