Kathleen, Lael and I were eating in a pub when Officer D*** walked in. We didn’t exactly want him to join us for some reason; I think Kathleen harbored a grudge or something. We were almost done eating and I didn’t want to sit there longer while he ordered something with his friends and we watched them eat just to be polite, perhaps intimidated because, well, they’re cops. So I hid in my napkin. He walked by and tossed a $100 bill on the table for us: my napkin disguise was not clever enough. Damn. But we ended up with an extra $100 bucks, which I pocketed and continued to eat my chips, er, fries.

We were then at a party in the afternoon. We had been split up into eight groups - I was in group eight - to go participate in a battle of the bands-type thing. I went outside and got into a 1930s-ish hot rod, gunmetal gray with black tape making an intriguing pattern on it. Inside was a band that looked like a combination between Interpol and Motorhead. Also sitting in the front seat was Heather H from high school. The seats were white and smooth leather, like Matt’s old car Darlene.

The lead singer/driver informed me that we had to do a Simon and Garfunkel song. Looking at Heather and thinking back at how often the two of us had been compared (we were both pale, smart, and somewhat outspoken — the same boys thought us pretty), I suggested “Bookends.” Then I asked why we had to do a Simon and Garfunkel song. The lead singer/driver suddenly had Art Garfunkel hair — he ran his fingers over (not through — that might loosen it too much) and said, “I do a mean Art Garfunkel.” I asked if anyone had a chicken costume to do Paul Simon. They had decided to do a different song, not “Bookends,” but I don’t remember what.

I wander to the arcade in my bathrobe and nightgown. I had major surgery less than three weeks ago; let’s just say I had organs removed. Tonight is my first night without pain pills. Well, I haven’t had my narcotic pain pill in nine hours. That counts.

I play one game that is supposed to unlock the door to the arcade. I suppose that they set it up so that if you can’t pass it, you can’t get in because you have no business playing video games. I can’t win. It’s some luge simulation and I can’t even jump on the luge like I’m supposed to — aren’t I supposed to be already lying down on my back?

Speaking of lying down on my back, I had one of those episodes earlier. I woke up flat on the floor and crawled back into bed. It took me a minute to remember which bedroom I had chosen for my headquarters tonight. The lights in my room are going dim. My cat had hogged all the blankets when I had gotten back; I’m still nervous, unsure if Amy would try to knead where it’s sore with her paws, desperate to show love to the girl who doesn’t feel much anymore. I was also worried about Amy’s health (as well I should, since she really would 28 this year in human years, not cat years), as she seemed to be going a bit deaf in one ear.

Anyway, after losing the luge game, I tear off the LCD display and begin to throw it down. “I will destroy you!” The three fifteen-year-old boys are headed up to get in and manage to get the display away from me before I destroy property.

In the parking lot, a woman is trying to convince a man with myopia to rent her car from her. He needs to get to Florida.

Outside, in three different drive-in-looking areas, the arcade has set up coin-operated Dance Dance Revolution practice areas. Behind you is a giant green screen, but you can watch your image projected along with what you’re supposed to do on the side of the building, sort of an Eye Toy DDR. All three bays are in use.

I’m noticing it’s my high school reunion tonight. I call Mom. She’s driving in the pasture — actually, she’s wardriving in the pasture, circling at the top of the hill in Howard, trying to get a good signal. She’s checking her eBay.

“My God, you’re wired tonight. Can you calm down once in a while?”

“Well, I wasn’t really expecting this. I thought it was going to be in Kansas City.”

“Why would your high school reunion be in Kansas City if you didn’t go to high school in Kansas City?”

“That’s the way they are, Mom. Jeez. So they’re all going to meet over in a church by the old school.”

“Oh.” Mom’s distracted. In the mental-telepathy-connection I used to contact her, not by phone, I can see with her eyes, the pasture fence spinning as she tries to get a signal. Finally, she finds success. She’s pulled up a response from a college athletic director who has gotten modded down to -3. “Crap. He says the check’s in the mail. What can I do?”

“Demand a proof of delivery, or at least an estimated delivery date. I don’t know, Mom. People get modded down for lots of things.”

I’m walking around the DDR people, trying not to get hit. There are lots of familiar faces, but there’s no one I see with whom I want to spend any time talking. I then see Katie E. lying on the ground. “I know how it is. I just had parts removed.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you pay for it? Oh, right, insurance. So if we had all stayed working when we left high school, we might all have health insurance.” She gets a dreamy look in her eyes and then shuts them.

Zach and Tom are nearby. Somehow it comes up that I’ve been in pain for a long time. Someone’s talking about how they can’t take aspirin without getting a buzz. I laugh, but not too deeply.

“You can take Lortab and Valium together and still function just fine at work. Personally, work only noticed a difference when I wasn’t on painkillers. That’s when I lost the ability to string a sentence together, started slurring my words, and could no longer function.”

“Listen to you babble,” my mother pipes up over the telepathic connection.

Their jaws drop. “And how do you think now?” Mom asks.

“Well, I wrote on Monday, but my heart wasn’t in it and it was a little hard. But I also had an assignment. I’m doing quite well, thank you very much.”

“So you’re driving to Kansas City tonight?”

“No, I thought I had to at one point, but I’m just going a couple of miles. A few people might follow me home.”

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me.”

Then I ran out of fun people to shock and awe, so I headed home. All the kids were playing this new MMORPG that was available on their cellphones and pornographic. It was certain to be a hit, but I could care less.

I was living in a house right on the ocean. It was almost entirely glass, and I could see the water rising up the walls. Tidal waves would smash into the glass. A dead swan was pushed up against the house as was an orange octopus. Some girl came up to me and said, “I’m just looking for my dad’s coffin.” ‘Miah was there, and I introduced him to Zach and Tom.

After sitting in a living room with Zach and Tom, I found a black girl crying hysterically on a county road three miles outside of Beloit. I comforted her and stopped her from crying. Then I found myself in a barn with the Mountain Goat Rodeo Society meeting. I think there were a large gathering of chickens around as well. Someone mentioned chocolate-covered goldfish crackers, making me think of Ween’s “Chocolate and Cheese.” The idea of chocolate-covered-cheddar-cheese-fish-shaped nausated me — big shocker.

There was also something about a lime green 1978 Camaro, not that I really know what one looks like, but anyway. (Ed. note: I do now, only in the dream it didn’t have the candy apple red accents.)

First World Trade Center dream — it only took five days after the attack for it to hit the dream world. Of course, I haven’t been remembering dreams, so I could have blocked them out earlier.

I dreamt I was reading the list of those killed in a big coffeetable book of victims. Each page had three or four people on it, each with a little photo, information about them, etc. I started recognizing a whole bunch of people from elementary through high school years and I just couldn’t bear it.

I’m debating a redesign of my site, but I know for sure that I will soon have a handy-dandy Celebrity Index. Let’s face it, there are probably about two people that read this (if that many) that actually know anyone I mention. I’m too lazy and it’s just too invasive to make a list of all those “common people” like myself. But if I, someone you in all likelihood have never even met, announce loudly at a fancy soiree, “I had the most horrifying dream about Lawrence Welk,” then you probably can at least be amused at my esoteric reference if nothing else.

So, this task involved going back through past entries–over 270 of them. I’ve done that, but in the course of doing so, I’ve noticed that I failed to put very crucial celebrity dreams in here.

How could I have forgotten to tell you about the one where my neighbor and I were double-dating Darryl Hall and John Oates (I with Oates, the dark-haired one; she with Hall). Of course, all I can remember is being not pleased with the whole situation (I didn’t want to date either of them) and I distracted myself from Oates’ amorous overtures by digging in the glove compartment. This dream would have taken place in spring 1996 or so, I’m guessing.

And how could I possibly have neglected to write about the marriage of Judith Light (Angela from Who’s the Boss) and Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails? That was a particularly disturbing dream.

By going back through the entries, including the ones from the 1990s, I had people I haven’t seen in years on my mind last night, I suppose. I dreamt that I started my new job. There was a large welcoming banquet (not all for me, mind you, as a whole lot of other people were starting work that day too). I found Chris J and Michael W, and I ran to Chris and tugged on his cream-colored cable-knit sweater (it was cotton, not wool, that cheap-ass bastard). “I thought about you all the way through Legally Blonde,” I lied, “and about how you never thought I’d ever amount to anything.” Michael, at this point, was quite scared and did not exactly want to be around the full display of the love-hate relationship we had. Chris, having shunned becoming a lawyer like his father, now carted around acetyline tanks. “Oh, how nice for you. I thought about dropping out of school to become a trucker, but I didn’t.” I put on my best better-than-thou routine, as usual, since Chris actually believes such nonsense. We then were to climb up a series of stairs: they stretched across an entire twelve-foot or larger expanse. They had slender rails, and it looked straight out of some Cocteau or film noir movie . . . perhaps The Third Man. At this point the dream turned into black and white. I can’t remember anything else, but it was damp, dark, and musty.

I’ve had lovely Technicolor dreams lately.

Two nights ago, after watching both The Godfather and Rosemary’s Baby, I got the expected results: highly stylized dreams with wonderful cinematography. They weren’t particularly disturbing, that I can remember, but I did have a checklist that was somehow related to murder.

Last night, my dreams were mostly influenced by Rebel Without a Cause, although some traces of In This Our Life remained. (Thankfully, Forbidden Games played no role that I can remember.) I dreamt I was sprawled by a pool with a bunch of other people. I was wearing sunglasses and my typical high school fall outfit: jeans, t-shirt, and long-sleeved men’s dress shirt. I got up when I saw an old friend arrive. I then offered to get him a Coke and, when I got to the kitchen, could find no appropriate glassware. Tea cups didn’t seem right, and coffee mugs just wouldn’t work. I also fought with Kari F. (big surprise) and someone said that we were the worst two sisters in the world.