My friend Candace is a woman of many skills, among them cooking, catering -- often at huge rock 'n' roll venues, and making me laugh. She recently had the following dream: It's short.
In the carnival atmosphere of a backstage catering gig, she finds Dick Cheney's cell phone in the pocket of her trench coat. Hillary is on the speed dial. Candace checks messages and overhears Hillary saying. "Don't worry, we'll play ball, we won't go after you for crimes. . . "
Suddenly she's caught with the phone, and is being chased by Dick Cheney's Blackwater thugs. The person who saves her is smarmy pop singer Justin Timberlake.
She wakes up. "Well, that was a dream about people I really don't like."
Amen to that. Me, I dreamed that a small baby was being gently warmed in a marinara sauce. Warmed, as in, helping him to get warm, not warmed, as in preparation for being served on a bed of fettucine. Still, pret-ty creepy, and I'm trying not to read too much into it.