Alright okay, I'll go - but I've got to tell you about this dream -

In it I'm Alley Sheedy and I'm getting head from Rose McGowan. I notice I'm wearing a dress suit. I look up and I'm in front of a senate confirmation committee. Joe Biden is saying "Well, what is your response? Ma'am? Ma'am?" I have no idea what to say. I remember I'm up for the new cabinet position - chairwoman of electronic commerce.
Then I turn into my son, watching my mom sweat on C-SPAN, and one of my friends offers me a Jewel Bag of nitrous, then we switch channels to Roswell, then I do a line of Ritalin, then pop in a tape I've made of every Saturday morning ad with adults too old and stupid to understand why kids like product x. "Why do we like Corn Pops? We just do." I've even got those classic Cinaburst spots, balding guys in clip on ties, short sleeved button down shirts treating flavor crystals as if they were GBH. We watch, and each one of us has a leg jerking or is twirling their hair. "Your mom is nasty, yo." one says. "Hey," I say, "if she gets confirmed as internet czar I'm getting you blocked from everything but ratemypet.com." And I know it's not cool to find your mom cool - yes, I tend to drift when she talks about when her dad brought home pong, but damn, my mom is old skool nerd grrl, with rrr's and all.

Then I'm running across the senate floor, acorns in my cheeks. I've turned into one of the legendary congressional squirrels, a descendent of the pair that Sen. Henry B. Gonzales secretly kept in his office. I've got a nest up in the rotunda made from shredded allocation bills. There's one requiring all new marine recruits to be issued a pair of fetish chaps. It only passed due to bribes from the rubber lobbys.

And I turn into the chief of the fetishwear manufacturers association, and I'm at an opening at Fetico gallery. I'm looking around at the folks in the gallery who can actually afford my clothes, who actually dress up and wear them out and most of them do not look like the models in my catalog. They are not sleek. Some look like hobbits with drug problems, sausages squeezed into PVC, and as a lash of shame falls across my shoulders the wind blows over me and I've turned into a condo under construction at Hoyne and Augusta, my Tyvek insulation still exposed but I feel large, stylish and expensive. The store next me is gutted, and I hope deep down in my brick facade that some hot little Caribou Coffee gets built next to me and I wake up.

What?

Can I finish this drink first?

Alright, okay...