I HAD THE STRANGEST DREAM LAST NIGHT, AND IT INVOLVED ME, BETTE MIDLER, AND AN ENSEMBLE OF MISSHAPEN TOILETS.

Apparently, I was in Toronto. Note that I have never visited Toronto, nor have I ever seen photographs or even a postcard of that Canadian city. I sincerely doubt that the actual Toronto looks anything like the city in my dream. The Toronto in my dream was very clean, and had brick sidewalks and fountains.

I wish I could remember the architecture. My recollection of Toronto’s buildings is rather vague, though I recall that they weren’t erected as closely together as the ones in NYC. Also, when I saw them in my dream, I said to myself, “Wow. Those don’t look anything like the buildings in New York City.” Man, I wish I could remember architectural details. Maybe they resembled the strangely-shaped buildings from B&W 20’s sci-fi movies.

So I was really enjoying my first taste of the “Jewel of the East of Canada.” It was sort of a grey day, but all in all, the weather was nice. Then I ran into the street gang. Actually, it started as just a single punk. He kept muttering at me, and tried to pry my tote bag away. After he attempted to put his hands in my pockets, I beat the shit out of him. Please note: I am normally not a confrontational person. But I also don’t like to hand my money over to punks.

It probably helped that the punk was smaller than me (Wow. It really was a dream.) After I dispatched him, I continued on my leisurely stroll. The sky above was grey, but it wasn’t the least bit overcast. Then I heard a noise behind me, turned around, and saw the punk I beat up, plus a bunch of his friends, running after me. So I rolled up my sleeves and ran like hell.

I paid some money and ducked into a darkened theater. It was full of people, which was odd since the only thing on the screen was Chinese commercials. I took a seat in the second row, between an Asian woman who completely ignored me, and a Rastafarian type who smelled like earth. I looked back, saw the punks entering the theater, so I scrunched down into my seat.

Now, I wear glasses to read, but I never carry them around with me since they I’m afraid they could break. But at that moment, punks had made their way down the avenue in between the rows of seats, and I was afraid I’d be spotted. I reached into the inside pocket of my coat. Remarkably, my glasses were there! I put them on.

The punk I beat up was standing in front of the first row, and he was trying to glance around the guy in the seat in front of me, while simultaneously, I was trying to hide behind him. The asshole was about to move on when the man in the first row ducked his head forward. Thanks, man! As the punk spotted me, his mouth stretched into a cruel smile. I smiled back. The punk produced a gleaming switchblade, just as the theater speakers blared with enthusiastic Cantonese and the life before my eyes flashed in blue and pink colors. I sensed that I had stopped smiling.

Luckily, that weird moment of brilliant sight and sound marked the end of the commercials, and everyone stood up simultaneously to leave. I got up, too, and followed the Rastafarian who had been seated to my left. He and a bunch of other people made their way not where we came in, but to a circular staircase at the side of the theater. During the walk over, he produced the biggest doobie I had ever seen, out of his pants pocket. He lit it, took a sufficient hit, and offered me some after he noticed I was staring. I declined; I had actually been trying to stare past him, to see if the punk was following us or the rest of the crowd. I couldn’t see him, so I assumed I had eluded him.

Our group ascended the circular staircase into a smaller room. However, it was also set up like a theater, with long rows of chairs on a declining hierarchy. The windows were open, and there was lots of light and fresh air. I took a seat in the front row, next to a woman who looked familiar, though I couldn’t place her. Before I sat down, I asked, “Mind if I sit here?”

She smiled as if she were very impressed by me, and said, “Hey, why not?”

The room had two doors in the wall in front of us. A woman, who didn’t look very tall (Is everyone in the REAL Toronto shorter than me?), entered through one of the doors. She started to greet everyone in a brassy manner. That was when I recognized her as Bette Midler. But wait! She looked exactly like the woman I had sat down next to! I turned to make sure, and sure enough, I was sitting next to Bette Midler! Then I took a more discriminating look at the woman at the head of the room, and I realized that she wasn’t Bette Midler, only wearing prosthetics on her face to make her LOOK like Bette Midler! This was confusing.

Making things more confusing was the TV screen at the front of the room, which was showing what appeared to be a videotaped revue of sorts. There was another Bette Midler lookalike on stage torch-singing. Or maybe this was the same lookalike that was in the room, and she had been taped. Anyway, while the lookalike on the tape was singing about not being considered attractive because she isn’t tall, thin, and youthful, there was this parade of women on the stage who also weren’t tall, thin, or youthful. Many of them were also in various stages of undress. What the hell was this?

Then someone stopped the tape, and the lookalike began to explain what everything was about. Apparently, Bette Midler has this show. It’s been very popular in the U.S. and Europe, and now they want to bring it to Canada. However, the Canadian government took offense at the partial and total nudity included in the show, so Bette Midler and her writers changed that part, and they wanted to test the clean version in front of all of us, and some Canadian government-types who were also in the room.

So now the lookalike starts torchsinging again. Only now it’s live, not on tape. And through the two doors I mentioned before enter a plethora of women who aren’t tall, or thin, or youthful. Many of them aren’t naked, either. Now they’re all wearing red spandex or lycra tights. It’s like somebody made a musical about Daredevil.

Suddenly the Canadian government-types stand up, and the show stops. They start yelling that the show is still obscene, unacceptable, etc. Bette Midler, the real Bette Midler, gets up from her seat next to me, walks over to where the government-types are sitting, and begins yelling back at them. The railing back and forth gets worse, and increasingly unintelligible the louder they get. At some point, the room must be cleared, but not before Bette Midler gives an obscene gesture involving her crotch with one hand, while shoving the middle finger of her other hand in the government-types’ faces.

Now, before continuing, I want to point out that I have no issues with Bette Midler. I’ve never seen any of her movies, watched any of her interviews, or read any books she may have written. I don’t know if she rails against the establishment in real life. All I know is, the Bette Midler who visited the Toronto in my dream had such a persona. But I’m sure she’s as nice as any other movie star in real life. And if she’s reading this, and decides to do a Broadway revue featuring undressed, non-traditionally beautiful women, I am available to write, and I work cheap.

Back to my dream: So I leave the theater and start walking around again. I see various plazas, peruse the menues of cafes and restaurants (They’re always scribbled on blackboards, in more than one type of chalk, though the mix always includes pink, and I can never make sense of anything except the numerical price.) Though I am in unfamiliar waters, I am genuinely enjoying myself. Then I need to use the bathroom, and I don’t remember where my hotel is. I’m not even sure if I’ve checked into a hotel.

So I find what I think is a public bathroom. And maybe it is, but it’s also a long, wide, green-tinted basement full of strangely shaped toilets and bidets. Some of them had bowls shaped like figure eights. One of them had water that flowed down from a raised apparatus, like a waterfall.

But wait. It gets weirder. I saw what was basically a bed with a hole in the middle. Conceivably, the person who occupied the bed could defecate while lying down. There was also what appeared to be a “group bidet,” basically a shallow pool that had many water jets that fired up at the same time. Most disturbing were those toilets that didn’t flush material down, but instead sprayed them back out in preset directions. This was like the toilet version of David Cronenberg’s gynecological tool scene in “Dead Ringers.”

And some of those toilets were dirty. Penn Station dirty. And with no one else around, I wondered if maybe this was an exhibit or museum of some kind. But I really needed to use the bathroom, and they all seemed to function properly. I found the least unusual toilet, and I thanked God afterward that the material flushed down, not back out.

Leaving the bathroom from the other side of the building, I saw a sign above the door that I couldn’t read. By now, it was getting late, so instead of dwelling on it, I walk around some more until I find my hotel. The hallways have white wallpaper with thin brown and orange vertical stripes. I don’t remember what the number of my room was, but I know I was relieved when I found my luggage waiting inside for me. I am tired. My feet ache. I lie down in bed and try to sleep.

As I try to fall asleep, I still don’t know why I came to Toronto in the first place. Am I a tourist? Am I here for school? But I had a really fun day navigating this strange, new city. Maybe it isn’t worth thinking about so much. At last, I fall asleep, and I wake up in New York City again.

Bette Midler wakes up with me. Yeah, I’m just kidding about that part.