That's the last time I eat quahogs and scuppernongs before bed.

I've had some remarkable dreams the past couple of weeks, and the one this morning was so disturbing, I feel compelled to share it with you. (Misery loves company, after all.)

Two weeks ago, I dreamt the beginning of a new Pink Panther movie (with Peter Sellers, not Steve Martin). Earlier this week, I dreamt that I was bought a bottle of apple beer at a swim meet, and I liked it. (I figure it was leftover brainwaves from the Georgia Apple Festival.)

This morning, I dreamt that Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were going on vacation, so Alice and Henry Mitchell took Dennis (the Menace) to the museum. It was almost a joyful scene, the parents taking their young child to appreciate culture. Then the scene switched to the Wilson's, stepping onto the dock to walk to their ship. Suddenly, Mr. Wilson keeled over, with a heart attack. People begin performing CPR, and I look to my right, to see if the bystanders are as appalled as I am that Mr. Wilson's tragic end comes on a patch of greasy, wet asphalt just before a sunny cruise. In the crowd, I spotted my mother, wearing an awful, brown coat she hasn't had since the 1970's, dabbing at her eyes and nose with a handkerchief, and Ethel Kennedy (Robert Kennedy's widow), in a black coat and hat with a veil, doing the same.