Frank

As my sleep schedule-what there ever was of it—has become completely deranged over the past two weeks, stemming from my attempt to finish a semester's worth of scholarly assignments three weeks ahead of schedule, I've taken to deep sleep at odd times.

Wednesday afternoon, I plunged into one of those delicious zones of half-waking, where your brain is free to unlock the treasures of unresolved issues while maintaining a working relationship with the physical world around you.

Laying on my bed, a cat curled into my armpit, and the radio broadcasting the sounds of one utterly important NPR discussion or another, I began to watch preview trailers for the long-rumored live-action G.I. Joe movie in my brain.

Now, there really is such a thing in the works, somewhere out in the Hollywood hills. The script isn't finished, the roles aren't cast, and nothing's set in stone. But "Transformers," which I heard described as the longest toy commercial in history, was such a box-office success that the film industry, always ready to cull the drudge from any waste bin not already utterly pillaged of marrow (and why stop there?), began green-lighting anyone with a Star Trek lunch box and an associates degree in… whatever.

But no, there are no trailers. Yet.

Ooh, and it looks good, too. I mean, the previews I saw. In my mind. Each one would start out animated in the style of the afternoon cartoon G.I. Joe of my middle school years—you know, that ham-handed flatness that was about two skips ahead of "The Simpsons," without the surreal zing of, well, comedy. Anyway, after a few seconds, the images would seamlessly blend into live action. The first one—there were three!—features a bunch of Cobras (you know, the jackholes who were always trying to—sigh—take over the world) standing on a balcony, overlooking some mighty river. The balcony was affixed to a ginormous Cobra emblem. Does this make any sense? No, of course not. Then some Joe is falling through the air, tackling Zartan, the shape-shifter, tumbling with him into the river below.

Pretty sweet, right? No, of course not. There is nothing—I say, nothing—more boring than listening to someone describe a dream. Let alone a dream filled with references to an elaborate set of comic book action heroes. And yet, here we are.

The second one showed Storm Shadow—oh, you know, the Cobra ninja who dressed all in white (because that makes perfect sense, especially from a tactical point of view)—training a bunch of ninjas-to-be, although it basically looked like a high school gymnastics class. And into their midst comes Snake Eyes, Storm Shadows's sworn ninja enemy and former special-ops buddy from the Viet Nam war, vaulting and somersaulting his way into their midst.

I know, I know! It just keeps getting better!

Finally, there was a scene of a half dozen children sitting on the floor, at the feat of someone reading them a story. As the camera pans up, the scene reveals the reader as—gasp!—the Cobra Commander, replete with his freaky mirrored mask! "Oh, God," I thought, "Hitler loved children, too!" Aaaauuugh!

All the while this is going on, another part of my brain is tracking the NPR program on the radio. And the thing is, even though this is a live show, and has never been broadcast before, it's as though I know everything they're about to say, three seconds before they say it.

But that's not important. Forget the fact that my average afternoon nap has recently taken on the quality of a low-grade peyote trip. Let's keep our eyes on the prize.

A few words about G.I. Joe. Who among us wouldn't just love to be involved with an honest-to-god elite military task force that wears, well, costumes. Want to come to work dressed like a ninja? Fine. Want to carry a crossbow instead of a rifle and wear a unitard instead of camouflage utilities? Super. Want to go around shirtless so you can show off your big-assed Eagle, Globe and Anchor tattoo? Certainly no regulation against that, here at G.I. Joe headquarters. Go Joe.

And the Cobras. Anyone wanting to write an exploratory thesis on the homoerotic elements of paramilitary dress could do a lot worse than to examine this crack squad of ne'erdowells. Seriously—Destro? He wears a silver mask and a leather jumper unbuttoned to his naval. Giddyup.

Now, as far as this fictional universe goes, I may or may not be the only one having hallucinatory dreams freaky enough to be featured in a Lunesta commercial. But there is already a gathering swarm of fans and other "concerned parties" impregnating the Web with their two cents' worth on all potential aspects of the film, from casting fantasies to gripes about the rumored international nature of the "new Joe." Please. These people assembled their daily accoutrements from what appears to be a combination-catalogue from Cabella's and yandy.com (see Trevan's Halloween post). You're really bothered by the idea of the Global Integrated Joint Operations Entity? Only the Fox News gang could work up this kind of consternation. Thanks, Rupert.