Sara and I were driving into the wooded country to go to some sort of event, though it wasn't clear what it was. When we were near it, we saw a young man directing traffic, maybe directing cars to park in a field by the road. His head was shaved and bore a tattoo of a Swastika. I pointed this out to Sara with some concern, and she said something like, "At least it's not a red Swastika," as though authentic Swastikas were always red. I told her Swastikas were "always black" and she became annoyed that I was compelled to correct her. At some point we got out of the car and walked among crowds of people towards this event, or party, or whatever it was. When we arrived, there were rows and rows of booths set up, with people behind them, and the crowd just flowing in between them, and it was still unclear exactly what this was, except there were more and more skinheads and I realized we were at some kind of backwoods white supremacist convention. We were disgusted and decided to leave. On our way out, I noticed that Amy Winehouse was there, standing behind a booth. I figured she couldn't possibly know this was a racist event; she wouldn't be here if she did. She loves black music. And yet, was this some real aspect of her mysterious persona? On the path back out, we stopped and hung out with some people and I pointed back to the event and warned that it was racist, full of skinheads, and everyone listened with due concern.

In part of a later dream, my old schoolmate Chris L. told me he was in the NBA. I asked him how many minutes he played and he said about five.

"Five per game?" I asked.

"No, no. Five total. All time."

"Have you scored any points?"

"Yes, of course!" he said.

"Good. So at least you popped your cherry."

He laughed and said yes, he'd popped his cherry. This is particularly funny because Chris L. was one of the shortest kids in school.