In my dreams last night, Steve Irwin wasn’t really dead, but was just on a road trip, with a big suitcase full of pot – he had faked his own death so that he could do this. I ran into him on a spiral stairway in a casino I was in somehow, and I was glad that he was still alive, but kind of sad, too, because he looked like it wasn’t one of the fun road trips, and because he wasn’t concealing his pot very well and wasn’t going to be able to keep from being arrested much longer. I watched him get on a train going to North Dakota.
I think this is the first time I’ve ever had a Not-Really-Dead dream about someone I didn’t know. I had no idea I had such strong feelings about the Crocodile Hunter.
(Last year I dreamed that Anne McCaffrey wrote a new Pern book that was good, but that’s not the same thing.)