You know you’ve gone bonkers when you dream about noders. Not sexually, mind you, or anything of the sort, just a noder in your dream.

Last night, dear ole mkb was in my dream. I think I was having coffee with him or something in this bar and restaurant kind of setting. The walls around us where dark brown wood and there were the sounds of clinking glasses and people talking. The lighting was dim, and it reminded me of the place BAP went to in Harvard Square.

Not much really happened, and I don’t remember there being musch dialogue, but I knew that is was mkb. I think, just once, I asked about why he changed his nick from proj2501 to mkb. I don’t remember getting an answer.

I'm not in the habit of subjecting Everythingians to my dreams. It's rather self-indulgent. And those scenes of giant Teletubbies chasing you through the produce section of the grocery store-- so riveting when you have just woken from them in a sweat-- tend to lose much of their cosmic significance when subjected to the cold, cruel light of day.

But I couldn't resist noding this one.

I am at an afternoon garden party. Satan is also there, making clever small talk over fruity drinks with some society ladies. I have been assigned by my underground leftist guerilla organization, a la Mata Hari, to flirt with him so as to insinuate myself into his confidences and discover all his evil secrets.

Satan doesn't look very Satanic. In fact, he looks just like me. Short, white, and androgynous, with a kind of fresh-faced preppy air about him.

At first I am morally perturbed at the idea of cozying up to such an evil personage. But as we chat, I realize that he is actually quite charming and attractive. My wife, who is also at the party, begins to get visibly annoyed as she notices that I am going above and beyond the call of duty in my efforts to seduce the Prince of Darkness.

Fast forward. Satan has founded a rival divinity school. The students of Harvard Divinity School, led by my mother, take to the streets in protest.

Fast forward again. Satan and Alan Greenspan and I are in a large nondescript government building. Alan looks harried. He tells me conspiratorially that he is really a Marxist, but has been taken hostage by the U.S. Government and made to do their capitalistic bidding.

We stand and watch as hundreds of people make their way slowly through the foyer of the building. Blandly uniformed officials are separating them into lines: one for Arabs, one for non-Arabs. I realize what is happening. I turn to Satan, enraged, and point a finger at him, screaming, "THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!!! THIS IS ALL YOUR FUCKING FAULT!!!! YOU LET THIS HAPPEN!!!!"


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