Thursday, March 19, 2009
Outside of the reservation and 1979, a dreamcatcher is just plain dumb. Hung on a rearview mirror or as living room art, it deserves to be punched in its sinewy face. What made you think this was a good idea? Did you powwow with a shaman in a sweat lodge? Were you trippin’ on peyote with Val Kilmer?
While I was curiously drawn to the feathered roach clips on sale at the Berrien County Youth Fair back in the 80s, I backed away. I didn’t smoke the wacky tobackey and my name wasn’t Stands with a Pan-Indian Tchotchke in her Fist (although that would have been so fucking rad). Even then, I knew dreamcatchers sucked it hard.
Dreamcatchers were traditionally hung over a bed to protect papooses from nightmares. Um, sorry to break it to you, you woo-woo kookaloo, but you just conjured up the bad dream that is me. While listening to some sweet nature sounds with a backing woodlands flute, I am going to tie a stick to your southwestern Spirograph and thrash you within an inch of your life.
The American Indian wasn’t crying over pollution in that 1970s ad; he saw the writing—and your ridiculous dreamcatcher—on the wall.
(By the way, I think women should start calling their vag their dreamcatcher. Think about it...)