Perchance to Dream
Saturday is the one day of the week that I can really and truly sleep in. Sure, I don't climb out of bed until 10:00 A.M. on Sundays, but I have to pop out of bed and into action right at the stroke of ten if I am to shower, shave, dry off, eat brunch, wash the brunch dishes, and get properly dandied up before leaving in time to get to noon Mass. Waking up to a ticking clock is not "sleeping in." Sunday is the Lord's day, but Saturday, oh Saturday, belongs to me. Between the time my first alarm clock roaring to life at 9:50 this morning and I finally put my feet on the floor at 10:47, I had three dreams, or more properly snippets of three distinct dreams.

In dream the first, my house was infested with the Aliens from the Aliens films, though not nearly so deadly nor frightening as their cinematic counterparts. If you have Aliens in your house, who you gonna call? Ray Stantz, Dan Aykroyd's character from Ghostbusters, appeared and expertly dispatched the Aliens using his Proton Pack and Gun, which doesn't make the slightest bit of sense. Though I must say that it was undeniably cool to see his effortless feats of derring-do.

Dream the second is the least complete of the three, consisting of a single image, The Sardine, a.k.a. Codename PANDORA, in an itsy bitsy teenie weenie I-cannot-for-the-life-of-me-swear-with-any-degree-of-certainty-to-its-color polka dot bikini. This is the dream in which I would like to have longest dwelt; so, of course it was by far the briefest. Drat!

In dream the third, a group of British schoolchildren were on the beach of a Greek island, possibly Crete but I cannot be sure, under attack by German soldiers. And I cannot say if these were the Kaiser's men from the Great War or the Fuhrer's from the Second World War. There were lots of explosions, including many in the surf, sending jets of water high into the sky, casting a misty rain over the whole tableau as the water fall to earth. I honesty cannot say if the children and their headmaster were trying to flee into the sea or storm onto the beach, but they didn't seem to be making any progress toward either goal. At length, a heavy metal placard flew in from Bog knows where and struck the headmaster in the neck, gashing him deeply and knocking him unconscious. Remember, kids, the lesson of the story is that even in the midst of an assault by the German Heer, there is nothing more dangerous than flying signage.

If I had my druthers, there'd be for less Hellenic beach combat and more bikini beach frolicking, let me tell ya.

Cue the flung spray and blown spume, I feel a combined Sports Night/Star Trek reference in the offing.