So, last night I dreamed I had a job working with a partner luring small bears out of vending machines by stuffing magazines into the product-drop slot. If done right, the bear would come bounding out of the slot, and we’d catch him. (It’s not clear if the bears were reading the magazines, or what.) Rolling Stone worked the best, but we didn’t have many of those, so we horded them. Ladies’ Home Journal was useless. My partner kept wanting to try the National Review, but for reasons that didn’t survive the transition to waking life, I insisted that wouldn’t work at all.

Whisky. Tango. Foxtrot.