A bit of undigested potato

That's what Scrooge blames for his visit by the ghost of Marley. I'm not sure what to blame for this dream of last night:

I was Frodo. Sam and I were trying to get the Ring to Mordor, only we were driving a 2002 silver Accord. Somehow I'd managed to lock the keys in the trunk, so we pushed the car into a shed and covered parts of it with straw.

A mass of refugees and soldiers came down the road, so the two of us hid in the back of the shed and hoped they wouldn't see it. (Did I mention this was on a north-south road through Mirkwood? THERE ARE NO SUCH ROADS IN MIRKWOOD.)

Anyway, then I remembered that I could press the button release in the glove compartment to get the trunk open, so I did so. Grabbed the keys and started the engine up, gunning for Mordor at top speed on the washed-out road through Mirkwood.

I knew I was behind where I was "supposed" to be at this point in the story, so I was speeding and running over anyone getting in my way. Then it switched to a third-person view, and I watched myself running along the road on an ostrich, which later turned into a giant frog. Frodo and the frog hid in a waterfall as they waited for the Nazgul on the shore to finish drinking water.

Kevin sent me a text message last night talking about parachutists in Boston. I couldn't really find much other than this story.

I'm enough of a political junkie that I'm looking forward to the convention coverage this week. Barack Obama. Remember that name. You'll be hearing it a lot in the future.