Watching The Long Kiss Goodnight and enjoying it as much as I did in 1996.

I find that I have regularly misquoted a favorite bit of dialogue. My memory for wording is usually better than that. Perhaps I inherited a mild case of Mom’s lifelong malapropism; but that would not explain another anomaly: I also misremembered that Patrick Malahide made an atrocious attempt at a Dixie accent, rather than using his own voice. Perhaps that was another role.

I have often had dreams of futility, which I take to be a sign of depression. For example: there are many scraps of paper on the floor, and I have to find a specific one, but I cannot read.

This morning I had a mild one. I had breakfast at an outdoor restaurant, chatted with the waiter, returned to where I parked my car; it was not there. I later found it a block away, but blocked in by a parked truck. I used my car key to unlock something that released a rope so that the truck (now a trailer) rolled down the street, bumping into another trailer which bumped a third before they all came to rest. But now my car had vanished. I thought, this is too absurd, I’m dreaming. I sat on a bench and said, when I open my eyes that brick building yonder will be something else. It did change but, before I could take in the new scene, something pulled my hair from behind; when I turned to see who or what, I woke up.

Being aware of dreaming, however briefly, is new to me, or quite rare.

Somehow I never had anything by David Bowie in my collection (other than a German version of “Heroes” on some sampler album, and “Under Pressure” on the Grosse Pointe Blank soundtrack) until recently when I picked up Best of Bowie (2002), which makes me wonder what the fuss is about. Perhaps he is celebrated for something other than music?

Okay, “Modern Love” is catchy.