I had the strangest dream last night: I was working in my office, and there were hundreds of Dreams standing in my hallway, making a cacophonous racket as they fought with each other to be the first through the door.
I got up from my desk, threw my glasses down in disgust, and flung the door open so I could tell them to quiet down.
The hallway was empty and silent, and that’s when I woke up.
Here’s part two of The Exciting Adventure of Wil-man and Nolan-boy and the Strange Case of The 2004 Los Angeles Auto Show:

“So where should we start?” I said. My answer came in the form of Nolan running toward the biggest SUV I’ve ever seen. Seriously. It was a few feet shorter than a Star Destroyer.
I caught up with him as he climbed into the back seat.
“Wil! Look at how much room there is in here!” He said as he bounced and extended his legs to barely touch the back of the seat ahead of him.
“Yeah, but the power to destroy a planet is insignificant next to the power of The Force.” I reminded him.
He looked at me with a furrowed brow. “What?”
“Sorry,” I said, “I was having a nerd moment.”
“Oh, good. I hope we can have lots of those today.” He said, dryly.
“I find your lack of faith disturbing.” I said, and twitched my fingers.
He shook his head and laughed, “Whatever, Wil . . . ”
He hopped out of the truck, a Bvlgari-styled Cadillac Escalade, (which, I must admit, while being quite possibly the most environmentally irresponsible vehicle on Earth, was pretty damn sweet. Its interior was more like a Gulfstream jet than a car) and took my hand.
“Let’s go see the GTO,” he said.
“Do you think it’s going to look any less ugly than last year’s?” I asked him.
“I sure hope so!” he said, and we were off.
We made our way through the crowd, which was quite similar to the 405 on a Friday afternoon, and landed at the Pontiac booth. The 2004 GTO turned slowly on a raised platform in front of us.
“Oh –” he began, and looked up at me. “Can I say a cuss word?”
“What word?”
“The cuss word version of ‘dangit.'”
I looked at the abomination that is Pontiac’s “updating” of the GTO, and heard thousands of voices cry out in disgust, only to be suddenly silenced.
“Yes,” I said, “yes, you may.”
“DAMMIT!” He said, emphatically. “What an ugly pile that is!”
I nodded. “It sucks the most,” I said.
“Aren’t muscle cars supposed to be cool?” He said.
“Yep.”
“Like mom’s Mustang. That’s cool.” He said.
“Yeah. This isn’t a muscle car. It’s like a Taurus that is pretending to be a muscle car. Let’s get out of here before anyone sees us and thinks we’re admiring this thing.”
We hurried out of the Pontiac booth, past a middle-aged couple.
“Oh my god,” the man said as we passed, “I can’t believe they did this to my car.” His wife put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
(More next week. Have a great weekend, everybody!)

Today would have been the 75th birthday of the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.
To honor his memory, his legacy, and his dream, I offer the following wisdom from Dr. King himself:

“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”

Remember the Dream.

I haven’t had a haircut in almost two months, even though I am married to a hairdresser. I guess it’s like the shoemaker’s kids being barefoot.
As a result, my hair is huge. It stands up about four inches off my head, and sort of curls around like Wolverine . . . and not in a cool way.
Yeah. Scary.
Anne got a good look at my Marge Simpson-lite hair this morning.
“Holy crap,” she said, “your hair is wearing you!”
“Yeah. I can’t seem to make a goddamn appointment with my hairdresser, and despite the Logan look, I can’t snikt it off.”
I flexed my hands to show the lack of Adamantium claws.
“You lost me there,” she said, “I don’t speak nerd, remember?”
“So if I told you that my huge hair is a 5 point CHA disadvantage, that wouldn’t mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“And you wouldn’t know that I’d mixed D&D rules with GURPS?”
We looked at each other for a moment. “That’s right, baby, you’re married to this!“ I thought, mentally making a saving throw vs. Irritated Wife.
“May I please have a haircut?” I asked, politely.
“Yes you can,” she said. “Let me get the hedge clippers.”

I’m listening to the soundtrack from Two Towers as I write this. Ferris and Riley are on the floor behind me, back to back, slowly creeping across my floor in an effort to stay in the rectangle of sun that’s warming about 16 square feet of my living room. The smell of coffee and freshly-baked potato bread hangs heavy in the air.
None of this has anything to do with what I sat down to write, but it’s a wonderful winter morning here in casa Wheaton, and I wanted to commit it to 1’s and 0’s, so it’s never forgotten.
Back in November, Nolan and I tried to go to the Los Angeles Auto Show. Of course, when we got to the Convention Center, we found out that the Los Angeles Auto show was, in fact, in Orange County that weekend. All was not lost, however, because we went on to have an incredibly wonderful day together anyway.
This last weekend, the Los Angeles Auto Show was actually in Los Angeles, and Nolan and I spent all last week counting down the days until Sunday (Sunday! Sunday!) when we planned to attend.
Sunday was unseasonably warm and clear. We wore T-shirts and took the train down to the convention center. We sat in the very front, and watched the tracks, gleaming in the January sun, as they guided us toward Union Station.
“Are you excited, Wil?” Nolan asked me.
“You bet I am,” I said.
“I can’t wait to see the cars from PGR2,” he said.
I nodded.
“You know what PGR2 is, right?” He said.
“Project Gotham Racing 2,” I said, “Jeeze. I’m not that out of touch . . . am I?”
“Well, I guess not,” he said with a grin, “. . . right now.”
“I hope we have as much fun as we did last year,” I said.
“Me too,” he said.
We arrived at Union Station, ran down the tunnel to the Red Line, and jumped into the train just before the doors closed. Three stops later, we were on the Blue Line for one stop. We got off the train at Pico, and emerged in a crowd of auto-enthusiasts.
We walked to the Convention Center entrance down a street lined with vendors who hawked cheap toys, flowers, social security cards, and various types of food. We stopped at a red light next to a woman pushing a shopping cart topped with a propane grill. The smoky air was fragrant with cooking onions and sausages.
“Oh! That smells good! Can we get one?” Nolan asked.
“Are you sure you want to eat a sausage that’s prepared on top of a shopping cart?” I asked.
He thought for a moment. “Uhm, no. That’s gross.” He said.
“Maybe we can grab something inside,” I said.
“Maybe,” he said, “but I don’t think we should spend seven dollars on a pretzel.”
I laughed as the light changed. The crowd of people pushed us into the street, and Nolan held my hand as we crossed.
“Hey, you get in for free because you’re twelve!” I said, while we waited in line to buy our tickets.
“And you can –”
“If you say I can get in as a senior, I’m gonna –”
“Hit me with your cane?” he said.
“No, but I’ll tie you behind my Rascal Scooter and drag you through the mud,” I laughed.
We bought my non-senior-priced ticket, and walked into the West Hall.
To Be Continued . . .

Paul O’Neill has backed off from some of the statements I quoted a couple of days ago. Of course, this has resulted in a few e-mail lectures from people who kindly advise that I should just shut my stupid Hollywood liberal mouth and move to France.
I’m not planning any relocation, or any self-censorship in the near future, so If you’re one of those readers, I kindly advise you to go listen to Rush and come back tomorrow.