I dreamt this morning that I was in large room which resembled a convention dealers room, but wasn’t. It’s really just a hotel ballroom filled with many rectangular tables. The part of the the room in which I’m sitting is quiet, but about a quarter of the room is separated from me by a low wall, and it sounds rowdy over there. A wild and crazy party seems to be going on, with laughter, loud music, drinking, dancing, and even a few fist fights. (Because, after all, what really good party doesn’t have at least a couple of those?)

Suddenly, Edward James Olmos walks up to me—or should I say, Admiral William Adama, because he’s in full Battlestar Galactica garb. He tells me that he’s tired of his people making that ruckus. He tells me that I have to shut the party down. He tells me that I have to pull the plug.

I stand on a chair and look over that wall, and there indeed is the crew of Battlestar Galactica, not the actors, but the characters, in their appropriate costumes and uniforms, whooping it up. I obey Adama. I shout out an announcement.

“Until the crew learns to behave,” I say, “there will be no electricity until further notice.”

I step down off the chair and pull a plug from a socket in the wall, killing the power. Suddenly, all is silence. When I turn around, Adama is gone, and so I sit down behind a table, and return to reading the comic book I’d been engrossed in when he’d arrived. I look at the credits on the splash page, and discover that it was written by director Agnès Varda.

Which, once I wake, actually seems to me to be the strangest part of the dream. I’d kill to read a comic book by Agnès Varda!