My friend Tom has waaaay better dreams than I have. (In the past week, mine have included watching a leak in the bathroom creating a yawning, black hole in the floor and a trip to the laundromat.) In an email he sent today:

This morning I had a long anxiety dream that took place in a Mexican desert. I was trying to create several logos out of a large open field (I have a big deadline today). Suddenly, out of nowhere, you appeared and we had the following conversation:

D: Can you do me a favor?
T: Sure.
D: Do you think you could get me an Italian wedding cake that’s wired with explosives?
T: …Yeah, I can do that. Do you want enough explosives to kill everyone, or are you just trying to scare them?
D: What do you think?

And then you left. I was trying to figure out what an Italian wedding cake was, since I would have guessed that’s what you call a cake that’s wired with explosives.

Speaking of which, I don’t think I’ve mentioned this already, but in doing genealogical research on my father’s father’s family, I’ve discovered that there is an ‘ndrangheta ‘ndrina in Cittanova with our (original, unaltered) surname. In fact, one of the heads had the same name as my grandfather. (Or had, until he was assassinated — the ‘ndrangheta one, not the Hollywood, Florida, one.) If my great uncle hadn’t added that extra, superfluous S to our surname, I’d be apprehensive about visiting Calabria. Who knows what grudges those people still harbor.

Oh wait, I just remembered: I’m still apprehensive about visiting Calabria, because it’s the fucking armpit of Italy.