The wife loves to tease me about my dreams. Why? Because nine times out of ten they’re the most boring internal narratives anyone has ever heard of. Mrs. Pastry wakes up most mornings reeling from some wild escapade she’s been on. I’m always a good audience for the whatever-it-is, asking questions and offering up half-baked pop-psychology analyses. Of course once she’s finished, she invariably asks “so what did you dream about last night?” Much of the time I can’t remember, though when I can, I don’t want to tell her because I know the teasing I’ll get. Case-in-point last night, where I dreamt I was a security guard in a bank that never got robbed (I polished my shoes). The night before I dreamt I was sitting in a business meeting watching a power point presentation, and the night before that, that I was eating a grilled cheese sandwich in the student union building of my college alma mater. Rip-roaring thrill rides, all of them. Clear evidence of a dynamic inner universe. Sometimes I wonder, though, what does that say about me?