B E B E R E

The other night I dreamt that Hillary Clinton was going round my neighborhood looking to start a gospel choir. It seemed odd to me, as my neighborhood's demographics wouldn't strike me as the sort who'd be into that sort of thing, the Pentecostals all being happily served in their language-friendly churches, and the local Gospel Brunch having ended with the closure of the House of Blues some time back. Still, good Christian Soldier that Hillary was, she donned a dashiki, put a "Jesus Loves You" headband on and moved forth to try to save us poor, benighted urban professionals with music.

I sat on Raphaella's stoop and just watched. She seemed to do well with females of a certain age and class (white, Seven Sisters, no makeup sorts). Most of my neighbors seemed pretty skeptical, though, and I'm pretty sure I heard once or twice the term "tourist" spoken.

At about this time, I woke up to an awful sense of confusion. Ended up getting up a bit late from having stayed in bed too long trying to puzzle this one out.