In my journal I use the phrase "IN THE DREAM" to indicate that I am about to begin describing a dream I've had. Its origin dates back to the early nineties, when I was obsessed with all things King Crimson, and the first line of their song "Sleepless" begins with "in the dream." Thusfore, I am a geek. But you already knew that.

IN THE DREAM Ronald Reagan came into Barnes & Noble with Nancy. He sat down by the magazines and employees took turns waiting on him; bringing him the books he requested for perusal and taking them away when he was finished. We never questioned his right to receive this kind of treament; after all, he was the preident once, and we end up doing the same thing for our regular, ungrateful customers. When it was my turn to wait on him, I was surprised at how young he looked. His skin was taut and there was no gray in his hair. In conversation, he was completely lucid, though Nancy occasionally requested books on his behalf. I think at certain points I may not have been wearing pants.

That's it, that's the dream.

At work I had the sudden urge for a can of Coke. I went to the vending machine and bought one. It was shunted through the machine and into the metal tray, arriving with a clear metallic tone I enjoyed quite a bit, commensurate and true to the purity of its uncontested reign as the cola among Colas, its capitalist tyranny of the world�both first and third�eternal. I enjoyed the shit out of that Coca-Cola.

Sometime between my day job and my night shift at the bookstore, I was driving on the interstate, or perhaps also downtown around campus, listening to Tortoise's TNT. Nothing could compare with the elegance of an early winter sunset against the halcion tones of "In Sarah, Mencken, Christ & Beethoven There Were Women & Men" set against the sight of so many healthy, well-intentioned young people walking home from class, running errands, scurrying off to meetings. I was then transported back through time to late autumn 1996, and through space to the dorm room of a girl with whom I was diplomatically trying to end a casual fling. Her stereo was warbling Jewel, the walls adorned with prototypical dorm room posters such as Starry Night, The Scream, Nighthawks, Son Of Starry Night, Millais' Ophelia, and Starry Night II: This Time It's Starrier. It was then that I wondered how I'd gotten myself into such a fix so early into my sophomore year of college, and if perhaps bloody noses weren't psychosomatic.

And now? I'm sorry. I can't cotton to the whooping outside my window.

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