Field Of Dreams

Last night I had another dream about a celebrity. Some of you may recall the dream I mentioned last fall, in which I found myself eating in the Times Square Howard Johnson's with Donna Summer. Well this one is much, much weirder.

In this one, I was the coach of a Little League team. (I know.) For unstated reasons, my particular league required that the coach had to play too. I was the catcher. (I know.) And I had bloody knees because instead of wearing normal catcher gear, I was wearing Bermuda shorts. (I KNOW.) My entire team was wearing Bermuda shorts and the kids were mad at me because I wouldn't let them wear normal uniforms.

Coaching for the opposing team was Salman Rushdie. Why Salman Rushie? That's what I'd like know. I've never met Salman Rushie, don't recall having seen him on TV, never read The Satanic Verses. I think I vaguely know what he looks like from seeing a picture of him in Time Magazine, but somehow he made it into my dream.

At some point it became the last inning and I was at bat. The bases were loaded and we were behind by one run. The game rested on my shoulders. I took a mighty swing and slammed the ball high and far over the heads of the opposing players. However, their center fielder, Salman Rushdie, who happened to be wearing a jetpack, lifted off in a cloud of dust and intercepted my shoulda-been home run.

At that point, I was awakened by the stupid motherfucking pigeons that roost in the airshaft of my apartment building. I hate pigeons. But not as much as I hate Salman Rushdie right now.
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