I’m leaving on the 1:15
you’re darn right
— the prophet joni
—

I’m in some variation of “Ocean’s Eleven.” I assume I am Brad Pitt, but there’s no mirror, so I’m not sure. I know, I know. I’m Carl Reiner. Shut up. My dream.

I’m in the middle of running a doublecross scam on Al Pacino, who is the casino owner. I was supposed to have placed a bet that would have won $100 million. The fix was in, so plunking a hundred bucks would have brought the payoff. I don’t know what the game was; I’m not a Vegas kind of guy. And I have no idea why a casino owner would be putting in the fix where he would lose a hundred million.  I’m just acting out my part, which is to mess up the bet and look dashing in my open-collar sports coat. Why don’t I own a sports coat? And what sport is a sports coat for? Is it only for dashing? I’ve got a Marmot jacket for running, but it doesn’t appear to have been cast in the film. No marmots were harmed in the making of this movie. I digress. Back to the show.

Pacino is crazed, in that “this whole court is out of order”over-acting kind of way. “DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH A HUNDRED BLANKITY BLANK MILLION DOLLARS IS???” he screams. I shrug. We’re standing in an empty spot in the casino. He calls in money people, who stack up a million dollars in hundred dollar bills. “DO THIS A HUNDRED BLANKITY BLANK TIMES!!! THAT’S HOW MUCH A HUNDRED BLANKITY BLANK MILLION IS!!! WHAT THE BLANKETY BLANK WERE YOU BLANKETY BLANK I’LL BLANKETY BLANK YOU AND YOUR HEART ON A BLANKETY BLANK SKEWER YOUR MOTHER BLANKETY BLANK ARMY BOOTS IN A BLANKITY BLANK TOASTER OVEN” and other stuff that’s not quiet as nice. I nod approvingly. You don’t get that many toaster oven references in profanity-laced rants these days. Pacino’s face is beet red. (Why is “beet” always the comparison in this sort of thing? I don’t even like beets. Beets me. Maybe his face is strawberry Mio red.) Anyhow. The vein in his forehead is throbbing. As he screams, he shakes me violently by the shoulders. And shakes.

And then, there’s Mo.

You’re breathing weird, she says. She’s worried, and shaking me so I’ll wake up.

I realize I’m hyperventilating. Was it because of the movie? Or did I create the movie because I was hyperventilating? Was it the four tacos, three cookies and one 1554 at 1 a.m.? Fallout from the Great Monkey Heart Run Experiment? Work stress? Just one of those things?  I don’t know.

I roll over and go back to sleep. An hour later, I wake up. No Mo.

She’s curled up on the couch, sleeping in the living room. What’s up, I ask. I was having a hard time sleeping in there, she says.

I tuck her into bed and come back to the living room. Lucy is in the middle of the episode where she tries to steal the Don Juan audition scene from Ricky. I think it’s a re-run.

I put on Joni’s “Hissing of Summer Lawns,” because what else can you do at 6 a.m. when it’s dark and you’re scared?

The sun slowly rises and I’m still alive. It’s a rest day anyhow. Regroup, try again tomorrow.

I’ve got a head full of quandary …