The Big Dream: A Table Saw and Other Items David Lynch Told Me He Wants Me to Have From His Estate Auction

I want a table saw. Badly. My yearning for this table saw is gnawing and relentless. I dream about its ceaseless whirring buzz, driving my neighbors to bang on the walls. I drift off daily at my computer, picturing wood dust floating about the air in my small apartment rather than the century-plus of collected dust from an Alphabet City tenement building. My newfound table saw fixation is an unlikely one, even for an obsessive like me who fantasizes regularly about acquiring the unacquireable. The only time I’ve used a table saw was in a doomed middle school woodshop class, a requirement that I nearly failed because my assigned wooden letter opener was such an unwieldy, abysmal, abomination—a thick, rounded slab of globby, stained wood that was more a letter bludgeoner than opener. Ashamed of my lack of talent, I decided it would be much better to hide it in my class shoebox and fail than ever having to show it to anyone, let alone my shop teacher, Mr. Hughes (who, I should note, eventually did help me finish it with sincere kindness). Surely, even with a twinge of residual letter opener-related PTSD, I could give the ol’ table saw another shot. I’ll see you again, table saw, after twenty-five years.

Ok, fine. It’s been more than twenty-five years. Excuse me for trying to shoehorn in a Twin Peaks joke, as my table saw transfixion relates to not just any table saw: David Lynch’s table saw, which is currently on auction as a part of the David Lynch Collection sale at Julien’s Auctions. One reason I’m completely enamored with the tool is that Lynch’s woodworking has tickled me for years. Alongside his beguiling, wonky art lamps, which I just might love more than his thick, plaster-y, Band-Aid-clogged-pool-drain-on-canvas paintings, Lynch also made his own furniture, meticulously fabricating his ideal utilitarian objects, his conception of which he would excitedly prattle on about at the smallest encouragement, as discovered by Entertainment Weekly. In one of my favorite interviews, Lynch asks for a pencil so he can sketch his latest table while explaining his vision:

“Here is a place for glasses, remote controls, and pens. And here’s a circle with Kleenex coming out. Here’s a larger circle for a wine bottle. This is a door on special hinges that holds cigarettes and lighter. And over on this side is a large door, so this part right here is a place for Parmesan crackers and trail mix and wine glasses and different things. I’m going to have electricity wired into the table — I’m going to have a lamp — so I have a switch right here. And then down here is a drawer that has a place for a yellow pad. If I have an idea, I can take out the yellow pad and write it down with the pens. And it’s on these red wheels. So it’s a side table that holds all the things that I use. “

Doors for Parm crackers and a large circle for a wine bottle?! Count me in! I, like Lynch, could use “a place where I can sit…I can watch TV from that place, or I can meditate from that place, or I can think from that place.” Where do I get one manufactured? Or better yet, try to hack out my own with David Lynch’s saw!

Or I should say saws, as two table saws are for sale in the auction, alongside other amusing Home Depot finds. Like any rabid fanatic, I’ve been perusing the staggering nearly 450 lots in the David Lynch Collection for over a week now. Sure, the sale includes more conventional, fan-pleasing finds related to Lynch’s films and TV shows—posters, scripts, various mass-produced gewgaws for premieres, a Log Lady mug, a dusty, crusty deer head previously hung on the wall of the Blue Pine Lodge in Twin Peaks, his personal prints of Eraserhead and Inland Empire, etc.— and his forays into music, such as a custom five-neck guitar designed by Lynch himself that I, as a musical instrument luddite, have no clue how it would actually work. But these are not the offerings that have mesmerized me. I desire—no, demand—the items that are much more mundane and wacky in the context of a storied director’s public auction than traditional film buff stuff. Of course, the mix of mundane and wacky is the ideal, thoroughly American combo that Lynch perfected. Beyond the oversold Lynchian reference, though, these everyday objects feel so much more intimate, personal, and meaningful than just another Twin Peaks mug for the dorky display case. Imagine rubbing that table saw where Lynch’s own hands did…caressing it…petting it…

Ahem…Now, the table saws are both already at $900 with the auction going live later in June. That’s already above my meager freelancer budget. Usually in these instances, I fantasize about theft, my klepto spidey senses whirring. But why not try another tactic that is already being used to justify bad behavior and get what you want using Lynch’s memory? Natasha Lyonne, in a recent New York Magazine interview, plucked out an anecdote from a conversation she claims to have had with Lynch a year ago about AI in order to attempt to quell the backlash against her new AI venture:

“‘Natasha,’ he said. ‘This is a pencil.’ Everyone has access to a pencil, and likewise, everyone with a phone will be using AI, if they aren’t already. ‘It’s how you use the pencil,’ he told her. ‘You see?’”

I don’t know if this exchange happened, or if it did, what Lynch intended to mean with the pencil lecture. But I do know that it’s a tad unfair to publish this quote without being able to check with Lynch himself to see if the dead guy really meant that! Convenient! But why fight it? If Natasha can use questionably recalled quotes from Lynch, so can I. David told me that he wishes for me to have his table saw. And you know what? I’m just remembering…he also told me he wants me to have all of this other stuff too:

Three ‘Mr. Coffee’ coffee makers

I used to have a Mr. Coffee-brand coffee maker before I decided to ruin the environment with my wasteful Keurig that is so old it makes a grinding sound as loud as an industrial drill when I turn it on in the morning. Still, what I mostly remember of my Mr. Coffee machine was its artful production of a leaky river of brown sludge that flowed all over my countertops. Yet, when I look at the vast array of “damn fine cup of coffee” options on offer in the David Lynch Collection, it’s these humble Mr. Coffee makers that call to me. Not that snotty espressso maker crap. While I don’t need all three of them, I’ll give them all the sniff test and keep the one that smells the strongest of singed, old coffee stains.

Fog machine

I’m not a photographer, or a director, or a lighting engineer. I don’t know what I’d do with Lynch’s cameras, camcorders, tripods, stage lights, or C-stands, even if they have Lynch’s coveted fingerprints all over them. But, I could always use a fog machine! Sure, I have no role on the stage, but why limit myself? I’ll stage dramatic entrances and exits while doing mundane daily tasks! Why not let a vampiric fog roll into the bodega before appearing through the mist to order a bacon, egg, and cheese? Or feel like you’re about to belt “Music of the Night” with the Phantom of the Opera while waiting in line for the self-checkout at Target? To be honest, I don’t really know what Lynch was doing with it either. The only thing missing is a confetti cannon!

Megaphone

Just because I’m not a director doesn’t mean I can’t also holler “Go dreamy!” through one of the very same megaphones that David used to project his nasal honk when giving his always enigmatic commands on set. There are several megaphones to choose from, so I’m going to go with the one amusingly called “Vixen Horns.” So sultry! In addition to yelling Lynch quotes, I’ll probably also deliriously attempt Azealia Banks’s “Yung Rapunxel.” BRRRRRRR-BRRP-BRRRP-BRRRP!

This collection of books

There are many, many literary options in this sale–books about art, books about design, books about movies, books about woodworking, books, books, books. While I have a partiuclar passion for sticking my greasy fingers all over fellow bibliophiles’ bookshelves to see what I can find out about their tastes and perversions, I don’t know if Julien’s Auctions is trying to fuck with us or what, but some of the lots divvying up Lynch’s library pair covet-worthy finds with books I’d immediately toss into the free library at a community garden. Yes, I’d like a collection of True Crime Detective Magazines, but does it have to come at the staggering cost of now owning a copy of Ben Folds’s memoir? I would love two of theosophical loon Helena Blavatsky’s books, but you can stock Chicken Soup for the Soul right onto the Salvation Army shelf where it belongs. I also hesitate to take too many books, considering I now have a library stacked on every free surface in my apartment. That being said, here is one gynormous pile that I cannot deny myself, given some of its curiosity-piquing morbid topics like the brick The Black Dahlia Files and whatever the hell Life in a Mental Hospital is. A quick Google for Access Denied: For Reasons of National Security describes it as “the documented journey from CIA mind control slave to successful U.S. government whistleblower.” CIA mind control slave?! Sold! And hey, maybe the gigantic Wilhelm Reich bio will finally explain his masturbation box! Plus, even though it would, naturally, be a duplicate in my library, David told me he thought it would be perfect for Filthy Dreams to put our sweaty palms all over his copy of John Waters’s Crackpot. Filth and Dreams!

Medical books

I promised myself I wouldn’t be greedy and would only take one lot of books from Lynch’s extensive collection. But how much sacrifice can one person take? I want to learn more about the tools and techniques of execution! And read all about the guillotine! Plus, the weathered Oral Diagnosis book reminds me of all the ramblings about tooth decay and plaque in perhaps Lynch’s most perplexing song, “Strange and Unproductive Thinking.”

Vintage Halliwell Violet Ray Medical Quack Device

Since I’ll become an amateur doctor after studying up on Lynch’s medical textbooks, let’s toss in this vintage violet ray device, too! Given that RFK Jr. is now at the helm of Health and Human Services, isn’t it about time to return to the snuggly comfort of quackery and snake oil? You never know…maybe Nikola Tesla had the right idea with this violet ray shit! After venturing through a deep online rabbit hole, I discovered an ancient instruction booklet for a violet ray machine that boasts: “The Violet Ray is a pleasant, effective means of applying the wonderful power of electricity to the human body without pain, sensation or shock, and is without an equal in relieving pain and congestion, stimulating the circulation and restoring good health, vigor and youth.” Ok! More specifically, the violet ray device can supposedly erase wrinkles, brush away dandruff, get rid of acne, and, my favorite, develop your bust! More recently, on a YouTube video demonstrating the device in use, one enthusiastic commenter offered their own testimonial: “These things are incredible. It killed my tooth cavity, helps my acne, relieves my mother’s arthritis pain, helps my asthma, and is restoring my father’s hair color. I can’t understand why they aren’t as popular in the U.S. and UK as they are in Russia.” They’re right. Why aren’t these sold via TV infomercials? Here, hold still while I try to shock away your dandruff!

76 records

You might assume that I want this hoard of records because of the perfectly Lynchian inclusions of Elvis, Bobby Vinton, Chris Isaak, and Roy Orbison. Or that I’d take all 76 to discover what the fuck “Hot Man Pussy” sounds like. But, I want this record haul for one album and one album alone: Lynch’s very own copy of The B-52’s underrated Mesopotamia. *gasp* LOOOOOOOOOOOVE-LAAAAAAAAAAAND! I mourn his death even more now that I know we could have at one time debated the benefits of pineapple upside down cake vs. chocolate devil’s food cake when karaoking “Cake”! Turn your watch, turn your watch back!

Socks for Bobby

Of all the Twin Peaks crap on sale–the Black Lodge red curtain and ziggy-zaggy carpet, the photograph of the nuclear bomb explosion in Gordon Cole’s office in The Return, a lamp, armfuls of T-shirts, posters, and BluRays, I yearn for this Robert Rauschenberg-like assemblage of socks, labeled “Socks for Bobby.” Presumably, these socks were meant for moody hearthrob turned cop, Bobby Briggs, but can you really be sure? As much as I’d like to spend my time perfecting my existentially shattering Laura Palmer scream in the Black Lodge repro, these hangers of socks are the enduring mystery that I never want solved.

Handmade wood “creations”

Speaking of mysteries, what the fuck are these? I may never figure it out, but I want ’em!

Log stools

While I’m drawn to the flying saucer lamps in the previous lot, I don’t need six of them. I also don’t need four of these log stools, but their staunch rusticness pleases me. Did Lynch steal them from the rooms at the Blue Pine Lodge? They also appear excruciatingly, agonizingly uncomfortable. I can feel my ass cheeks cramping and then mercifully fading to sheer numbness just looking at them. And there’s not even enough room to shift. These stools are cut trees’ method of enacting their painful revenge on humankind!

Shop vac

“That’s David LYNCH’s shop vac!” I boast to my super with too-bright eyes and a menacingly wide grin.

Stocking and Christmas cards

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, the only creature that was stirring was David Lynch, who said: “Emily, this is a stocking. It’s how you use the stocking. You see?” I do, David! And I’ll use the stocking year-round, whether Santa is coming to town to shoot through the chimney or not!

Ukulele

Remember the rotten infestation of hipster ukulele-ing in the 2000s? I recall going to Rockaway Beach one summer, only to be tonally tortured by a girl strumming a ukulele at her disinterested boyfriend. Fucking aughts Brooklyn, am I right? If you missed it, count yourself lucky. The twee still gives me twitches. But, the vibrant shade of blue on this Lynchian ukulele reminds me of Blue Velvet, both the movie and the song, the latter of which I’ll strive like hell to play to the unending horror of anyone unlucky enough to be within hearing distance. Be grateful. At least I’m not lusting after the trumpet.

Ironing boards

Because I don’t mind if my clothes are a tad rumpled, I don’t own an iron or an ironing board. I just have one of those cheap little steamers from Walmart that work well enough to not come off in public like a total wrinkly degenerate, who balls up barely dried shirts and jams them into a drawer. But all that would change if I could slap down a cool $600 on these two David Lynch ironing boards. There’s no way these ironing boards don’t reek of Lynch’s lifetime of chain smoking, right? I could smooth out and bake that stale, decades-upon-decades of nicotine-stained smoke stench into my clothes. An added atmospheric bonus for a nonsmoker!

Patio furniture

I don’t have a patio, but that’s not going to stop me from finding somewhere to put David Lynch’s worn-looking patio furniture, even if it means clearing out my couch and kitchen table. No problem! I can eat while lazing! Worth it considering they remind me of the stringy strands tying together loungers on the deck of chlorine headache-inducing, sweaty indoor pools at trashy motels.

Happy sheepie surrealist collage

While some may yearn for the big-name artists like Man Ray, Lynch surely would want to bestow upon me this surrealist collage by an unknown artist wherein a pair of disembodied hands appear to give a disarmingly cheerful sheepie a vaccine. Look at his little grin! He’s so happy!

Poster haul

I really require only one of the posters in this massive set, but if I must, I’ll take them all, just for the unsettled unease of “A Spineless Chicken Shit.” I mean, what?! The distressing image of a chopped chicken head rammed on…God knows…a giant turd? jumbled intestines?…is disturbing enough, raising almost as many handwringing questions as the creation of the Eraserhead Baby. In fact, its existence in this odd black-and-white universe also recalls the industrial dystopia of Lynch’s first cult feature. Yet, after gulping down my fear of the chicken shit, it’s plodding lot in life is kind of relatable. Hey, I, too, move sullenly through my own desolate environment! I wish I knew the story behind this artwork, but it’s almost better that I don’t. It keeps the mystery alive, just like Lynch would insist.

Tony Bassett No. 1 Electronics Theremin

In 2010, Grinderman, Nick Cave and co.’s horny midlife crisis rock band, selected a unique opener to much of the audience’s dismay: Armen Ra, otherwise referred to by other Nick Cave fanatics, as “Theremin Guy.” In what was still possibly the strangest opening performance I’ve ever witnessed, Ra squeaked, squealed, and squirked through classics like “The Godfather Theme.” As much as my enjoyment was mostly misanthropically reveling in the pain of those around me, Ra eventually won me over through a heartfelt extraterrestrial tribute to operatic alien idol Klaus Nomi. Which would have been a better direction for the show to begin with, rather than massacring “Ave Maria” at a piercing pitch. Like Nomi, the theremin feels like an intergalactic instrument left behind after a UFO invasion. Some theremin makers clearly understand this, as seen on this Tony Bassett creation, which includes a label describing it as a “Space Trip Passport.” This theramin not only offers an intergalactic fast pass, but according to the same label, it can also provide “pain relief and healing.” Sure! Apparently, users can wear it on their forehead “for relaxation and meditation,” or apply it to other body parts that need relief, which will coincidentally also be the forehead for the migraine that this instrument is sure to cause! A quick note: Armen Ra, years later, also put out a theremin Christmas album that is worth a spin for a punishing holiday party!

DumbLand voice transformer

I somehow never encountered David Lynch’s DumbLand series until after his death, when I spent time scouring the Internet for anything and everything Lynch-related. DumbLand was a bizarro and deliriously crude experimental cartoon series in the style of early 00s Internet like eBaum’s World and, my preferred, B3Ta (remember that? I recently looked it up and miraculously it still exists. A time capsule for rapidly aging millennials!). Think Salad Fingers, but rather than a monstrous creature, DumbLand centers on Randy, a grumbling oaf, and his hysterical yakking wife and alien-resembling child as they get into domestic hijinks like yelling “F.U. stamplicker” at the mailman and trying and brutally failing to help a man with a stick caught in his mouth. Like The Straight Story, I have no excuse for missing DumbLand for so long; I was at the right age to enjoy this mindless animated proto-brain rot. So I have to make up for lost time by using the voice transformer to recite Wife’s nagging, wordless ranting, over and over, as penance. YAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYA!

Lunchbox with trinkets

Fine, I’ll permit the history buffs to scamper away with David Lynch’s piece of the Berlin wall and two Civil War bullets that just may have been lodged in a poor soldier’s skull. As much as I’d be proud to own those ghoulish trophies, they wouldn’t bring me as much pleasure as this gathering of gewgaws stuffed into a metal lunchbox. This box reminds me of Andy Warhol’s Time Capsules and David Wojnarowicz’s Magic Box. Instead of mystical woo like David W. or grabbing anything around him, including a pizza crust, and shoving it into a cardboard box like hoarder Andy, Lynch filled his lunchpail with appropriately Americana tack: A “God Bless America” button, a toy car, a B.B. King pin, a Christmas ornament, and an errant light bulb. I understand Lynch may not have arranged these tidbits at all or, if he did, he may not have done so with the same intentionality as David W. or Andy W. Still, this crap collection means something, even if it’s just to me. I want to know what that jumble of dirt is in the right-hand corner! And for fun: tag yourself. I’m the headless Daffy Duck.

Exercise bike

I have never had a gym membership in my life. I refuse. All those sweaty other people? No, thank you! I’m a daily runner because my chosen antisocial exercise is to flee other people. As committed as I am to running, I question this decision every year during the coldest and hottest months. The latter is coming up stiflingly fast as I huffed, puffed, and strained through several breathless, steamy, humid runs this week. I see an escape, though, with my new David Lynch exercise bike! David told me he wants me to have this bike so I don’t pass out in a pile of dog shit or slide ass in the mid-winter ice from now on.

Winkie’s menus

David Lynch told me that despite my poo-pooing of movie memorabilia in the introduction, he wanted me to take these nostalgic 1950s-style diner menus from Mulholland Drive. And you know what? Who am I to argue?! Maybe I will construct my very own David Lynch-themed Planet Hollywood in my apartment. What attracts me to these menus is that Lynch, ever detail-oriented, didn’t just produce the outside of the prop menu with a blank interior. You can actually read the menu and dream about what you’d like to order before tiptoing out to the dumpster to be startled into an early grave by the grubby Dumpster Lady! I’m debating between the Cinnamon Swirl French Toast and the Pigs in a Blanket. With a cup of black coffee, of course!

“Dune” Production Office Vintage Telephone

I mean, obviously. I can hear him bleating out, “Hold the phone!” just staring at the photo.