DREAM: UT campus. Academic Building. Big crowded room. One of the deans I used to work for asks me to have a seat at a table. He morphs into someone I don't know. Other men are seated at the table. He asks me what I think is going to happen. A tape recorder is rolling, I noticed. I jokingly say something about the sky falling. "And
we're at Ground Zero," I say, "with only a minute left." The men are not smiling. They have placed black hoods on their heads. "What's with the black hoods?" I ask the man. He doesn't answer, instead advises me, "Avoid all contact with subversives." I wonder what he means by subversives. At the end of the table is a stack of Ron Paul campaign literature, bumper stickers, etc. I get the impression they're Ron Paul supporters, so apparently he doesn't mean Ron Paul when he says "subversives." But what? Before I can get clarification, I find myself on the other side of the room at another table seated next to George Bush (the father, not the idiot son). The mood is glum. "We're on the way out," one of them says. "We may be out," says another, "but we're not going away." I start to say something and make a gesture with my right hand, but Bush knocks my hand down. I move my hand again, he keeps trying to hit it, grab it, I keep trying to raise it. The struggle upsets the table ...
