Dreams of field

By JAMES PARKER  |  October 31, 2007

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Dear Dr. Westchester,
I dreamed that I was in the bleachers at Fenway Park with Dick Cheney. We weren’t friends or anything, but he was eating an incredibly long hot dog, like a four-footer, and making these weird choking sounds. So, just to help out, I pick up the other end and start eating it. And to begin with, I’m feeling pretty good, like, “Look at me, I’m sharing a hot dog with Dick Cheney.” But then as more and more of the hot dog disappears, Dick Cheney gets this look in his eyes and starts really gnawing on it, as if he wants to beat me to the middle of the hot dog. So I speed up too, and we’re both chewing and grunting and our faces are getting closer and closer. And closer. Then I wake up screaming. He’s wearing a furry Russian hat, too — I forgot to mention that.
-Wakes Up Screaming, Needham

Dr. Westchester replies
Does this have anything to do with the Red Sox? I don’t think so! This is typical of the kind of liberal paranoia we specialists have to deal with more and more. If there was a pill for this, buddy, half the country would be hooked. My advice? Stop listening to National Pinko Radio.

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Dear Dr. Westchester,
I am a white witch living in Brookline with two wonderful cats: Peepers and Wild Woman. In my dream, I am honoring the solstice with my Wiccan sisterhood when suddenly the ceremony turns into a baseball game, and I’m waiting at third base and Manny Ramirez is running toward me very fast. The ground is shaking and he’s snorting like a rhinoceros. I make some goddess signs in the air to ward him off, but they don’t seem to work — he keeps coming! I’ve had this dream three times now, and last time I thrashed about in the bedding and frightened Peepers.
-Freya’s Ring

Dr. Westchester replies
Too easy. All the masculine energy that you have shut out of your life is coming to get you. Next time Manny charges you, Freya’s Ring, accept him. Accommodate him. Invite him in. But don’t give him any herb tea — he hates that shit.

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Dear Dr. Westchester,
I am an international jihadist figurehead on the run in the mountainous region of Pakistan near the Afghan border. Last night I dreamed that I was the starting pitcher for the Red Sox in a home game against the Yankees. A-Rod was batting and I was trying to concentrate, but Jason Varitek kept blowing kisses at me through his catcher’s mask. Needless to say, it was quite off-putting. I looked over at Terry Francona in the dugout, but he seemed to be laughing. I became vexed and threw the ball at him. Then I was shaken awake by one of my bodyguards — he said he could hear engines in the distance. Typical!
-Name Withheld

Dr. Westchester replies
You fundamentalists are all the same. You wouldn’t know a joke, Name Withheld, if it deprived you of sleep for 72 hours and then bombarded you with strobe lights and heavy metal. A message from your dreams: LIGHTEN UP.

****

Dear Dr. Westchester,
In my dream I am batting for the Red Sox in the World Series at Fenway Park, but then I look down and I realize that —

Dr. Westchester interjects
Let me guess. You realize that you’re not wearing any pants.

Uh, yeah. How did you know?

Never write me again.

James Parker, who still dreams in black and white, can be reached at jparker@phx.com.

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