Kidnapping Gwyneth Paltrow

Here’s my draft for today, Tuesday 05.21.19.

Kidnapping Gwyneth Paltrow

I had that same recurring dream last night, the one I have every two months or so where I kidnap Gwyneth Paltrow from The Kāhala Hotel.

It used to be that I would first meet her when we’d both be swimming just off the beach there, kind of the same way I met Shelley Fabares when I bumped into her doing laps at Ala Moana Beach. I didn’t kidnap Shelley Fabares, however. I just said hi.

Over the past few iterations of the dream, I am enjoying Sunday brunch at Hoku’s there at the hotel. Suddenly, I see my Gwyneth munching on a celery stick at the next table, and I immediately begin to hatch my plan. Which always takes some thought, even though I’ve hatched it a good many times before in my dream.

I finish my lunch immediately, head to my car and pull out a bottle of chloroform I’ve been hauling around for just such an occasion, then return to the hotel.

“Could you please tell me what room Ms. Paltrow is staying in?” I ask the desk clerk.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re not allowed to give out that kind of information,” he says.

“Ah, I see. Well, what about if I slid you a Jackson?”

He looks at me. “Maybe if you slid me the Jackson Five.”

I fork over the hundred and head up in the elevator, get off, and find her room.

I knock.

“Yes?” I hear from the other side. It is the voice of my angel.


“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

For some reason I change tack.

“Ms. Paltrow, it’s room service. I have a complimentary bottle of champagne for you.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, “that’s very kind of you, but I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Oh, I forgot to say,” I say, “that’s it’s non-alcoholic champagne.”

“What?” she says, “That’s very tempting. I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“It’s a brand new invention,” I say, “and we’re gathering guests’ opinions about it.”

“Well, no, I’m sorry,” she says, “but I’m not really interested. Thank you anyway.”

I curse mentally, then brilliantly come up with, “It’s organic.”

This of course does the trick. She unbolts the door and we come face to face. Our breaths mutually catch in our throats. We both blush. Of course I have no bottle to give her, well no bottle of non-alcoholic organic champagne at least.

This is where there is always a huge gap in the dream. The next thing I know, Gwyneth and I are sipping organic non-alcoholic champagne while we look out over Honolulu from the upper lanai of my home.

We embrace, we kiss, we sip. We repeat.

At this point Gwyneth says to me, “I am so glad you find me single at this point in my life. Brad tempted me, as did Ben, but I have to admit that I thought my love for Chris Martin would last forever.”

“And happily it did not,” I say.

“Lanning,” she says, “you have made me the happiest woman on earth.”

You know how dreams go.

“Ah yes,” I always concur, “and you, my dearest one, have in turn made me the happiest man on earth. And to think, had I not kidnapped you, none of this would ever have come to pass.”

The dream always winds down with her saying, “You needn’t have kidnapped me, Lanning. You are the man of my dreams. Why the moment I opened my hotel room door, I think we both knew that we were meant to spend the rest of our lives together.”

“I know, Gwyneth,” I say, “such was our destiny. My apologies again for the chloroforming and rolling you up in the rug. Ah, but you were light as a feather and fit perfectly in my car trunk.”

The dream begins to fade. We are left watching a magnificent sunset. This is how the dream always ends.

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