I ended my summer break with a very brief internship in Manhattan. In my few weeks experience with commuter rail at rush hour, I noticed a very odd behavior in seating. People invariably seemed to favor aisle seats, so rather than sliding over, they did this:
This is peculiar, but not harmful.
Then one day, a pair of frat boy business students wearing nice suits and drinking cheap beer pull this one on me:
These two products of American homophobic awkwardness would not sit next to each other, thus not revealing the fact that they are friends. By the time their inane conversation was underway, it was too late. The stereo effect would prevent me from reading until salvation at Jamaica.
(Image courtesy BBC; click through for article)
I don’t read much, so it’s probably snobbish that I like this:
- Did you hear that Bush was reading The Stranger?
- He wanted to learn how to kill an Arab.
I usually fail to remember my bizarre dreams this well:
My dad and I were flying a smallish airplane—something like a Cessna. We had recently learned to fly, and we were flying to a sunny mountain meadow to meet with the KGB. The meeting was of an academic or historical nature, not of espionage.
We parked the plane at the bottom of the meadow, which was somewhat steep. We spent some time enjoying the beautiful weather at the top of the meadow before I started toward the plane. My dad warned me about the danger of taking off uphill. I decided that I would take off downhill.
As I approached to the plane, which was standing outside, I came to a hangar. I entered, but the inside looked more like an office building than a big shed. I looked through the windows into one room and saw what looked like our plane, but my dad told me that it was not. (He somehow appeared next to me.) Sure enough, as I came around to the door, it turned out to be a sleek fighter jet, nothing at all like our machine.
Soon after, I woke up from the dream into another dream. I was sitting with a few of my friends, and I was recounting this strange dream to them. Even though I was still in a dream, I was already forgetting some details of the first dream, like why I was at this meeting with a defunct spy organization in a sunny meadow. My best guess is that I really was awake, but so briefly that one dream seemed to flow into the next.
In the “awake” dream, Craig turned out to have the same airplane dream, except he and I were the pilots this time. I did not protest the change of cast, but I was irked by some details he got wrong. I finally decided that he just had an almost identical dream, and was not getting my dream wrong.
Then I woke up again, as best as I can tell, for real.