The Rolling Stones had a vacation house in Bergen County, at the end of a residential street somewhere near the intersection of Route 4 and Forest Ave. Four houses, actually: One-story Dutch colonials, real old, standing in a cluster of trees, surrounding a tricked out palazzo that sort of resembles the HoJo in Asbury Park. Where the orchestra area would be was an inground pool with free-standing glittering dolphin statues all around it. You could pay to take a tour of the grounds, so me and the fam were shown around. Underneath an outside stage with cruise ship-style windows overlooking the pool was an old timey English pub with all red velvet seats. "Don't touch the velvet," the tour guide said. "Keith gets very angry if anyone touches the velvet."

I was Mark Wahlberg and, at the same time, watching a film about Mark Wahlberg. He was on the run from the law, framed for a crime he didn't commit. He hid out in a basement that doubled as a black market liquor store, rows and rows of booze. An army of aging bull dykes clad in oversized flannel shirts ran the joint and gave him sanctuary.

Fuzzy entered, stage left. He found a bloodied snake head with a small, uneven human face crawling around under a box, and we got out a broom and tried to bash its brains in. Before our very eyes the thing began to grow and transform, with every strike, into a translucent white cartoon proboscis monkey with a shock of Roger Rabbit-like red hair on its head. As this was happening, the windows of the basement/liquor store exploded with water and the whole place began to flood. We struggled to continue to swing away at the monkey, which asked, in a plaintive cartoon voice why we were attacking it. The broom was swept away, and I flashed underwater, watching scores of bottles floating under the waves.

***

They had banned cars. Everything was foot traffic, and business at Styertowne in Clifton was booming. They were raising old tymey-signs outside with ropes, and the parking lot had been converted into a farmers market. My mother was a cartoon pig, like a female Porky in a dark navy church uniform. We walked on by the bustling area. They were renaming it, something like "Garden State Liberty Exchange," I don't exactly remember. My mother the pig stopped to talk to some weird neighbor who looked like one of those pugnacious Irishmen like you see in movies. I kept walking, under Route 3 and over onto some dunes, which emptied into the Pine Barrens.

The area was turning into some kind of primeval jungle. I scanned the area warily for snakes, and kept strolling along. In the distance behind me I saw a black thing moving fast through the underbrush. My dream hair stood on end. I began to run, but I knew at the rate it was moving there was no escape. It came rambling around the bend into a clearing opposite me: It looked like part-dog and part-monkey, an earthbound sloth that walked on all fours, black with a white stripe, and wild gooooogelly eyes (A lemur maybe?) I started screaming.

And Jenofur woke me up.

These dreams ain't much, but we'll work with what we got.

I dreamed we went to Columbus, Ohio: a ramshackle five-side bar with wood paneling. Inside, I tried to get my pal Sean to drink some of the Budweiser. I was ashamed at the paucity of beer choices in there, since it was so bar-looking, but the Bud was pretty good. Our kids ran around the place, raising Cain.

I had authored a children's book called "Abigail." It was drawn in the alluring, pseudo-simplistic, noble-Savage style of children's books, kind of Modernist. It was about a girl named Abigail who must climb this ridiculous tower into space. She wears a bag, which transforms into different costumes: bird, lion, dragon. They adapted it into a film, directed by this Frenchwoman. We went to the premiere, and I feared the adaptation would be artsy-fartsy and hard to understand. The Frenchwoman smoked one of those cigarettes-on-a-long-black-stique and looked off into the distance. Then they adapted it into a video game; the sensation of playing the game, especially when you arrived high-up atop the tower, churned my stomach. I felt like I was gonna fall over. Jenofur held my arm and asked if I was okay. One pretty cool feature of the video game was that, when you were on top of the tower, you could jump on a rope and slide down it, and, as you went faster and faster down the rope, you turned into a fireball.

Then Jenofur and I rode bikes around London. It was all low rowhouses and stores made of brick. She tried to ride her bike the wrong way down a one-way street. Then she tried walking her bike through a laundromat. That's when I knew it was time to go home.

I drank too much wine and couldn't speak or breathe. My eyes were black pools. Jennifer and Fuzzy shook me to try and resuscitate me. I guess I eventually came around.

Then I dreamed I was watching this movie in which the great-great-grandson of George Washington, who was played by Nick Cave, teamed up with Teddy Roosevelt to fight this undead, evil general. It was historical horror adventure of the highest form.