If I'd had the chance, I'd like to think that's what I'd've called him too

Yup, we got chickens again, originally uploaded by your neighborhood librarian.

Other people's dreams are, with very few exceptions, much superior to my own. My dreams mostly involve my teeth falling out or being late for an exam in a class that I had forgotten to drop. Really. Banal to the point of banality.

Luckily, I can sometimes enjoy the dreams of others, including this totally flattering one that a co-worker had. It was shortly before the first time she was going to be in charge at the library, and in her dream, she was at work and faced with an obstreperous male patron. Happens. But as she (in her dream) wondered aloud what to do, I calmly said, "We have to tie him up!" and handed her the other end of the telephone cord.

And my Cousin S, she has some doozies. She and her grandson recently sent Mr. Three a birthday card loaded with stickers. Immediately after mailing it, she had this dream:

"I went to my doctor's office and he broke the news to me that the stickers had LSD on them. I began screaming, 'My little cousin! My little cousin!' I sat down immediately at the M.D.'s desk and wrote you a note to warn you. The doctor was wearing a bathing suit with shoes, but no socks."

Now that is a dream. Drugs! Surrealism!

I enjoyed it so much she sent me another:

"I won't go into the entire dream because it is of no real interest to anyone except me, BUT... I dreamed I was chasing [her husband] who was going off to church and leaving me in a big pile of shit (housework, kid, etc.) Also, all these people kept arriving at the house telling me that [husband] had told them that I would help them and take care of them. Some of them said that he had told them that it would be fine for them to move in and those people were carrying suitcases.

I ran after him into the church sanctuary (denomination unknown) where he promptly dematerialized. I was practically foaming at the mouth and I bumped into a very waxy looking Jerry Falwell. I said, 'You fat fuck! I thought you were dead!'"

By the way, see those chickens up there? Vanished. Locked-room mystery. They were securely inside their roofed run, which is made of chicken wire that we staple-gunned on all sides to the posts of our deck stairs and buried 4" into the ground at the bottom, weighed down with large stones for good measure. Just a few feathers are left. Somebody dream about this and tell me what happened.