The Blue Grotto

I Have Failed My Readers in the "Dreams" Dept.!

     Last night I awoke with a jolt at about 4:00 a.m., heart pounding and full of terror!  I knew immediately that I had awoken right as a strange species of snow-white fox had attacked me in the dream, and then the rest of the dream started spinning around in my head.  Whenever I make myself actually get out of bed, find a pencil, and write down a dream, it's a good one, because anyone who knows me at all knows that I place a premium value on my sleep.  So, last night I said to myself, "This dream could be one of the weirdest" and jotted down what I thought would be enough notes to bring back the sequence in full clarity this morning.  Much to my dismay, when I glanced over the sheet of paper upon rising, most of the notes meant absolutely nothing to me.  I must have only been about 50% awake.  I do remember, unfortunately, that it was a crazy dream.  Oh, well, next time I may dictate into a tape recorder.  Here are the notes I scribbled down in my half-awake state (with some accompanying images added for your enjoyment):

-  "Greek newspaper"

-  "Larry Kudlow"

-  "translator, printer"

-  "Alec Guinness"

-  "Cannon Mt."

-  "white fox"

Protecting My Rare Gazelle from the Evil Designs of Matthew Broderick. . .

     Although I wake up every few nights or so with a bizarre dream running through my head, it's been some time since I've had the energy to rise and write one down before it disappears.  Two nights ago, I awoke in a panic with this winner:

.

     I had watched the Sunday night 60 Minutes segment about the genocide in Rwanda and obviously had visions of Africa and machetes swirling around my head.

     Parenthetically, I read a chilling book a couple years ago called Machete Season: The Killers in Rwanda Speak, by a French reporter named Jean Hatzfeld, who interviewed, over a period of a few months, a group of about ten of the imprisoned Hutu killers.  It is one of the most horrifying nightmares of evil I have ever come across, mainly due to the matter-of-fact way in which the killers discuss the daily schedule of killing.  During the months of genocide, the killers would rise in the morning, as they normally would to prepare for a day's work, grab their machetes, and venture out for a day of hacking up their neighbors.  At the end of the day, they would return to the village for beers and dinner before returning to the killing fields the next day.

     Back to my dream:  I am encamped in an African savanna setting, where I am being hosted by a local guide and his men.  I seem to be some sort of scientist who has discovered the remains of a special, previously-unknown species of gazelle, and I have the fossilized remains of said beast in the bathtub of my rooms in the little camp. 

An African savanna

     As evening falls, a sense of dread spreads over me, as I suspect that my archnemesis-archaeologist, Matthew Broderick, has learned of the discovery and is planning to strike. 

Archnemesis Matthew Broderick

     My situation is exactly like that of Indiana Jones as he repeatedly lands at the sites of priceless treasures only to have his foe, Belloq, steal the artifacts. 

Belloq, thorn in the side of Indiana Jones

     Dusk sets in, and my terror deepens; I realize that my guide is likely on Broderick's payroll, and that I can expect treachery and betrayal this very evening.  I know from his reputation that Matthew Broderick will stop at nothing to get his hands on this breakthrough discovery I've made.

     I decide that I must face the coming challenge head-on, so I grab my machete and walk out into the camp's clearing. 

My machete

     I see my duplicitous guide's men lurking in the shadows and realize that the moment of truth is approaching fast.  Suddenly, Matthew Broderick himself appears and comes toward me, brandishing his own machete.  I pause, and when he is about ten feet from me, I spring into action, dodging one swipe by him and striking back with a lightning-quick, fatal blow to Broderick's neck.  As my nemesis collapses into a lifeless heap, I realize that by killing him I have earned the fear and respect of my guide and his band of mercenaries.  All is safe.  The rare gazelle will now be preserved for posterity.

Fossilized gazelles

     I load my things, including the fossilized skeleton, into a little boat on a lake and set off for the other side.   

Hitting the Links at Myopia with Kim Jong Il. . .

     I had a dream last night in which I was the omniscient observer, not a participant.  In the dream, my buddies Coleman and R.T. were on an important business trip, entertaining some big potential investors over a round of golf at the storied Myopia Hunt Club course.  The catch, however, was that Myopia's course was in North Korea.  In the dream, I know there were a bunch of North Korean villains on the course with Coleman and R.T., wearing those funny little pantsuits that Kim Jong Il likes to sport.  I'm not sure if Kim himself was in the two foursomes, but I like to think he was. . . .

A Painting of Golf at Myopia

     When I alerted R.T. and Coleman to the dream this morning by email, here's what they wrote back:

     R.T.:  "I thought I saw one of those Myopia horn logos on Kim's pajama uniform on CNN last night."

Here's the logo R.T.'s talking about:

     Coleman:  "Heard the Jonger's not too long off the tee but he's got a mean short game."

 

Above is a marionette version of Kim Jong Il wearing his favorite outfit, from the movie Team America - World Police.

Re-Raising with the Surf 'N Turf Nut Flush Draw. . .

     I am at the moment emerging from the happy side of my recent cold, but my weird medicines decided to put in a last push for attention last night as I slept.  Here's the dream:

     Drew Berkery and I are strolling around some sort of wedding reception.  We head straight for the gigantic buffet.  There, it becomes clear to me that it's not just a buffet.  It's a poker game in which different dishes of food correspond to different hands.

     It's a little unclear as to how exactly the game is played, but what I know is that certain entrees beat other entrees.  I find myself at the end of the buffet line with a big plate featuring a delicious tenderloin wrapped around some yummy lobster chunks. 

Surf 'N Turf with Shrimp (mine was with Lobster)

I realize that this dish corresponds to what would be an ace and another card of the same suit, or what is called a "nut flush draw".  When you find yourself holding this hand, and then after the "flop" (where the first three community cards are dealt face-up) you see two more cards of the same suit as the two in your hand, this means that if one of the two remaining cards to come is also of that suit, you will end up with five cards of the same suit, otherwise known as a flush.  Since you have the ace of that suit, you will have the highest possible flush, or "nut flush". 

The "Nut Flush"

Also, if the board does not pair, your flush will be unbeatable, assuming there's not a possible straight flush out there (if it does pair, there's always the possibility that someone has a full house or four-of-a-kind).

     So, I'm very excited about my Surf 'N Turf nut flush draw.  Another player (er, diner) raises the pot with a big bet, holding a plate of chicken or something like that, so I make a huge re-raise with my tenderloin and lobster.  I end up winning a nice, big pot.  I'm not sure if I was able to eat the plateful of food afterwards, or if it was merely used in the game. . . .

Trying to See Past Diana Ross's Afro at a Gay Wedding, and Delivering Soccer Balls to the Masai Tribesmen in Kenya. . .

     I have a hunch that my "Bio-Align Wellness Formula Herbal Defense Complex" might be similar to what the CIA gave Tim Robbins in Jacob's Ladder, as my dreams were super-weird for a second night in a row. 

I spent yesterday swallowing thousands of milligrams of Vitamin C, downing tubes of immune-system-boosting pellets, sucking on bland zinc lozenges, and chugging fresh-squeezed Odwalla grapefruit juice (although I do that last bit sick or not, rain or shine). 

     Okay, the scene opens as Gib Dyer, his dad, and I are crammed into a hotel suite with a bunch of other guests at the Peninsula, Beverly Hills, crashing a wedding. 

The Peninsula, B. Hills

We are kneecap-to-kneecap, sitting on folding chairs in the bedroom, trying to see into the living room, where vows are being exchanged.  I'm completely confused, because it looks like the bride and the maid of honor are shoving cake into each others' mouths.  Then I realize that the guy I thought was the groom is just a groomsman (or bridesmaid, I guess), and that the happy couple is in fact the two girls.

     Diana Ross comes sashaying in late with an entourage and sits right in front of me.  She has her hair teased up into a gigantic afro, so I can't see the proceedings anymore. 

Diana Ross sporting afro

     At that point, I excuse myself to take a shower in the suite's bathroom (that's normal, right?), and when I come back out I can't find Gib or his dad.

     All of the sudden I'm waiting for a train in Beverly Farms, Mass.  Jim White, Scott Piper (my old Deltec pals) and I are browsing in the little bookshop across the street from the station as we wait.  When the train finally arrives, outbound from Boston, instead of train cars, it's pulling a string of yellow school buses.  So, along with everyone else, I load up onto one of the buses, but not before glancing under the train/bus to see how it's attached to the tracks.  It looks like a pretty crude setup, as the bus's flat tires are sort of mashed against the rails, hoping to stay attached.

     Now I'm getting out of a helicopter in Kenya, delivering a shipment of soccer balls to a young group of enthusiastic Masai tribesmen and kids.  They seem to really love it!

Masai Tribesmen

     Finally, I'm an omniscient observer as the "camera" of the dream pans back and forth between Kenya and a lovely scene of autumn in Vermont, complete with beautiful changing leaves, as the Mark Knopfler/Dire Straits tune "Going Home" plays in the background. 

Autumn leaves in Vermont

I am somehow able to "rewind" the dream, so I keep watching the nice scene over and over.

Touring a Sinking Russian Sub with Bob Schieffer and Sneaking Into the Death Star's Successor with Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, and Chewbacca. . .

     I woke up yesterday morning with the strong conviction that the flu was knocking on my door.  I reluctantly skipped yoga and consulted my cousin Pam for the best way to launch an all-out counter-assault on an attacking flu.  I find myself calling Pam often for all sorts of tips like this (e.g. "Pam, I'm standing in Stop & Shop staring at twelve different species of apple.  Which type will deliver to me the most in desired tartness?"). 

     She directed me to the health food store in Beverly Farms, where I picked up some little pellets to swallow, along with some sticky pills that smelled not unlike the day-old headless chipmunks of the type that my parents' cat delivers regularly to their front stoop.  I am keeping the sickness at bay, but I'm pretty sure that the main side effect last night was my dream synapses firing off in a thoroughly unregulated fashion.  I woke up this morning feeling as if my overnight brain had been a gross of bottle-rockets soaked in gasoline and lit.

     We begin on a Russian nuclear submarine.

Russian nuclear sub

The bearded Russian captain is giving a tour to CBS anchor Bob Schieffer and me.  However, Schieffer weighs about 300 lbs., and he's wearing a comfortable rose-colored sweatshirt and acid-washed jeans. 

CBS anchor Bob Schieffer

Also unusual is the fact that there seems to be a major leak that is going undiscussed (collision? torpedo?); the water is up to our necks, and nobody seems to be too bothered about it.  By the way, the interior of the sub is actually the interior of Copley Hall, an old dorm on the Georgetown campus. 

Copley Hall, Georgetown University

This is weird to begin with, but it's also strange because I've never even been in Copley (it's one of those creepy dorms that none of your friends, or friends' friends, or friends' friends' friends lived in). 

     Next, I'm in a ski lodge with John Seitz, and he's taking me through a secret passageway to a subterranean set of rooms sort of like the place on Mars where Arnold Schwarzenegger meets Quato in Total Recall. 

Instead of encountering a rebel leader emerging from the chest of a freedom fighter, we just sat around with some preppy kid on threadbare sofas and couches.  It felt like an old common room at a boarding school dorm.  Although the little suite was secret, there were housekeepers cleaning up everywhere, so I guess they knew about it.

     In a flash I'm on a yacht, cruising into the harbor at Ithaca, Greece with my pal Marty Marcus. 

Ithaca

Unfortunately, the harbor is packed with gigantic, cheesy cruised ships, overflowing with windbreaker- and fanny-pack-adorned tourists.  Not all I had hoped.

Cheesy cruise ship

     Finally, I find myself on the Millenium Falcon with Luke Skywalker, Han Solo, and Chewbacca.  We're talking original, Episode IV, 1977 stuff here.  We somehow sneak the spaceship into a Death Star-like fortress. 

The Millenium Falcon

I found myself wondering how we got past the security, and I figured that we probably had a 30% chance of success and had made it.  Next, we had to disembark, wrap our legs around cables that were literally miles long, and slide headfirst down, miles and miles deeper into the floating city.

     Well, that's it!

Flubbing the Low Hand, and Arms-Trafficking with Nick Trotman

     Well, here's the condensed version of last night's dream.  I wrote out a long, detailed version in which I explained the rules of the particular poker game that was being played in the dream, as well as listed in detail the weapons that were for sale, but I somehow lost the whole thing - totally vaporized in the ether.  Oh, well, you might have been bored by it anyway.  The interesting thing about this dream was the extreme numerical detail; the numbers and addresses seemed critically important.  Here's the dream:

.

     It's Poker Night, but rather than playing in Manchester, Essex or Gloucester like we normally do, I was sitting around a nice poker table in a giant loft in Manhattan with Scott Falk, Will Warren, Nick Trotman, Jay Sweet and Josh Adams (our regular group). 

A Poker Table

     Scott had dealt out a game of "Auction".  In a nutshell, this is one of our "wealth-redistribution" games, i.e. massive pots develop and big sums of money slosh around the table.  In this game, the best hand and the worst hand split the pot.  There are many nuances that allow for deceptive posturing and painful pot-peppering at opportune moments.

     In this particular game, I had managed to build the "perfect" low hand during the course of the auction (in which players bid on cards that are sequentially turned face-up on the table).  The perfect low hand is Ace-2-3-4-6 (Ace-2-3-4-5 would be a straight, so it's not a low hand).  I started firing huge bets at the pot, knowing that I was guaranteed a split, but when the game was almost over I looked down and saw that somehow another Six had appeared in my hand, giving me a pair of sixes.  I ended up losing all of my money in that pot.

     This disaster faded quickly in my memory as Nick Trotman and I had to boogie up to Spanish Harlem in a cab to make a top-secret small-arms buy from some Russian arms dealers.  We arrived at a big third-floor, walk-up loft on the southeast corner of 138th St. and Third Avenue. 

Spanish Harlem

     We presented some I.D. to a bouncer-type goon at the front door, hiked up the stairs, and spilled out into a wide-open room where tables covered with pistols, Uzis, assault rifles, grenades and mines lined the perimeter.  It looked like an "Evil Silent Auction".

Glock Pistols

Uzi

Grenade

Night Vision Goggles

Land Mine

Rocket Launcher

     A staff of Russian waitresses served us cold pasta salad (my least favorite food - nothing brings me down like a pasta salad) on paper plates, along with ginger ale.  Very low-rolling.  Nick and I weren't the only customers there, and we soon got separated.  Everyone seemed to be wondering where the villain/arms dealer was, but we just milled around for a while.

A Pretty Depressing Pasta Salad (My Least Favorite Food)

     Soon, my cell phone buzzed, and I remember seeing that it was a "904" area code.  [Note: This morning I googled 904 and it's Jacksonville, FL.  Hmmm, whatever. . . . ]  It was Nick calling to say that our rendezvous point had been switched to the back room of a Chinese restaurant down in Murray Hill (the East '30s of Manhattan). 

     I hopped in a cab (after hanging out at a Mobil station for a little while on the northwest corner of 138th/Third) and barreled downtown.  At one point we crossed a bridge that was about a mile long and hundreds of feet over the East River.

     Anyway, I met Nick outside the Chinese restaurant, we checked to make sure we had the cash ready, and then we ventured in to purchase our list of arms.

A New York Chinese Restaurant    

     Fade to black. . . .

    

Whale-Watching Off Sydney with Joe Paterno and the "Hanses"

     Here's the latest from the Dream Files:  It's a beautiful day in Sydney, Australia. 

Sydney Harbor

I'm aboard a state-of-the-art hydrofoil, speeding out of the harbor with Trent Smither, Chris Lorenz, a bunch of tourists, Joe Paterno, the legendary football coach of the Penn State Nittany Lions, and a few others I'll name in a moment. 

Joe Paterno

As the Opera House fades behind us, we approach our destination, an area a few miles out where we'll be observing some humpback whales [NOTE:  This portion of the dream can be explained by a great day tuna-fishing off of Cape Ann, Massachusetts a few weeks ago with Chris Lorenz, during which we came up a little light in the fish department but ended up seeing a beautiful family of whales lazily crusing around.]

Humpback Whales

     As we zip around in the hydrofoil, Trent Smither breaks out one of those old, 1980s-style satellite phones (you know, the type that Gordon Gekko yaps into in Wall Street as he strolls the dunes in front of his cheesy Hamptons beach house). 

Gordon Gekko on his clunky satellite phone

Trent is anxiously calling the Athletic Department at Exeter (where both he and I went to high school), explaining to them that he'll be a little late delivering a group of four German exchange students to campus.  See, Trent has identified four young soccer stars, all named Hans, and he's arranged for them to attend Exeter as PGs (post-graduates), where they'll boost the caliber of the soccer program.

Exeter's campus

  However, all four Hanses are enjoying a whale watch in Sydney, rather than reporting to their new digs in New Hampshire, so Trent is trying to smooth the ruffled feathers of the Exeter authorities.

     As usual, at this point the dream sort of fades out.  I hope Trent's recruits went on to help Exeter win!

Tracking Edgar Stiles by Handheld GPS while Going Undercover in Keenan Ivory Wayans' Toronto Blue Jays Uniform

     Okay, here's the latest from the dream files.  In the dream, I'm living in a tiny little house, diagonally across the street from the house in which I grew up in Beverly Farms, Massachusetts.  One day, John Amorosi arrives on my doorstep, sporting long, stringy hair (in real life, Amo did start wearing his hair a little longer once he made partner - you know, that look that says, "Yes, I might look like the next guy in a business suit at first, but you can tell from my longish locks that I am powerful enough to do as I please!").  He urgently instructs me to grab my stuff, as we're needed for an important secret mission. 

     I grab my duffel bag, like the one Jack Bauer always seemed to have with him this past season on 24, and we're out the door.  We regroup at a top-secret staging area next to a streambed across the street from my childhood house.  It's sort of like the place where James Bond receives the latest gadgets from Q in the Bond movies. 

Q and James Bond

     We are directed into a little office down the block, where it becomes clear that our mission will be to track down Edgar Stiles, who has been kidnapped (for you non-24-watching types, Edgar is the brilliant, portly, computer genius underling of Chloe O'Brien at CTU headquarters - he ran into some serious difficulty, to say the least, last season). 

Edgar Stiles of CTU

     Amo and I rifle through a rack of Toronto Blue Jays uniforms, which for some reason are a critical part of our tactical strategy.  These uniforms, by the way, are indeed the uniforms for the baseball team, although they are actually basketball uniforms. 

I find one with built-in kevlar armor that fits well, and I'm told that this particular uniform belongs to Keenan Ivory Wayans.

Keenan Ivory Wayans

     Amo and I set off, running down Oak Street, following Edgar's trail using handheld GPS tracking devices.  We take a left onto Hale Street and close in on our target.  In an alleyway behind a large house we arrive at the blipping dot representing Edgar, but it turns out to be a cat.  False alarm.

     So, we head out again, and when we pass Kirsten Ames' house (a girl I went to school with from first grade through ninth grade, and haven't seen since about 1985), Amo tells me to hold up for a moment.  He reaches behind a concealed area in Kirsten's driveway and retrieves two large cheesesteak subs that he had been hiding there for a rainy day! 

A Philly Cheesesteak Sub

     Well done, Amo!  As usual, fade to black . . .

Christopher Moltisanti Takes a Ride with the Grim Reaper!

Last night takes the cake as far as vivid dreams go.  This one even had a very distinct soundtrack by The Doors accompanying the Sopranos portion!

     The dream started on the first day of my first semester at

Georgetown, outside of Darnell, my freshman dorm. 

Georgetown University

There was a long line of students snaking down the steps, through the next dorm, and along by the student center.  I investigated the front of the line, found out that everyone was waiting to buy textbooks, figured this was quite unnecessary (that assumption is based in fact, by the way), and moved on.  As I approached the Leavey Center, where I was headed to get a bite to eat, I noticed a bunch of people I knew also heading that direction, but they were all dressed up in their Sunday best.  I caught up with my friends Jay Sweet and Sally Horchow.  Jay was wearing a honey-colored double-breasted Italian suit (I would pay a lot of money to see him in one in real life), and Sally was dressed in a floral-print dress and wide-brimmed hat, as if she were headed to an English summer wedding.  I learned from them that they were coming from a funeral, but I never really got the low-down on who the unlucky person was. 

     Next thing I know, I’m waiting in a cafeteria line in the student center with a plastic tray.  I saw Freddy and Lindsey Jones come in with their children, Mackenzie and Oliver, so I invited them to join me in line.  In real life, Mackenzie is about three-and-a-half, and Oliver is only months old, but in the dream they were around ten and seven.  We all proceeded towards the checkout, where I ran into some problems.  I needed to stock up on liquids for some reason, and I surveyed the iced bins full of different juices and flavored waters.  Not only did I not recognize the brands, but the bottles were only about five ounces each, and I was incredibly thirsty.  So, after a long, stressful period of trying to choose, I took two each of around five different strange brands and paid the cashier. 

     Now it gets weird!  I’ll preface this by saying that last night was the mid-season finale of the Sopranos, so the origin of the rest of the dream is obvious.  By the way, last night’s episode was excellent.  It was the kind I was pleading for in my post of a month or so ago.

     My point of view quickly changed from that of participating character to omniscient narrator.  All of the sudden, I was looking down the wide, long hood of a vintage blue Cadillac convertible as it sped down Beverly Drive in Beverly Hills.  This is the section of road that you will recognize in countless films. You know, the one with the tall, skinny palm trees lining each side.  Seated on the back hood, with their feet on the back seat, were Christopher Moltisanti and Adrianna La Cerva, with Adrianna being very much alive and well, but with platinum-blonde hair.

Christopher Moltisanti

  There was a little child between them.  I couldn’t tell who was driving.  The Doors song “Take It As It Comes” was blaring as the dream soundtrack (quite in keeping with the Sopranos’ tendency toward classic rock), and as Christopher and Adrianna laughed, with the wind blowing their hair, Jim Morrison belted out the line:

“Time to walk,

Time to run.

Time to aim your arrows

At the sun.”

     Now it got really weird.  The “film” of the dream speeded way up, sort of like in "Airplane" when Robert Stack is driving to the airport and they speed up the backdrop to about 100 mph (you know, and all the cowboys and Indians ride by, etc.).  I realized I was witnessing Christopher and Adrianna’s life go by, and all of the sudden she was wearing a full nun’s habit and grew to about thirty feet tall.  Then, the little child quickly grew up and turned into a thirty-foot-tall Grim Reaper, complete with sickle.

The Grim Reaper

   As the Doors song continued, the dream faded out . . . .

Trying to Capture an Enemy Guerilla Mastermind with Phil Ivey . . .

     Last night I hit the sack around midnight.  At exactly 1:50 a.m. I awoke, terrified but thankful to realize that yes, I had in fact been dreaming.  It was my latest war dream.  I'm starting to think that my posting of some dreams on this site has gotten the juices flowing in a sort of self-reinforcing circle of dream activity.

     So, there I was, crouching in the bushes on a dense hillside similar to the type you would find in the canyons of Malibu or the Hollywood Hills.  I was part of a covert insertion team sent to capture an enemy guerilla mastermind.  I'm not clear on exactly what the conflict was, but whoever "we" were, we were fighting a war in our own land against a formidable foe.  Our special forces team leader was Phil Ivey.  For those of you who have not lately brushed up your familiarity of the world's poker elite, Phil Ivey is considered by many top poker players to be the best player in the world.

Phil Ivey

     We crept closer to a hilltop house, the kind of tropical house with the indoor/outdoor living room, etc.  Somehow we managed to subdue the enemy and take some prisoners, gaining control of the house, which I guess was some sort of guerilla headquarters. 

     I was standing guard on the front porch, looking out over the hills through my binoculars, when I decided to take a peek into the makeshift interrogation room we had set up.  I saw that two of our specialists had bound the sinister guerilla leader to a chair (he was a lot like Christopher Henderson from 24) and were unsuccessfully trying to extract information from him.  However, I soon became concerned when I observed, through a slit in the door, my guys untie him and start talking with him in low tones.  I entered, offering my services.  It became clear immediately that these two supposed compatriots of mine were in cahoots with the enemy, and that I had been betrayed.  I looked around desperately for Phil Ivey, but was told that he had advanced onward to a neighboring hillside. 

     I was now in the clutches of the ruthless enemy.  I looked out into the driveway and saw another of my men, Jorge the First Mate, chatting it up with a beautiful female guerilla, as if they had known each other a long time.  (Note: Jorge was the first mate on a fishing boat I was on a couple of months ago down in Costa Rica.  My buddy Chris Lorenz took a few of us down to a beautiful place he goes each year for unbelievable fishing. Jorge was a local teenager with incredible fish-spotting talents.)  I realized the whole operation had been a trap.

     Pretty soon I was loaded into the back of a pickup truck with some others, and we started the bumpy ride to our next destination, which I could only imagine would be where we would die.  One of my captors, who I had thought was a friend until a few minutes before, took the watch off my wrist, saying, with a smirk, that I wouldn't be needing it anymore. 

     At this point I violently tried to shake myself awake, hoping that it was all just a nightmare.  To my horror, I realized that this was all real, and that I was about to be tortured and killed.  The pickup truck jostled along the dusty road into the distance, and I contemplated how unpleasant the last moments of my life werre to be. . . .

Hailing a Cab with Harrison Ford at the Four Seasons Restaurant Co-Op . . .

     I'm about ready to pay top dollar and engage the services of a dream-analysis psychiatrist, but I think the extent of the expert's conclusions would be something like: "Sorry, Pal, can't help you.  You're just too weird."  This next dream is up there with one that my buddy Terry Brown had a year or two ago around the yuletide season, in which he found himself observing a beautiful Nativity scene.  There at the birth of the baby Jesus in the manger were Mary, Joseph, some cows and donkeys, maybe a camel or two, and Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld.  Anyway . . . .

     So, here we go.  I found myself attending a buzzing cocktail party at the Manhattan House apartment building in New York City.  However, rather than being at its regular location at 65th St. and Third Avenue, the building had found its way to the West 50s. 

Manhattan House apartment building, NYC

One other critical difference was that the building was actually owned by the Four Seasons restaurant (for you non-New Yorkers, this is an old-school restaurant in the Seagram Building that is not affiliated with the hotel chain), and the lobby was decorated exactly in the style of its dining room. 

The Four Seasons Restaurant, NYC

I'd say the lobby was also about 75,000 square feet, and it was covered in a deep burgundy carpet.

     I hung out at the party for a while, and then I headed upstairs to visit my friends Chip and Shelby Burley, who lived in a palatial spread on the upper floors (in reality they've just moved from NYC to Phoenix).  Chip was alone in the apartment, and neither he nor I had eaten, so I offered to run downstairs to a deli and pick up some food.  He said that all he wanted for dinner was three of those tiny ice cream containers that they give to kids in grammar school - the ones with the built-in wooden spoon/paddle-type thing.  He wanted one chocolate, one vanilla, and one strawberry.  I said no problem, and departed by way of his beautiful terrace, which overlooked the interior atrium of the building.  All of the apartments seemed to have lush, plant-filled balconies and terraces interconnected by way of their fire escapes.  I passed through several of these, and on one balcony there was no sign of life, but there were a whole bunch of burning cigarettes sitting there in ashtrays.

     I made my way back down to the lobby.  There were people crisscrossing the vast expanse of burgundy carpet, and I imagined that it would be difficult to ride one's bicycle across the lobby, due to the thickness of the carpeting.  Outside, I got in the cab line to wait for the doorman to hail one for me.  Right in front of me was Harrison Ford, also waiting for a cab. 

Harrison Ford

However, he was about eighty years old, and he had a feeble, weak voice.  A moment later, he cheered up and left the line as he recognized the blue station wagon of Barbara Sears arriving to fetch him.  Barbara Sears is a wonderful older woman from Hamilton, Massachusetts who is sort of a local dignitary around Myopia Hunt Club and Christ Church. 

     That's it!!

Borrowing a Skin-Tight Button-Down from Oscar and Attempting to Get Cash at the Bakers' Neighborhood Bank . . . .

     It had been almost a week since my last weird, pointless dream, so I was not surprised to wake up this morning with the following doozy running through my head:

     It's a Saturday evening in the summertime, and I'm late for some charity black-tie event (preserving some fuzzily-defined wetlands, supporting some regional museum nobody's ever been to, or something to that effect).  As is always the case on this type of weekend, I had evidently tossed my tuxedo and related paraphernalia into my bag in a rush on Friday without, shall we say, running through the detailed mental checklist.  Inevitably, some important accoutrement is missing.  In this instance, my heart sank as I realized that I had forgotten my shirt. 

     Let's back up a moment.  I have no idea why, but in this scene I am staying at a house on Walnut Rd. in Hamilton, Massachusetts.  This is a nice little road connecting Hamilton to Wenham, and I found myself in a house a few hundred yards from the center of town.

     Luckily for me, I remembered that my friends Oscar Anderson and his wife Gillian Blake lived only a few doors down (in real life they live in NYC), so I called Oscar in a panic.  He told me to relax.  They were going on ahead to the gala, but he would leave the door open for me, and I would be welcome to borrow a tux shirt.  I hastened over there, and when I rifled through his shirt collection in a basement closet (this room in Oscar's house, by the way, was my roommates Drew Berkery and Bob DeAngelis's room from our sophomore year house at Georgetown), I found zero tux shirts.  All I had to work with was a skin-tight white button-down Oxford.  Don't ask me what this item of clothing was doing in their house, because Oscar is roughly twice my size, and Gillian is roughly half my size (I have always suspected that she is part Elf).  Anyway, I tugged on the snug, taut shirt and vowed to make the best of it.

     I dashed out to the street to meet up with my friend Ian Griffiths, who fell into the category with me of single-guys-who-are-late.  We started jogging down the middle of Walnut Rd. in our tuxes, but then I remembered that I needed to hit the ATM. 

     Luck was on my side again, because I remembered that my friends James and Andrea Baker lived only a few houses down (they live in L.A. in the real world), and they had recently founded a neighborhood bank.  I knew they operated the bank out of their house, where they lived with their little daughter Fiora, so I bounded up their porch steps, cash card in hand.  The doors were open, but nobody was around, and I found myself wondering if this was the best way to run a bank.  There didn't seem to be any employees, and I couldn't imagine who their customers were. 

     As is usually the case, rather than work up to a frenzied climax and satisfying plot resolution, this dream sort of fizzled out and sputtered to a stop. . . .

House-Hunting in Beverly Hills with an African Despot and Ward Lamborghini . . .

     One of the cheapest forms of entertainment I've ever come across, besides my weekly Poker Night, is my almost-nightly sequence of unimaginably-detailed, farfetched dreams. The level of detail in these visions is frighteningly vivid (sounds, colors, the spelling of names and places).

     Luckily, I no longer suffer from the sorts of nightmares I had as a child. About twice a year, however, I do have to endure a nightmare in which I am the central figure in a deadly combat situation. This started about ten years ago. I found myself commanding a ragtag militia of ten or so American guys, defending the little bit of land left after the United States had been invaded and overrun by China.  We found ourselves peeking out of the windows of a beautiful yellow farmhouse in Vermont, situated in the middle of a wide, open green field, covered in pretty flowers.  Thick woods bordered this field on all sides, and soon my heart sank, as a swarm of tens of thousands of Chinese soldiers rolled like a wave out of the woods, closing in from all sides.  I shouted an order to my men to start firing, but when I looked around, I saw that all of them had been killed, and I was alone. As the mass of soldiers closed in on me, the dream faded to black.

    Similarly, I found myself a few months ago (around the time I was reading a biography of Pol Pot) on my stomach in a Cambodian jungle, trying to stay quiet as a patrol of Khmer Rouge searched high and low for me and the mother-with-child I was trying to help escape.  I saw the Khmer Rouge youngsters in their navy blue tunics and pink scarves all around us.  As with all of these dreams, I awoke in a full cold sweat with my heart pounding at my chest.

    A few nights ago I had a dream of the more routine, but amusing, variety. In it, I was either participating in, or sneaking along behind, a house tour being given to some couples by a metrosexual, sixty-something male real estate broker along Mulholland Drive above Beverly Hills. We saw some decent homes, and finally one of the couples found one that they desperately wanted to buy.

     The real estate broker pulled me aside and said "It's really too bad, since I know that my best client will also like this house, and he takes great pleasure in outbidding unsuspecting buyers."

     "Who's this best client?" I asked.

     "Oh, it's Ward Lamborghini."

     I nodded and pursed my lips, as everyone knew who Ward Lamborghini was: The Wasp/Italian patriarch of the exotic car company who appeared regularly in the society pages. How this character invented himself and invited himself into my dream, I have no idea.

     Later in the house tour, some controversy arose when it became clear that the broker was handling the bid on a $20-30 million property for a mysterious foreign client, who turned out to be the brutal, oppressive dictator of Burkina Faso (formerly Upper Volta), the African country of 14 million citizens nestled between Ghana, Cote d'Ivoire and Mali.  I don't know where all that came from.  I don't even know if the real head of state is a dictator or a democracy-embracing reformer, but in the dream he was an Idi Amin-esque monster with a dismal human rights record. The broker certainly wanted to close the deal, but I think the neighbors were rather non-plussed.