Last night I dreamed I was at the airport with my son (of course, in real life I have no children, natch), who was about eight years old and dressed like a li'l cowboy, with jeans and a checked shirt and a li'l red bandana around his neck. We were waiting for a flight to arrive and standing around at the gate, looking out the window, waiting for the plane... waiting, waiting, waiting. While we were waiting, an old man came over and gave him a deck of cards and walked off. When he opened the deck of cards, he found the individual cards, on the playing side, festooned with pictures of people who had committed suicide.

Now wasn't that nice?

I guess I know where I'm going to be June 15.

On a vaguely related note -- what does it mean, exactly, when you dream one night of being lectured by Lars Ulrich for hating on ST. ANGER, then subjected to "night terrors" while being pinned down by the ghost of Dimebag Darrell?