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coffee,” I tell him, tiptoeing my way across the tornado’s-been-through-it mess of his room and flipping on the pendant lamp. “You have to put the light on when you read, okay? It’s bad for your eyes to read in the dark.”
    If he hears this, there’s no indication. “And the states!” At last he looks me in the eye, although there’s something ever-so-slightly off about his gaze; making direct eye contact for him is the equivalent of me holding a difficult yoga pose. “Bring the states, you stupid Daddy.”
    I should probably reprimand him for calling me stupid, but he doesn’t really mean it, and I’m too tired, and anyway, he’s not exactly wrong.
    â€œRelax, would ya? Keep it down. I’ll bring the states, I’ll bring the states.”
    I go back downstairs to the living room, where, in a sloppy half-pile on the couch, I find California, Louisiana, West Virginia, and Maryland. I bring them back to his room, where I leave Roland, now quiet and clam-at-high-tide happy, with fifty-four puzzle pieces (forty-nine states plus five Great Lakes; Massachusetts went missing last week, probably due to his habit of hiding pieces in his room and promptly forgetting where he’s put them). My brain attempts to formulate a joke about how, since my son is such a “statesman,” that must make me a Founding Father, but without the caffeine, it just won’t come.
    T HE WORST PART ABOUT WAKING UP LIKE THIS IS NOT BEING ABLE to lie in bed for the nine extra minutes alarm clocks allocate for snoozing and reflect on my dreams. While my dream life, as mentioned, is about as rich and fulfilling as my sex life—so much for compensation—if I’m not consciously aware of what my subconscious was working out when I pass from one state to the other I couldn’t pee because the urinal was in a little room with a four-foot ceiling and I couldn’t stand up, right, now I remember, let’s move on , I am left with the naggingly unpleasant sensation that I’ve forgotten something important, and, often, a headache that all the coffee beans in Colombia can’t dislodge.
    This morning, in particular, I’d like to process my dream. Who was the woman in white? Why were we at Meg and Soren’s house? Wherefore the fixation on the garter? And, most importantly, what does it all mean? If I were still seeing Rob, I’d bring this to the next session, but if there is to be a next session, it will be next month, next year, next decade, some magical time when the Lansky ledger is back in the black—and frankly, when the Lansky ledger is back in the black, I don’t think I’ll be needing therapy. No, I’m on my own with this one.
    Josh’s Law of Dream Analysis, which stunning accuracy belies its illicit birth as a dormroom joke, goes like this: if your dream is about sex, it’s not about sex; if it’s not about sex . . . it’s about sex . Because, you know, your subconscious likes to fuck with you. But Josh’s Law does not apply here. My subconscious is not fucking with me this time. Sex is as sex does. The cigar in this dream, Dr. Freud, is just that: a big fat Romeo y Julieta maduro clamped between the yellowed and feral chompers of Fidel Castro. The cigar is a cigar.
    Soren Knudsen can’t remember last night.
    He updated his status at 4:08 a.m. EST—a little over an hour ago. Already he can’t remember? How much hootch did he drink?
    Ruth Terry great article
    with a link to Bob Herbert’s latest Times diatribe.
    I’m gonna go out on a limb here and predict that Bob Herbert is grousing about Republicans.
    Gloria Gallagher Hynek and Brady List are now friends.
    Here’s what you’re in for, Brady List, whoever you are: liberal use of the LIKE button, oft-shared YouTube links to grainy live sets by unloved grunge bands, and frequent updates involving Haven that speak of the towheaded