You're Living In Your Own Private Finest Hour

Had a weird dream last night. Dreamt I was back home (Englishtown); part of it was hanging out at the Humphrey's, or rather on the front lawn, sitting in lawn furniture by a campfire, over near that house next door to them that was always unoccupied, with Peter Humphrey and a bunch of other people, then I was over at the entrance to St. Thomas Moore Church, which wasn't a church but maybe a school or hospital -- I think there was a gymnastic competition going on -- and I got into an altercation with some dudes in a car who came to pick me up, decided to walk home but I left my crutches in the car, and then I was jogging (with my cast) along Jamestown Drive, and then I was back at the campfire, hanging out with Victor Davis Hanson. I have no idea what the real guy looks like, and it was not like in the dream he was all "yadda hadda Bush Churchill Scipio Africanus Islamofascism blah blah," but that's who he was identified as. (At some point in the middle of all that, I found myself in a very, um, non-Euclidian version of the south of France, with Tom A and a bunch of his friends.)

Maybe it was because I finished that bruschetta pizza, and also finshed off the leftover pork tenderloin...

Wikipedia Featured Article: Well, look who made the list! Next up, Nobel Prize.

My friends are off to Moab, leaving today and leaving me behind... feeling kind of blue about it, but not as much as I expected -- woulda been nice though. Tonight Joe C is doing the designated driver thing, chauffering around the wives who were left behind on their "ladies night out." I got an invite to join the fun (George Hrab show at Godfrey Daniels) but I think I'll just get myself down to Which Brew.