THE BLOG
07/23/2012 02:14 pm ET Updated Sep 18, 2012

Barfville

Last night was another one of those nights when I got a late start to sleep, but once I did surrender, I had the most extraordinary dream.

I dreamt I was living in a town called Barfville. I was an entertainer of some kind, and preparing for a performance. When I went to the local hairstylist, I explained that I had to be in a play, he told me he was strapped for cash, and directed me to deposit coins in a meter next to the counter where all his clipping supplies were kept. "50 cents?," I asked, "Is that all it costs."

As I had only bills on me, and couldn't find any other merchants nearby in Barfville, I went to find a pay phone. There was one on the wall next to what appeared to be the town's one and only post office. Alas, a phone call was also 50 cents.

I was beside myself. I looked around for someone to ask, but saw no one.

At the bottom of my handbag, two quarters mysteriously appeared, evidently they had fallen from my wallet, so I walked back to the hairdresser, and gave him his money. I then went back to my hotel where the concierge informed me there was a package waiting for me in my room.

It was a small package, and it was waiting on my bed. Sensing that I was already running late for my performance, wherever it was, I hastily tore open the box only to discover a pair of white panties that had evidently been barfed on with a handwritten note: "Welcome to Barfville. Good luck on the play tonight. Carry these with you for good luck."

Seeing as one who has always been superstitious, even in dreams, I dressed, and dutifully carried the white panties in my right hand, and headed out for the theatre. The right hand, evidently, stands for virtue.

I passed an older man on the street who shouted, "Oh come on. You can't carry those here."

Where is here, I wondered, and why were there so few passersby? There was a building that housed the editorial board of the local newspaper, and when I went to buy a copy from a newsstand, and the paper cost, you guessed it, 50 cents. I didn't have any more change, but was able to discern from the headline the lead story was about a wild-eyed woman roaming Barfville carrying a pair of ladies underwear.

So, I went inside the building where I found an editor at a reception desk with a small sign, "The Barfville Times." I approached him, and asked why the town was named Barfville whereupon he introduced me to what he said was the first world's barfometer. He invited me to try it.

"About a hundred years ago, this town was very close to the capital," he told me.
"Which one?" I asked. "Why Washington, D.C."

It seems the barfometer was devised in the year 2050 to measure the amount of bunk coming from the mouths of politicians.

With a smirk, he added, "The mayor is the son of the fellow who invented the barfometer. Barfville is where politicians come to retire."

"Why is everything 50 cents?" I asked.

"Eventually, even politicians have to live on a fixed income."