8.
    I was back in my apartment and reality. The sun had set and a new moon hung over the City. Birdie saw that I was coming out of the dream and was relieved. Then he was pissed off. I had to calm him down. I had to calm myself down. I told him the dream.
    He breathed a heavy sigh. “You’re so obsessed with that monkey, you’re dreaming about it again, aren’t you? George Bush is a wind-up toy bumping against the furniture in the oval office. He’s scarier than Howdy Doody with a chain saw. That thug Cheney is Regent and his strings are pulled by corporate America. They say he sings tunelessly at the top of his lungs when he’s sitting on the can. My God, that’s something straight out of Suetonius. And the tramp? How did Condoleezza slither her way into your nightmare? I get a headache just thinking about her winy, mousy voice and those watery eyes of hers trying to cover up a temperament that would as soon plant a knife in your back as serve you a cup of coffee.” He paused for a moment, reflecting. “I have to admit though, they’re quite a triumvirate: idiot evil, insane evil and smarmy evil. And what about you being a little boy? Were you innocence in the face of evil? What’s with the women rolling in the water and the dark forms slaughtering rooms full of victims? Ah, the subconscious, it's a feast for the conscious. None the less, you are wasting your time sweating bullets over all this.” If he had a finger, he would be waving it at me. I could see a frown under his feathers. “Now come on, take a deep breath and fix yourself a drink.”