I flirted with starting a blog like everyone else, but the idea never really took flight. Probably because it seemed (a) too labor-intensive and (b) "a." Besides, who wants to read the daily rambling of a celiac bellyaching (double entendre intended) about the tribulations of "life" sans gluten? Yawwwn. Dreams, on the other hand, are of far more interest than reality. Where else can you play in the Super Bowl, fight Darth Vader, and be James Bond -- sometimes all at once? One hundred percent, grade A escapism.

So it is that I've instead transcribed, to the best of my recollection, some of the highlights of recent dream narratives. I've done my best to weed out the most horrific, inappropriate, or otherwise uninteresting ones in favor of the more entertaining ones. At least, they seemed entertaining at the time.

4.23.06

So there I was trapped in a horror movie – at first as a spectator, and then as a participant. It started off oddly enough, as two scientists were screwing on the head of a life-like baby/machine hybrid*, whereupon a series of untold misfortunes would be set in motion, akin to the Hellraiser movie plotlines in which some unsuspecting persons meddle with a strange object and unleash demonic creatures from hell (or something like that – never saw these films myself – always have been kind of a scaredy-cat).

The rest of the dream took a turn to where I suddenly became one of the scientists and, after my collaborator was unceremoniously executed, resolved to get the heck out of dodge. I was in some sort of tightly secured facility with heavy surveillance and bad guys with big guns around every corner. I managed to become invisible, but not before I stumbled upon an enemy combatant who, although he detected me and said so out loud, was nonchalant about it and kept his back to me while he stood on a flight of stairs. I assumed he figured I would flee and so he chose to do nothing at all, not even alert his fellow security personnel/assassins. Instead of fleeing (my instinct), I gambled and dove at him, grabbing him from the back and banging his head violently and repeatedly against the rails and walls down at least two flights of stairs. He should have died from head trauma but amazingly was not only alive but mostly unfazed/unharmed. As he was dressing his wounds (still behaving nonchalantly), I figured that since he was apparently indestructible, I shouldn’t waste any more time knowing I couldn’t win. So I fled.

(* The “creepy baby” theme has happened more than once. I am told it represents my battered, neglected inner-child, which may also assume various recurring animal forms and small children.)

May 18

I am at a day camp and am a counselor over several young kids in a park-type setting. One child begins acting up, and I immediately admonish him with a “warning,” which comes in the form of a paper ticket. He settles down, but the boy to his right flips out and starts acting up in a hyperactive fashion. I turn my attention to him and am stern with him, but the little mongrel refuses to behave. I take him outside the park area away from the other kids and do my best to enforce discipline. Still, he does not calm down. I try everything – being strict without being abusive, and when that doesn’t work, being calm and even-keeled. Still, nothing works. Finally, I look up to the sky and say, “Lord, give me patience,” and then proceed to tickle the child into giggle-filled submission. Suddenly I am transported into a car that is driving away from the child, who magically sprouted to 12 years old in the blink of an eye and is walking calmly back to where the other kids. (Does this represent the maturation of my inner child?)

May 23
OK, analyze this. I meet up with friends at a social gathering of some sort and happen to bump into a childhood friend. We reminisce for a while before heading over to some other people’s house. Somehow, I am semi-coerced into swallowing a toy car and keychain (with the words “Hot Topic”) attached by a string to – are you ready for this? – a live baby mouse. I want to say it is a promotional stunt for “Hot Topic,” which could be a band, a magazine, a website, who knows. Suffice to say, this combination of things does not sit well in my overly sensitive stomach, such that I have to be rushed to the hospital. I am taken to an operating room where I wait with three other patients needing emergency care. Only one nurse practitioner is on hand to tend to us – as well as the rest of the hospital seemingly because she certainly doesn’t tend to us. I feel as though death is imminent and prepare to die a miserable, unnecessary death before my stomach pain suddenly dissipates, I start to feel better, and decide all I need to do is pull on the other end of the string (still sticking out of my mouth) until the rodent, toy car, and keychain come out. I think about the savings I will reap from delivering my own medical care. I also perform a “demonstration” to one of the people whose bright idea it was for me to swallow the items. Before a handheld DV camera, I promote “Hot Topic” by somehow displaying the contents of my stomach, which are making impressions through my skin (ick!). After the performance, thoughts cross my mind of what it will feel like to have the little furball clawing my esophagus as it comes back up. Luckily, I wake up before I find out.

May 25
OK, so I’m back in school, I think as a graduate student this time. I’m with a bunch of students who are presumably in the same program I’m in, and we’re all cavorting about in the same bus, touring the campus, etc. We all seem to get along just dandy. One of my closest friends is with me, and we decide to get not one but two apartments together, each with pretty spacious and expensive-looking accommodations. We don’t complain. Then comes the obligatory logistics problem-solving, in which I try to map out my commuting routes according to my class schedule. I find that, for the most part, I can get to most of my classes in the ensuing semester on time without a problem, except for one class that’s in Salt Lake City. Salt Lake City? That’s a whole state or two away. Tuesdays are gong to suck.

May 31
I am in a hospital setting in which an insidious and as-yet unexposed plot is underway to, I don’t know, blow up the building, take hostages, or something evil along those lines. I learn of the plot and with the help of an undercover agent (played by Alan Rickman in a role of reversal from his performance as the nefarious Hans Gruber in the original “Die Hard”) try to bring a peaceful resolution to the situation. And, unlike previous dreams in which something does go awry or at least unresolved, “Hans” and I bring down the bad guys with no casualties, innocent or guilty, when all is said and done. My dream ends as we both point our guns at the criminal masterminds, who comply with our demands to cease and desist.

June 6
Oh, sweet Lord, not another restaurant nightmare. So there I was back in the waiter “lineup” at “The Show,” as I called the foodservice industry. Once more, I apparently believe it wise to don the tie and apron combo, presumably to prove something in my bid for a comeback. But once again I am ill-prepared. Vincent, the owner, snaps at me for not having the proper attire or waiter tools, and he orders me to retrieve what I had forgotten (among other things, my shirt and tie) from my car. On my way through the parking lot, I stop off at the bank next door, deciding time permitsthe depositing of a check. The line is long, but I don’t seem to mind waiting. Sticking it to The Man, I suppose.

June 11

I was at school, possibly a different scenario, and was in a community dormitory shared by about 12 other guys. The details are fuzzy, but out of jealousy I conspired to kill about 6 or 7 of my fellow roommates. I’m not sure if I actually did the deed or not, but in their sleep, they were wrapped around strings of barbed wire, producing a pool of blood in the wee hours of the night. One of the roommates who was not killed woke up, saw what had happened, and immediately accused me of being somehow responsible. I knew I had been caught and that it was only a matter of time before the local authorities apprehended me, so I left the dormitory and went on a walk. As I obsessed over my guilt, I tried to find a way out of this mess. Somehow realizing that I had been in similar situations like this before in my dreams and knew that all I had to do was wake up, I immediately recognized that this nightmare was indeed just that and managed to escape into consciousness. Whew! That was a close one.

June 16

In a more somber scenario, an African community leader -- let's call him Fela -- was doing his best to hold together his war-ravaged and poverty-stricken people despite, well, war and poverty and everything in between. His protege, a teenager named Kuti, let's say, followed him around in hopes of learning from the master. As is the case in much of Africa today, Fela had his work cut out for him, to say the least. He would migrate from one village to another, always a fire to put out, sometimes literally, as he would sometimes arrive at scenes of mass killings, sometimes witnessing the aftermath. Just when things couldn't get worse, Fela found out that funds had been secured for much-needed support for a local school. Fela and Kuti made their way to the source of the good news, only to find that several recently purchased school buses had been set on fire with children in them. Fela was crushed, naturally, falling to his knees, weeping at the carnage before him. It was then that Kuti pulled out a gun and shot Fela from behind, killing him instantly. Were his intentions evil? Was he an agent of the warlords? Or perhaps he saw that, despite Fela's best efforts, they were clearly in vain? Maybe he was simply putting Fela "out of his misery"? I think it was some combination of the last two, but what I think is irrelevant. This was a captivating dream, replete with dramatic opening and middle acts and a closing scene inviting open-ended interpretations. They don't make movies this good.

June 20

It was summertime, and I found it prudent to find an internship in the realm of public affairs, in hopes of padding my resume and furthering my career. I found myself at a courthouse, where I began networking with people. I then saw a picture of my grandfather (a former federal judge) hanging on the wall. That picture then morphed into a real-life actor portraying my grandfather in a movie. I was on the “set,” although there was no camera crew around, and I interacted with this man whose likeness resembled my grandfather’s as well as some of the other “actors” playing law clerks, etc. I was then returned to my original task, which was finding a job. I was in a newsroom-type setting, the Houston Chronicle headquarters, I believe. Some of the reporters were helpful in dispensing advice, others, not so much. I volunteered my services there until someone gave me a lead as a comic book marketer, which paid all of $19,000 a year. I wasn’t exactly psyched about this, to say the least, but I planned to look into it while pursuing other opportunities. (In past years, I might have caved in and taken the job right away.)

June 28
I somehow score VIP seats in an old-tyme-looking press box located next to the bullpen at field level of an Astros game. We are behind the entire game until an Astro hits a three-run home run in the bottom of the ninth with in dramatic fashion. I must be dreaming (literally), I tell myself, for this could never happen in real life. : |

June 29
I was living in highrise apartment, on the top floor of a 30-story building. It was spacious enough for a single-person dwelling: kitchen, living room, bedroom, etc. One interesting quirk, however: it was not equipped with walls or a floor. This made getting around a little difficult, to say the least, requiring nonstop balancing acts on top of steel support beams. Given my acrophobia, I was more than a little terrified but dealt with it fairly well, all things considered, building up confidence as I deftly navigated the living quarters in hopes of “getting used to it.” Finally, I decided this was no way to live and got my real-life landlord, Frank, over there to install some flooring, for Pete’s sake. He complied, although, as in real life, didn’t consider my repair request a huge priority. … Later I went golfing with my two close friends, Chris1 and Chris2, even though none of us plays (I retired after middle school). It was a tropical, perhaps majestic place. Other golfers seemed to enjoy themselves, including our group, even though we were clearly unskilled.

July 11
Unjustly imprisoned for a crime (robbery?) I did not commit, I resolve to break out of my holding cell and clear my name a la “The Fugitive.” I manage to start making my way out of the building, knowing that my spree will come to an end if I don’t get help. Lo and behold, I spot a childhood friend on the staircase next to the parking garage and convince him to smuggle me out of the complex. Hiding beneath blankets in the back seat, we flee unnoticed, and I immediately begin plotting my next move, knowing that I am risking far greater punishment for being a fugitive than for the transgression I didn’t commit. Still, I like my odds, considering I have a few attorneys in the family that can help me clear my name. But first, I have to dodge police inspections and roadblocks, which I do, narrowly. My friend and his girlfriend swing by his workplace, which fronts as a cleaners but is actually a underground drug emporium/hippie hangout. My kind of place. I mingle with a few dudes and ladies We kick it there for a while before it’s time to make our next move. I hitch a ride with another friend, who drives a convertible. We pull into the parking lot of a restaurant, where scores of diners are sitting outside. I spot my former employer, wave hello, and crack a few jokes. It then dawns on me that I am a wanted man by the law and I need to keep a low profile. D’oh! Well, it was a good run while it lasted. I wake up before the local authorities are alerted to my presence.

July 12

I’m in the all-too familiar and awkward position of taking an exam without being prepared. I apparently studied some for this one, an essay-based exam, but not nearly enough. I try to concentrate on the test, but classroom noises and my own inattentiveness distract me from going through with it. I wrack my brain to find a way out. It occurs to me that in real life I am no longer in high school or college, nor have I gone off to grad school, so it seems puzzling to be taking a test. I think back to my past when I have been put in similar situations, put 2 and 2 together, and figure out that I must be dreaming. My exit strategy materializes: just wake up. So, presto, that’s what I do. I needed to pee anyway.

July 17
I got a weird one for you on this episode of “What’s Inside Ross’s Cranium?” – incurred by some serious REMing after not getting nearly enough sleep the previous night. It starts out in a confined urban setting, in which the Terminator is on a killing spree around several office buildings. Several people my age and I are in the same boat as we desperately try to flee Ahnald’s war path. Some of us dodge him, others aren’t so lucky. I find safe haven in an elementary school’s administrative office, which is strangely located in one of the high-rise buildings. I am joined by Chris1 and one of his recent gal pals. We are directed to the school’s resident scientist, none other than Christopher Lloyd’s Doc Brown from “Back to the Future.” He assists us somehow, I think by devising a gadget that will help us in a fashion I don’t rightly recall. Chris1 and his special ladyfriend, meanwhile, are more interested in making out in an unoccupied office, only to get busted by a school administrator. We move on to a classroom setting, where we find ourselves with several of our high school classmates. I then begin to have a wet dream within this particular dream in which I conjure up an unattractive female classmate trying to perform a seductive dance but failing miserably. I, meanwhile, make sexual gestures with my hands, which, unbeknownst to me, I replicate in the classroom as I lie on the ground unconscious. When I come to, Chris1 doesn’t hesitate to chastise me for how foolish I looked. I brush it off because, like all sleepers, I had no control over my behavior. We move on to an apartment on the outskirts of the “city,” where Chris1 and I rendezvous with his soon-to-be ex-wife and their child, Chloe, as well as Samir, an old high school jokester/buddy. I grab a quick bite to eat before we all resolved to move to Colorado, where Sarah and Chloe currently reside in real life, to escape the dreaded Terminator. We make it out without incident.

July 24
I am in Los Angeles, a place I have never visited in real life but a place, at least in this dream, is riddled with crime, corruption, and violence. I was in a bad neighborhood, trying to make my way to a more secure location. I believe I was on a bicycle, trying to avoid a stampede of elementary school-age gang members. I tried to avoid them but would up get swallowed up by them and beaten up pretty bad. When I came to, I mustered the strength to make it to another one of these “megaplexes” that keep recurring in my dreams – a place that consolidates residential apartments, businesses, etc. Trying to meet up with some friends, I had the damnedest time navigating the elevators, none of which wanted to take me where I wanted to. I got off on the wrong floor, where I came upon a mosque of some sort, which I had been to in a previous dream but avoided making contact with the evil shah/caliph who presided over and terrorized the local dominion. I was summoned into his palatial inner chambers, where his menacing, reptilian-looking sidekick (who had white skin, an eerie/alien complexion, and long bony hands with long fingernails) told me to explain why I was there. I was able to circumvent their brief interrogation and avoid being detained and possibly tortured. Leaving on good terms, I finally tracked down my friends, who lived in an upscale apartment in the same megaplex. We then all congregated at an indoor restaurant in a huge indoor amphitheatre. What started off as the makings of a nightmare had a happy ending after all.

July 30
I am sitting on a floor in a crowded classroom, listening to a guest speaker, an African entrepreneur, talk about international trade and investing. He evidently speaks from experience, sporting a garish headdress, jewelry (including long, dangling earrings), and a long, flowing robe. His showy garb is consistent with his rhetoric, which is more or less vacant of any substantive dialogue. I wake up, only to discover his voice emitting from my nightstand. I need to change my alarm-clock settings from this radio station that produces this damned “Personal Finances for Dummies” talk show every morning when I have to wake up.

August 2
Do you know Borat? He’s a Kazakhstani character devised and played by the great comedian Sacha Baron Cohen, creator of “Da Ali G Show.” There is also a “mockumentary” movie based on Borat coming out this November, whose trailer I saw just before retiring to bed. To make a long story short, Borat is quite possibly the funniest living character today, and he enters real-life situations under the guise that he is a foreigner and is unfamiliar with American culture, thereby enabling the perfect cover to get away with inappropriate conduct. So there I was, spirited away to dreamland, serving as Borat’s cameraman as he spent time with an average, middle-class American family. He made some subversive comments at the dinner table, which of course ruffled some feathers but were hilarious to those in on the joke. After dinner and some heavy drinking on his part, he sat down at a table near the family cat’s water bowl. Suddenly I heard the sound of water splashing. I looked under the table to find Borat, still sitting, urinating in the cat’s bowl (under the usual pretense that he didn’t know any better). I was laughing my ass off until I realized I had a job to do – record these escapades of his while trying to stay composed.

August 12
Shortchanging one's sleep has its disadvantages, to be sure, but it merits when the time comes to play catch up. Take last night, for instance, in which I slept a good 10 hours, a good chunk of it REMing like Rip Van Winkle. I was in a house, a sort of slumber party affair, in which people of all ages were enjoying each other's company. When it came time for bed, most folks had trouble finding a bed or sofa to get some rest -- sure, it was a big house with labyrinthine passageways and multiple bedrooms and closets, but competition was steep. I finally found a king size bed where another fellow was. I laid down next to him, only to get up and leave when he tried to put the moves on me. Trying to find another place to sleep, I came upon a puppy dog (inner child alert) who seemed in distress. I followed him into a restroom and opened a door to a sauna-type room that he wanted into. I leaned down to pet him, and he proceeded to lick my face and neck. Then there were signs of trouble: everyone, especially the kids, began running around as though trying to escape from an intruder. As it turned out, several armed assailants had broken in. I ducked behind a doorway as bullets sprayed past me. I hoarded several scared children outside, where none other than Superman swooped down from the skies and saved the day. As we stood outside and gave Superman our thanks, Kal-el, Superman's dead father played by Marlon Brando, appeared out of the sky and dispensed his obligatory advice like he does in the movies. Brando's visage was slightly surreal and very vivid, like an oil painting come to life, owing perhaps to the recent "Superman Returns" movie's recreation of the late Brando using CGI.

August 16
Some friends and I are play-acting on a Star Wars set in outerspace on a small space station-type platform. Leading the way but also menacing us is the actual Darth Vader (not an actor, but the real Dark Sith Lord). My friends and I mock the manufactured Star Wars universe (a subconscious retaliation against George Lucas perhaps for effectively ruining the Star Wars saga with these last three movies) by, for instance, dropping objects of the platform and watching them fall, thereby invalidating the “realness” of George Lucas’s universe because, hey, there’s no gravity in space. Darth was not amused with our behavior, threatening to, I don’t know, decapitate our heads with his trusty light saber. But none of us took his threats seriously, and he never exacted punishment on any of us, so there! After we had our fun at the space station, we hopped into a spacecraft, whose interior resembled an SUV, and went to an Earth-like setting. Darth drove/chaperoned us around, which I thought was sort of funny. I made everyone stop at the home of a family friend whom I occasionally house-sat for. She was out of town and had not enlisted my or others’ services to maintain her place. I noticed her flowers and plants were wilting and on their last legs/stems, so I went to the trouble of watering them all. Darth stood by impatiently, but he knew by then not to raise a fuss. He wouldn’t have gotten his way any way. There’s nothing quite like sticking it to The Man, especially the most evil man who ever wreaked havoc a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.

Sunday, Sept. 17
I somehow manage to be invited to tryouts with a professional basketball game as well as the Houston Astros. Lucky me, right? I don’t get my expectations up about the basketball thing considering I never played it as an organized sport. I enjoy myself nonetheless. Same goes with the ‘Stros, where I find myself sitting at the same table as Lance Berkman, Craig Biggio, Mike Lamb, and Adam Everett. We’re shooting the breeze as we have lunch, talking baseball and not much else. Lance decides to pull a prank on one of his teammates, shoving chili down the unsuspecting fellow’s pants. Fortunately, they spare me, the “new guy,” the same fate.

Sept. 25

I was in the living room of the house where I lived when I was a teenager (and when my parents divorced). There I sat on the couch as two perpetrators came in through the back door. I was helpless, choosing not to confront them but also not feeling distressed. Perhaps that was because somehow I knew that Batman was on the scene, ready to pounce at any given moment! So there I was waiting, trying to guess when and where he would strike. Finally he did and succeeded in subduing the bad guys. Wanting to talk to him, I went outside where both the batmobile and my car were parked. I had a flat tire and flagged him down as he tried to speed off. Somewhat reluctantly, Bats kindly stopped and helped me out. By that time, several neighbors had come out to get a firsthand look at the one and only Dark Knight, who took off his cowl to reveal that his secret identity was -- shock of shocks -- my dad! In front of a crowd of spectators, we went from talking about crime-fighting to squabbling about a cheese salad he had prepared for my brother and me to eat that night. Suddenly, my mother/his ex-wife showed up on the scene to give him grief. Given that he was Batman, Dad felt obligated to respond diplomatically rather than act out in anger and perhaps tarnish the reputation of the Bat.

Sept. 26

After being awakened by my radio alarm clock, which was in the middle of broadcasting an interview with Pakistani President Pervez Musharraf, I hit the snooze and immediately went back to dreaming. I dreamt that I was Harrison Ford/Jack Ryan in the middle of an undercover CIA operation in, you guessed it, Pakistan. I tussle with a suspected bad guy, who gets away after cracking and sprinkling exotic spider eggs in my hair. After getting the creepy-crawlies off my noggin, I hail a cab in hot pursuit after the meanie. We reach our stopping point, at which point I, Ross, and Jack Ryan become two -- he runs off to nab the bad guy while I try to find a way to pay the cabbie, whose fare is a meager 10¢. I have plenty of international change to cover it, but I first try to barter with some middle- eastern-looking art and collages I had assembled in a previous dream. The cabbie shakes his head and politely explains that only cash will do. I begin to scoop up a handful of regional coins I have, trying to figure out how much is enough (I want to tip but also don't want to get ripped off.)

Thursday, Oct. 5

I grew a beard! There I stood facing the bathroom mirror, admiring my new facial hair in all its splendid glory.

Thursday, Oct. 12
I found myself in another one of these violent, “shoot ‘em up” blitzkriegs although this time I was the one on the rampage. As comic book hero Wolverine, I found myself in enemy territory, which was a harmless-enough-looking office building filled with young children and some innocent-looking twenty somethings – and weapons. Lots of them. In hindsight, it could well have been a David Koresh-type compound. In any event, knowing I’m outnumbered but not knowing whether I’ve been detected, I fervently search for guns and find some after I threaten a group of 6-year-olds. Not something I was proud of but it got me results. Now armed and dangerous, I try to make my escape. I do so, but not without being detected by some of the young adults in the midst, whom I blow away unmercifully before they have a chance to shoot back.

Saturday, Oct. 28
I am in a large playground area on a gray day, outside of a familiar, large building complex (This is my brain on architecture?). Kids of all ages are running around, some playful kids, others suspicious-looking gang-bangers. One of them knocks over a 7-year-old girl, and I rush to her defense. The gang-banger and several other hoodlums confront/threaten me. I stick to my guns and tell them they would do the same thing I did if their kid sister had been treated the same way. They back off, although later I am pushed to the ground (again, gangbangers, but for something unrelated, I think) and point a gun to my head. They fire off a few shots in the air to scare me, and scared though I may be, I maintain my composure and figured they probably wouldn’t kill me. I think they were trying to coerce me into assisting with a drug ring operation … I then find myself back in an amphitheatre-type place with former high-school and elementary classmates. Informal skits/presentations are made, and I think I am acknowledged at some point, which is followed by a round of applause/laughter.

Sunday, Nov. 5
Thousands of other citizens and I gather around Ground Zero and pay homage to victims of the terrorist attack on September 11. Fire trucks have set up ladder/walkways that extend up to 60 stories high, which are intended for onlookers to get a bird’s eye view of the site, I suppose. This seems a tad unsafe, not to mention unnerving considering my acrophobia. Nevertheless, I get in line like everybody else.

Wednesday, Nov. 15
Got a strange one for you. It starts out in Houston, where I have just returned by plane to the house where I lived as a teen with both Chrises and my mother after a long weekend in South Padre Island (or else some town in south Texas). The problem is that I had to leave behind a few items that would not fit on the plane, but I need to get these items back soon. Alas, it is Sunday, time is flying, and I have to report to work tomorrow. The Chrises are still not awake by mid-afternoon, so I resolve to take matters into my own hands by flying back down there alone to ship the items back to Houston via DHL in hopes of flying back in time for work on Monday. I embark on this ambitious journey, renting a car once I arrive and quickly getting lost trying to find the condominium where we stayed. I drive all over the freeways (surely this can’t be South Padre) and get nowhere. I finally stop at a community/recreational center where I spectate as groups of people my age are bungie-jumping and doing sport-related activities. I then wind up at a large outdoors bar/bungalow, where I run into comedian Dave Chapelle of all people. He calms my nerves some, and I depart by foot. I then happen to run into Ed, my stepdad! Surely he would remember how to get to where we stayed. Sure enough, he does, and I pile into his Suburban. He has to make a few pit stops – and by this time it might already be Monday morning, but I’ve resigned myself to missing a day or two of work at this point. Next thing I know, Ed has driven all the way back to Houston, having clearly forgotten or misunderstood my urgent need to get to the condominium! Ugh! He apologizes and drives me back from whence we came. At long last, we get to the condo, and I pack up all my belongings and load them into Ed’s truck (no need to ship them now that I have access to a vehicle). Lo and behold, my friend Richard shows up in the evening with a few friends and ladies in tow. We decide to chill at the condo, watching TV, and eating LSD-laced cookies. Yum! An older crowd then gathers outside, with several friends of the family throwing a party of their own. I join them and spot a curious-looking animal, a pet of one of the guests that looks like a cross between a lemur and a prairie dog. It’s the cutest critter I’ve ever laid eyes on. Plus, it can talk (or at least repeat words like a parrot), and it can exhibit a temper. My guess is that it’s a mutated sea monkey. I am wrong. I am told it’s a rare feline breed called a wolven. I pet it some but generally keep my distance. (Inner child alert? Has my inner child morphed into a mutant sea monkey, Paul? If so, I’m more messed up than either of us believed.)

Friday, Nov. 24
Details are sketchy, but I do remember going on a killing spree. Better to kill than be killed, I suppose.

Thursday, Nov. 30
I am watching the Astros, who are in the field. The opposing hitter nails what appears to be the most monstrous homerun of all time. Alas, Adam Everett, arguably the best defensive shortstop in the major leagues, leaps from the upper deck to snare it in midair, making the greatest catch of all time (and death-defying to boot). Of course, doing so puts his life in danger as he begins falling roughly 50 feet to the ground. Fortunately, his teammates come to the rescue – both on the field and from the dugout – and leap in the air to bounce him off each other and cushion his landing, which he does safely.

Saturday, Dec. 2
Details are sketchy, but I am hunkered down with my co-workers at the office, with several people in costume for some sort of College event. (Comically, our heavyset videographer asks for help adjusting his thong.) I leave our office to discover it attached to an office/hotel building. Conservative columnist George Will is there for some reason, perhaps to ogle over the elevators, which are named in his honor. Nothing of much significance happens that I can recall. Just a bunch of worker bees milling about the premises.

Sunday, Dec. 17
I show up for an art class (I am rusty and ill-prepared), which oddly enough includes a dance jamboree. An attractive brunette, who hasn’t been in class for most of the semester, shows up suddenly and starts gyrating next to me. She makes it clear she likes me. Why do I have to wake up? O, cruel reality.

Later, I’m driving to Washington, D.C. (my academic and/or professional destination for the next few years?) and am horrified that the entire city is submerged in water a la post-Katrina New Orleans. But the freeways are filled with cars as though there’s nothing at all out of the ordinary. (A metaphor for the Bush administration?)

Wednesday, Dec. 20
I am with a group of people who are about to embark on a mystery-adventure! We begin at nighttime at a building that resembles a campus-like environment, not unlike the part of the Medical Center where I work. We make a discovery of some sort, not knowing exactly what it means. Suddenly we are forced to flee the area, narrowly escaping a hail of bullets. Tom Cruise zooms ahead of me while my friend Stephanie is running the opposite direction – into the line of fire! I yell at her to reverse course, and she does. We all soon load into a van, not unlike the Scooby Doo Mystery Machine, and proceed on a road trip to hunt for clues. We stop at a few places, one of which is a disheveled building in a rural town with large panels of aluminum siding that have been vandalized with graffiti. A few woebegone children and derelicts mill about outside in broad daylight – the entire scene strikes me as fabricated for some reason, as though the unknown enemy were inviting us into a trap or else leading us astray. I enter the building, following my compatriots and have a look around. I fixate on a display case for some reason, which holds baseball cards and other paraphernalia. Later, at night, we travel along a dirt road, where one of our passengers lobs a banana (or something similarly ridiculous) into a holding tank of water, preventing a bomb from going off. We all congratulate her, although she is quick to deflect praise and point out the teamwork involved in our journey thus far. We then wind up at a large underground headquarters/laboratory. I meet with various scientists as I tour the facility, and I double back afterwards, hoping to speak to them and make sense of whatever clues we have found. I don’t get very far, as they are preoccupied with other, mostly older scientists and VIPs.

Thursday, Jan. 5
I succumb to my cravings and chow down on an entire pizza. It then dawns on me that my GI tract will be ripped to smithereens in the very near future. I start to worry.

Friday, Jan. 6
A group of Jedis and I are combating the evil empire. Wielding a light saber with exceptional skill if I do say so myself, I am one with the Force. Suddenly, I see none other than Darth Vader fleeing with the Emperor – and heading my way! I use the Force to hurl a projectile their way. The impact causes Darth to fall and break the apparatus that keeps his suit functional. He begins throwing a hissy fit. Score one for the Obi-Ross.

Wednesday, Jan. 10
My good friend Stephanie and I are on the prowl, by which I mean wandering aimlessly around Houston in search of nothing in particular. I pick out a “grab bag” gift – it’s already wrapped so I have no idea what’s inside – and give it to her. It turns out to be Indian folk music cassette tape, which couldn’t be more apropos. (Alas, I find out later, she already has that album. Piss. We listen to it anyway.) We find our way to a café to grab a bite to eat. A strange, disheveled man approaches her at the table while I am at the counter ordering our meal. From a distance, I see her suddenly break down in tears. I rush over and shoo the fellow away. We leave after lunch and find our way to an elementary school situated in the countryside. We check out a rustic, two-story duplex adjacent to the school, and I decide to move in to the second-story unit. We notice an older, fidgety man loitering about suspiciously, whereupon I shoo him away, too. I later learn from our downstairs neighbor – the aforementioned strange, disheveled guy – that this older fellow not only used to live there, he is also a crackhead who sells his “product” to the third-graders at the school, which explains why so many students congregate around our duplex. I spot some of them breaking into the duplex, even, looking for drugs presumably. At one point, the strange neighbor attempts to peep through my window. I confront him and tell him off, but not before he explains that he found a large sum of money in the duplex, which he suspects belonged to the crackhead, who is now probably trying to reclaim it. The beginnings of an alliance form cautiously with the new neighbor. Is the enemy of my enemy my friend – or my enemy?

Saturday, Jan. 20
I find myself sitting down at a table with the legendary comedian Albert Brooks. I compliment him on my favorite movie of his – Defending Your Life – and point out several subtle allusions that I suspect most fans would have missed. He acknowledges my perceptiveness and seems happy to hear what I have to say. Strangely, I also speak highly of Billy Crystal’s performance, even though he was not in the movie.

I am on a mysterious mission in search for a former high school classmate and fellow camper and counselor at Camp Longhorn back in the day. My search takes me back to camp, where I spot an older, garrulous counselor. He’s friendly enough but hasn’t the faintest idea where my comrade might be. I decide to look at our high school alumni magazine in hopes of finding any clues. Sure enough, an update on members of our class mentions that my friend now works for a Halliburton-type company that specializes in logistical support for oil companies. I head to his workplace (located in a rural area), and I eventually find him. Doing so sets in motion an unusual chain of events in which I am referred to a series of different blue-collar jobs for large corporations, with the understanding that my role was part of a larger scheme with global importance. Eventually my “transfers” lead me to UPS, where I am instructed to be a driver/deliverer of parcels. Not exactly what I planned to do with my life (nor my friends and family, who are understandably upset that I have accepted this low-paying, heavily time-consuming line of work) but strangely I go along with it because, again, I feel a sense of duty that is bigger (though undefined here) than what everyone else can see.

Sunday, Jan. 21
This dream begins with a montage I have dreamt before: a flying whale is suddenly attacked and engulfed by a yellow alien creature, which is then gorged and consumed by another flying whale. This opening scene sets the stage for what turns out to be an intergalactic war between mankind and an alien race, played out on Earth. I am apparently a foot soldier for the good guys, although my participation is reluctant. In the next scene, I am at a doctor’s office, which bears more of a resemblance to your standard corporate layout, replete with cubicles and such. The staff there, dressed not in medical garb but in “office” attire, is heavily pressuring me to undergo LASIK surgery (something I have considered off and on in my waking life but have thus far held off for safety and financial reasons). They are laying their sales pitch on pretty thick, even engaging in a provocative song and dance number in which some “performers” engage in sexually suggestive manners. I leave a tad appalled by the staff’s lack of professionalism but nonetheless persuaded that perhaps LASIK might be OK after all. I return to the battlefield, where we are about to engage in a live ammo training session against our European allies. Sounds silly to me, so I bail, effectively quitting the army. On my way back, a general stops me and pitches LASIK. He ushers me to a building, where I enter a small office where two women (and an unknown, presumably famous person on speakerphone) tout how marvelous this damn eye surgery. I feel a little awkward, being put on the spot like that, but I comply with their questions.

Tuesday, Jan. 23
I spend most of this ghastly dream at giant Walgreen’s-type store. I migrate around, interacting with different groups of people, and I sense tension in the air. I don’t watch “The Sopranos,” but for whatever reason I get the impression that mafia characters from the show are on the premises – and up to no good. I eventually stumble upon an oafish brute inflicting a savage beating on someone. The thug eventually sets his victim on fire, which is evidently not punitive enough, for he begins a beastly beheading of the burning fellow. Grotesque, eh?

I’m once again running late for school, this time for my sixth grade English teacher’s class, from which I have been absent for something like three or four straight days. This is not good. Try as I might, I can’t seem to get my act together and just leave. Details are fuzzy, but basically I get tied up going back and forth between two places where I am engaging in various projects with by brother and school friends. Finally I decide won’t make it to class. I don’t sweat it too much.

Saturday, Feb. 3
I attend the mother of all parties, hosted by none other than the owner of the Vincent's Restaurant, Vincent Mandola. The setting is a large, indoor, possibly underground, mega-complex, whose various "environments" resemble everything from an amusement park to Willy Wonka's chocolate factory to the Playboy mansion to a large doctor's office. Tons of people are running about in every which way, probably as drunk as I am on the sheer opulence of this wonderland of sorts.
Every setting is beautiful and/or labyrinthine and/or action-packed with plenty to explore many times over. Random people are performing dance skits and acrobatic stunts while others, including myself, are looking for the next big Italian feast, of which there are many, as there are many bottles of expensive amarone -- all gratis! I spend much of my time searching for the "Japanese Room" in the doctor's office-looking sector, having heard that it is among the most beautiful settings on Earth, and try to convince Chris1 to help me find it. Alas, my search ends in vain, but the evening is not without plenty of glorious splendor and spectacle.
I am part of an amateur, investigative caper at whose center is the devious Donald Trump, Pamela Anderson, and some Kojak-looking guy who always wears sunglasses, even at night. My team, which consists of my recently departed supervisor Ron Gilmore and my former high school newspaper editor. (For some reason, Ron is without proper clothing, so I lend him some of mine.) Together, we have gathered evidence on audio tape linking the three to highly illicit activity, and all we need to do now is nab them in the act of illegal business activity and make a citizen's arrest, making us rich and famous somehow. The plan is even less half-baked than that -- it gets soggier: the "plan" is to trail Pamela Anderson while also attending a nighttime festival honoring "The Donald's" and Ms. Anderson's philanthropic endeavors (though we know better). I go to the silly event with my mother, constantly alert to everyone's coordinates. I watch as Donald and Mr.
Kojak-guy wrap up their obligations at the festival, whereupon they enter a white SUV and start hightailing it southward down Kirby. Once I see they have not gotten onto 59, my gumshoe instincts somehow assure me I will figure out how to find them, I and immediately make a break for my car, with my mother shouting after me to be careful, as mothers are wont to do. As I get to my car, I notice a large piece of paper taped across my front door. Did I park in a no-parking zone?

Perhaps it's a note from Pamela Anderson that she's onto my being onto her? No to both, thankfully -- 'tis merely an advertisement for an upcoming concert. I peel off the paper and begin to exit the parking lot. Alas, other festival-goers are just as eager to make a quick exit, and mild traffic thwarts my pursuit of the bad guys.

Sunday, Feb. 4
My mother, various relatives on her side of the family, and I are visited by a rather unique family. The parents are middle-aged, and they have roughly 30 children, two of whom are “creatures”: offspring with birth defects so horrid, they look, literally, like little monsters: green, scaly skin, one eyeball, etc. The connection to our family? As it turns out, my maternal great-grandmother was herself a “creature,” having wings for arms and only one eyeball while standing just three-feet tall! Later, I have a private, cordial discussion with the father of this other family, and I tour the house where we have all convened, which is decorated with artful, Edward Hopper-style paintings of Looney Tunes characters.

Feb. 10

Now I am a hitman, hired to kill some corporate bigwig in a highrise office building. I succeed and begin to make my escape as seemlessly as possible. I happen to pass my mother, who is somewhat worried but no more so than usual. I try to reassure her before proceeding to get the hell out of there. I spot a security guard who is on my trail, and I raise my gun to his head, ordering him to drops his gun immediately. I give him one second to comply. He doesn't. Without hesitation, I put a bullet in his brain.

Monday, Feb. 27
I am naked and entering what appears to be an underground (in more ways than one) Dave & Buster’s. There are mostly young people – pre-teens to young adults – playing an assortment of games. I am directed over to a stand that sells clothing that everyone must wear – all made out of the same football jersey-like material. I clothe myself and check out some of the games these kids are playing. Most seem to be your average video game or carnival-type game, that is until I am introduced to another side of the arena, one that draws the older types. It’s basically a (virtual?) reality laser tag-type game, in which opposing sides more or less try to blow each other into smithereens. But this “game” turns out to be more complex than that. You can choose different roles to play – a medic or electrician, for instance – and occupy alternate “slices” of reality than other players more interested in the violence. The game is fascinating, and I play to the best of my ability, playing different roles and eventually competing against Chris1 and Chris2, against whom I am no match as usual. They know all the tricks in the book. But again, this game is just one small part of this underground realm, where a virtual economy has taken shape. Some of it is standard amusement park larceny – like the hair stylists trying to charge me $12.12 for my using their razor to shave just a few strands of hair off the back of my head (I decline to pay). But for the most part, this is an adolescent boy’s fantasy – scantily clad and naked women abound, for some reason – and most would find it difficult to leave – ever. Eventually, my gorgeous female hostess escorts me above ground, where several nude women are hooked up to some strange tubes – to their mouths and to their, well, these appear to be enema tubes. My hostess attempts to “attach” one to me, but I decline. She then leads me outside along a rolling pasture. It dawns on me that this property was once occupied by Fame City, an old entertainment center whose heyday was during my childhood but since went under. My childhood home is just down the pasture (even though, in real life, this wasn’t the case).
I am with my brother and one or two other people, and we each take the persona of a member of the Fantastic Four as we combat another group of people adopting the same superpowers. I am the Human Torch and take the lead in fighting our opponents as we try to escape an indoor maze. I gain the upper hand and lead my team to safety outside, where we board a sedan and skidaddle on out of there.

Monday, Mar. 5
I’m on a bus trip with my mother, stepdad, uncle, and brother. We roll through a small town when suddenly my mother realizes we need to get off. Instead of alerting the bus driver, she leaps off while the bus is still in motion. Bewildered, I watch as she runs along side the bus in apparent exasperation that the rest of us haven’t disembarked. She keeps chugging along, block after block, with the same exasperated look on her face. Finally, I get up and ask the bus driver to stop the bus, which he does. We all get off, and our poor mother gets to catch her breath from her marathon mission. As it turns out, we are there because this town is the setting for the house of Tom DeLay, who has apparently just passed away (no tears shed on our end). And for whatever reason, we all decided to purchase it and move in. It’s a nice, country-style home with a lush backyard and large garage/storage room/apartment. We spend most of our time in the latter, boxing up Tom’s old belongings, much of which consist of his daughter’s toys. As no one is particularly motivated to clean up the place, I take charge and marshal the troops into packing up these old toys, and it dawns on me that some charity would love to accept them.

Mar. 29

I find myself associating with a gaggle of disreputables, whose idea of fun consists of strapping a freshly mummified corpse to my back and forcing me to eat the eyeballs while driving them around an unseemly part of town. I do so grudgingly although I am as good a sport as once can possibly be in such a situation. We make a pit stop at a pool at night where my Jack Ass™-like “chums” and their brethren gallivant around in a drunken revelry. I grow weary of such low-brow entertainment and resolve to gather my possessions (2-4 duffle bags’ worth) and proceed to head back to civilization. My “associates” don’t seem to notice or else care about my exodus. Also, some of the partygoers may have turned into zombies. Upon returning to part of the city where I work (medical school), I find all hell is breaking loose. People running like maniacs down every street, traffic congestion out the wazoo, mass hysteria left and right. Perhaps they are fleeing the zombies? Ironically, the greatest threat are the evacuees themselves. While some (like me) are respecting other people’s property and personal space during the escape, others are not so kind. They might as well be rioting as they rampage everything in sight, looting and wantonly destroying things. I make a mad dash inside what appears to be a frat house, desperately clutching my duffel bags, which contain all of my worldly possessions, including large wads of cash. I struggle to avoid the psychopathic mobgoers, scaling to the top floor and busting out a window to hide both my belongings and myself. I sympathize with one of the frat boys, whose home, like many others, has been utterly ransacked. I appear to have escaped harm’s way and gingerly make my way back outside, where my next step is to find my car (if it’s still in one piece) and get the hell out of Dodge. Along the way, I avoid getting mugged and having my belongings stolen on several occasions. I locate it at work, where it is fortunately intact, but encounter hordes of other vehicle owners with the same idea: the parking garage is jam-packed with people in hysterics, and there’s no sign of this gridlock sorting itself out any time soon. Fortuitously, Billy Miller, an esteemed colleague of mine (and notorious B.S.er), lets me in on a little secret: bribe the parking garage attendant, and he’ll remove a concrete barrier that allows me to shortcut my way to the exit. I don’t hesitate to fork over the contents of my wallet -- $33 – and make my egress, miraculously safe and sound. Considering I started out eating a dead guy’s eyeballs and then narrowly escaped several muggings and/or death, I’d say that’s about as close to a happy ending as it gets…Now that I think about it, this whole episode might have been inspired by the upcoming zombie movie “28 Weeks Later,” whose trailer I happened to watch online before going to bed. That’s the last time I’ll be doing anything like that again.