I was speeding down a highway in a convertible. Alongside me pulls Tim Conway, also speeding in a convertible. He asks me if he’d see me at the Word Series again this year. I did not see Tim Conway at the World Series last year, for what it’s worth.

I lost Tim, and made my way into Lincoln, Nebraska. I checked into a hotel. Once there my wallet and keys suddenly disappeared, I became elderly and often confused. I would see terrible crimes, report them to the police, the police would come and they would find nothing wrong, assuming i was demented.

I was myself again, at AT&T Park in San Francisco. Justin Bieber was a “celebrity fan.” In-game entertainment consisted of Blue Jay/Oriole/Cardinal races, which consisted of stuffed birds, attached to an electrified cable “racing” around the perimeter of the stadium. They all burst into flame.

Finally, I found myself at the soft opening of a hot new club. There was a human Pac Man game where one played the role of game characters via virtual reality. I found a table and said I would not leave until they served me fried eggs with hot sauce. They did. At the night’s close, the owner said he predicted his club would be a raging success. I assumed it would be.

This is how I dream when I have no alcohol before bed and eat nothing but a giant bowl of roasted vegetables for dinner.