Big bam boom

    Yesterday there was a slip in my mailbox announcing that there would be a Flag Day party that evening right across the street and that all the neighborhood was invited. The hosts were nice enough to include their names and number, saying that if they were too loud just to call and they would pipe down. They were not however bright enough to include a starting time. So I planned to go over and say hi whenever I heard them start. But that never happened, so I went to bed at 11 like I always do.
    Then of course the party started. (Apparently, I've moved to Spain without knowing it.) I heard singing, or odd a capella records. Nice, but not terribly conducive to sleeping, but not a problem either. I just turned the radio on and turned it down. I was wondering what in hell a Flag Day party would be or why anyone would have a party on Flag Day. I found out when stuff started blowing up. It kept on blowing up for a long, long time. Still it didn't bug me, and I at least dozed through it.
    However, I seemed to have hit the perfect radio volume level for sleeping, because I slept in for the first time in, it seems like, forever. Dreams were, not surprisingly, sports radio oriented. I was sitting in a car in a gas station parking lot at 6 in the morning, listening to sports radio. Somebody I know who's even less socially adept than me turned up with a girlfriend. In real life I would have been thrilled. In the dream, I was bereft. Then for some reason, I went to a different gas station to get gas.
    But that isn't the ultimate expression of dream logic. THIS may be the ultimate expression of dream logic. Alice and I were in Center City Philadelphia, looking for the Hilton. (There wasn't one back in the day, so there probably isn't one now. What used to be the Doubletree filled in for dream purposes.) We went down in the parking garage to try to find parking, but found that you have to register first. There was no exit, just connections to further underground parking garages, some filled with tractor-trailers. But the great thing was that when we went down there, I had the car in my pocket. It was only that I found we had to register that I took it out and we started driving around pointlessly. I'm sure it has some deep meaning, too; I just thought it was inherently funny. Now of course I want a car I can keep in my pocket.
    Meanwhile in real life, a checker at Publix named Thomas reaffirmed my faith (such as it is) in the human race by ringing up a turnip without having to ask what it was. Yay Thomas!