So last night I had dinner with D, who was having atypical dreams of leading a cult of oppressed ghetto youth past commercial misogynistic hypermasculine culture into a bright new world of dedication to their Leader and love sweet love. Or something. I was hazy on the details. My diagnosis: he needs to reproduce, or buy a puppy. I feel the same way sometimes, I suppose. Still, it's kinda odd hatching plans for brainwashing when you're sitting in a rotisserie chicken place, even if it is a caravan or carnival or whatnot.