Lisa,

Maybe you can help me make sense of this one.  It's a long dream,
there's a lot of details I can't remember, but these are the
highlights:

I'm working on music with Mr. Thermometer.  We're trying to write a song
together.  He writes the first part and I think I've found the perfect
verse/chorus to go along with it, but as I play it, it ends up
sounding like exactly what he's already written.  Humoring me, he
changes the tempo of the song to a medium tempo, between his fast
tempo and my slow one.

We then try out some songs from the new album.  They're amazing.  One
of them in particular is dark, svelte, rocking, with some incredible
thin, interlacing guitar riffs (by Mr. Thermometer).  That should be track
number two, I think to myself, like that U2 song "Even Better Than The
Real Thing" which is even better than track one.

We're really on to something, we both agree.

Later, I poke my head up into the attic where my friend Beatrice is
shuffling around her bedroom in a nightgown.  I try to grab her ankles
and she laughs.  Her roommates are horrified; I lift myself up into
the room to try to be friendly.  I put my arms around a dark-haired
girl wearing a Christmas outfit, who smiles at me in bemusement.  I
try to talk to the girl sitting just behind her shoulder, but she is
still too frightened by my impulsiveness.

Later in the dream, people bring me to Ted Kennedy.  I hug him and roll around with
him, exclaiming, "Uncle Teddy!"  He explains that he's arranged for me
to run for President.  I'm shocked but thrilled.  He leans in and
explains with a grin that there were many objections.  (I nod,
understanding.)  "But I'm an old Trader," he adds, alluding to the
secret society that  runs in my blood.

The campaign begins with a flourish.  At the first
debate/advertisement/cocktail party, the other candidates make their
appeals to the audience.  I'm the last one up, and I blab something
with my mouth full-- a sliver of cheese tumbles out of my mouth-- and
simply stroll out the door.  Of course, this turns out to be exactly
what the American people loves and the next day I am the surprise
favorite of the race.

Whenever I see my face, I look like some handsome actor on tv that has
my general complexion.  The Jake Gyllenhall type.

I finally trade places with this person, realizing that it will be
much more effective if he is the candidate.  Flying in front of him, I
lift the cape off my neck, reach back behind my head, and set it
around his head.  Then I am free to roll around, potbellied and in my
underwear.  I cackle, then realize that his voice is different from
mine.  Will he need to lip-sync to my voice in order to maintain the
subterfuge?

My new self walks triumphantly out of the back porch of the mansion,
preceded by Linda Evans as Wonder Woman.  It's amazing, I think to
myself.  She hasn't aged a day.

ProbU.s arise.  A truck-sized brown paper package arrives C.O.D.   It
cost $16,000.  I don't have that kind of money, I ask around for
someone who does.

I am beseiged by small obstacles.  I yell at my mother-- it's
outrageous that I don't have an assistant!  I'm running for President
here!  She shrugs.  This is what happened the last time.

I see my sister getting a hot dog.  All I want to do is stop the
campaign and spend some quality time with her.  I ask if she wants to
have lunch with me, and she says "Sure," but she doesn't seem too
excited.

Somehow things go sour and the dream ends as follows:
I have been exposed and imprisoned.  My former boss leads three of my
friends in.  From the flecks of blood on their faces I can tell they
have been tortured.  I won't tell you anything, I tell my accuser.
"Very Well Then."  One of my friends, who is burly and white with a
flat top, turns toward me threateningly and reaches for my tongue.
I try to talk my way out of it.  My accuser has turned into a
cackling, funny little man.  He toys with me.  "What Do You Think
We're Going To Do To You," he asks innocently.

(I know what he means, he means they're going to horribly saw off my
limbs, one by one, and even as I write this part of me is scared to
send it to you via e-mail because the Freemasons will read it and they
will know about the vision I had when I was hallucinating in the
hospital and they will sadistically make my worse fears reality and
this is how my life will end, blood spurting out of stumps, chainsaws
growling, evil pasty white men laughing, me screaming...)

So I play dumb, and reply, "I think you're going to cut off my head.
The Guillotine," I add to throw in a little corroborative historical
flavor.   "The Guillotine," howls the little round-headed man,
delighted, placing his hands casually around my neck.   "Whatever does
that mean?"

Thank you so much for your help on this one- have a restful vacation &
Happy Hanukkah-

 U.