Matthew Osborne
I finally reached the all-streaming world of television enjoyment this week, cutting ties with DirecTV for the second time after nine years in our second stint together.
It is amazing how many streaming options there are out there now, and honestly, if you stream enough, you pay about as much as you were for cable.
But the options and the delivery are much better this way, as I can watch any show I want to at any time, including classic shows that I love without commercials. So it’s definitely the only way to fly.
(Plus, I went to YouTube TV, where NFL Sunday Ticket is headed next season. You didn’t think there would be a column this week that didn’t have some mention of the Birds, did you?)
The strange thing, lately, isn’t the streaming on my television. It’s the streaming in my head that worries me.
I feel like I have been having more vivid and complicated dreams lately. Most of the time, they are very real and lifelike until the moment I wake up, then I seem to forget them almost instantly like Peter Pan leaving Neverland.
But this morning was different.
I somehow retained some elements of the dream, and as if under hypnosis, I will now try to recount the dream here through stream of consciousness writing, if you will. It was almost like a show you would see on one of these platforms, to be honest.
So there I was, in some sort of salvage yard, and Bill Murray was there, seemingly the star of my interior streaming program.
I don’t know if Murray was running the scrapyard or what, but he seemed very excitable. Then there were these twin girls there. I don’t think it was the Bella Twins, but they looked a little like them. It was more like the REDRUM girls all grown up, but with darker hair.
I can’t recall if they were selling something or what, but they were getting into it with Murray about something. Again, the argument did not stick with me, but they were all upset about something.
Then there was this lonely homeless guy walking the streets – we were in some sort of big city, and no, I cannot promise that it was Philadelphia, though some portion of my mind is constantly focused there like the eye of Sauron this entire week.
Then Murray said something like, “There’s only one man who can help us.”
Help us with what? Sorry, the feed must have gone out for a bit. But whatever perils can become a scrapyard, I guess, are in play.
And so, we went out, myself, Murray and the twins, to find the one man who could help us obtain the McGuffin of this unreality show, which seemed awfully real at the time.
Then we found a man. Was he the right one? Unclear, but he was wearing a red track suit and he told us to scram in an Italian accent.
And then I woke up.
So, all you dream analyzers out there, what does it all mean? Also, you’re welcome, there’s an idea for a show, just make it happen and Netflix will be beating down your door.
I often feel less rested if I wake up after having such complex dreams, because your brain does not know it isn’t real, so it is up and alert and calculating its next move, all while you are trying to quiet your mind and find peace.
It is hard enough to get sleep mere days before the Super Bowl without these streaming distractions. I have been watching a lot of “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” to try and center my chi, but when it’s time for lights out, I want it quiet. I don’t need bonus episodes in my head.
Sorry, Bill, you’ll have to complete this mission on your own. The Birds have a game to win, and I need to be rested and ready.
Matthew Osborne is the editor of The Northeast Georgian. Reach him at 706-778-4215 or editor@TheNortheastGeorgian.com.