Where is Rod Serling when you really need him?

I am not one who does much with dreams, simply because I rarely, if ever remember them. Last night's installment, however, was a doozy. In color, even.

It turns out I am again -- somehow -- working for my old boss, Gene W., who hired me one time to work at Borland. Except we're not in Kansas anymore, and this isn't Borland we're talking about. I am some kind of expert in electronic mail, and apparently caught his eye at a conference of some kind, at which I snagged a really nice shirt from a competitor... I vaguely recall it has the look of an aloha shirt, but with more muted colors, fabric with variations in texture, and long sleeves that end in French cuffs held together with, natch, silver cufflinks.

(Listen to me... normally I wouldn't know what a French cuff is if one were to walk up to me in the street and slap me in the face!)

Anyway, I suddenly find myself in a new set of surroundings that scream a cross between Star Trek (the original series) and the Twilight Zone. My desk is a triangular patch under a spotlight in a vast room. I am wearing the cool shirt and am suddenly confronted by Gene and others who want to know what I've accomplished since coming on board.

I am nonplused. I have no idea what they're talking about. Suddenly, Gene notices my shirt and says I need to get with the program. He starts to slash at me with a large pair of shears, neatly avoiding my skin but playing havoc with the shirt. When he is finished, I look a little like a Chippendale -- wearing only a collar and cuffs above the waist -- but in my present incarnation, i.e., middle-aged and pot-bellied.

I somehow magically acquire some kind of shirt -- or at least it no longer appears to be an issue -- and am shoved onto a stage to explain the file structure of something that every computer user has on their machine. I have no idea what to say. There is a diagram -- holographic, I think -- hanging in the air behind me. It has the ribbed outline of an accordion bellows.

The next thing I know, I've done a brain dump to my unseen audience. The diagram now looks like a lumpy, very zaftig person trying to fit into a small balloon. It occurs to me that, in the course of explaining what I had to explain, I discovered a very simple way to remotely take control of personal computers, and remember vaguely it resembled, in its simplicity, the problem experienced by a well-known purveyor of not-inexpensive bike locks (i.e., it turns out you can pick 'em with a ballpoint pen). The room is so quiet, you can hear a pin drop. I get the impression The Others are considering abandoning the original business plan to pursue a course of world conquest.

I wake up. It is 2 am.

I have no idea what prompted me to recall the dream so vividly. Maybe I just don't want to think about translation. I need coffee.

Cheers...

Those comments...

I took a closer look at the edits to that section of the document that involves terms and definitions. Some of the changes make sense; others don't.

In my experience, offering suggestions to translators (or worse, editors) is a pretty iffy proposition. I assume this is true outside of the Slavic languages, as well, where passions run deep, especially in people cracking wise about their non-native language.

In the end, I made only one suggestion and otherwise simply complimented the editor on his/her efforts.

Since my earlier post, I've done everything but translate: Brunch. Walk. Shower.

Now I must sit down and put finger to key. Technically, I can shave the day's goal down to 4100 words without forcing Monday's or Tuesday's share above 5000 per day, but that's starting to backpedal from an eminently workable schedule.

After all, it's not as if I have to watch TV or anything.

Cheers...