You know, there's a website dedicated to dreams about Barack Obama.  There haven't been any posts since May, when Obamania was peaking, but I'm sure the Junior Senator from Illinois is still making cameo appearances in the theater of the American Subconscious.

Despite his near ubiquity over the past many months I had not had any dreams of Barack myself.  Until last night.  I'd gone to dinner with a couple of friends and had had a little to drink, and the last thing we'd talked about was a dream one of us had had.  But not about Obama.  We had not talked about Obama at all, in fact. 

The conversation had actually ranged from discussing who might be interested in going to King Richard's Faire, to a friend's new refrigerator with a cord too short to plug it in and my stalled, apparently foolhardy plan to make my own drapes, to the story behind the crazy blend of spices in Mexican food (and drink) and the lengths a people will go to satisfy its cultural obsessions, to "Art and Empire: Treasures from Assyria in the British Museum" at the MFA.  Surprisingly, Obama never came up at all.  But as I said, we ended up on the topic of a dream. which I guess got me in the mood for some dreaming.

So, yes: I had a dream.  The dream itself was pretty straightforward.  None of this weird breast-feeding business.  No sublimated racism.  And no self-aggrandizing white-guilt Harvard Law sex-conspiracy bullshit.  No "sorry, I have to take my pussy home" sad-sack excuses.  No Michelle.

In my dream, I think I may have been kidnapped.  I have a vague recollection of having spent part of the preceding dream in the trunk of a car.  Then, suddenly there I am, at Obama Manor (it was all the white pillars and marble that tipped me off), feeling relaxed and talking with Barack about how politics is the art of triangulation. 

I remember thinking, hmm, this guy's OK.  He was very personable.  But it was getting kind of late.  I was staying over, and I'd pulled out the sofa bed.  I was yawning and giving all the signals.  I really just wanted to get to sleep, but he kept hanging around, and banging on.

Finally, Obama kissed me.  He was way more into it than I was.  But what the heck, right?  I mean, why not?  But I have to admit: as we made out my mind wandered.  I was mentally critiquing his technique, as you do.  I was thinking: not mind-blowing, but he's got a natural talent and can learn.  Not really BF material, but FB — not out of the question. 

I noted he tasted a little spicy, like Mole Poblano maybe. We didn't get any further than kissing.  Which was fine.  I'm not really all that curious, to tell you the truth.  So, it was pretty chaste in the final analysis.  I woke up laughing, with a boner.  Of course, I usually do. 

Still, you could consider it an endorsement of sorts.