I have a rich fantasy life these days.

Like, how great it would be to sleep through the night and not restlessly wonder what the Trump administration is dismantling, trampling, or corrupting.

I imagine lingering over multi-course meals inside restaurants with my friends, maskless, lipsticked, hugging good-bye. Maybe sitting at a bar with a glass of wine and enjoying the ambiance and even flirting again.

I fantasize about art museums and Broadway shows and botanical gardens and cafes and department stores and weight training and literary readings and travel, all things that keep popping up in my Facebook memories.

I contrive a scenario where the United States gets a universal testing system for Coronavirus nearly as sophisticated and efficient as Germany’s BEFORE the pandemic actually ends. You know, they come to you, swab, and results are back in a day.

Sometimes the fantasies get trippy. I have this whole setup in my head of different activities going on in the various clouds where people go when they’ve left us. The Pearly Gates are on the main cloud, where those who enter are greeted by God, who is actually Helen Reddy singing I Am Woman.

I imagine Ruth Bader Ginsburg, like Patrick Swayze’s character in Ghost, is learning how to use her powers from the other side and she’s practicing by tripping Bill Barr, smacking Donald Trump in the head, and making just enough noise in Mitch McConnell’s house so he thinks he’s lost his mind. She’s also fashioned a little buzzer that zaps Kayleigh McEnany with a jolt every time she disrespects the press she’s supposed to serve.

Or, I don’t know, maybe RBG is on to more sophisticated things like organizing an event in the White House Rose Garden that serves up a COVID-19 appetizer. Her and Antonin Scalia, who’s turned liberal since leaving us, laugh about it on their way to go see a Pavarotti concert over on another cloud. “That ought to throw a wrench into things,” he says to a sheepish Ruth.

Incidentally, in my fantasy, those in the Trump orbit don’t die from the virus. The thought of watching some of them – especially those named Trump — go to prison is too luscious. I want the sweating, the perp walks, the suffering. Let’s call it my version of the ideal reality show here on Earth.

Meanwhile, on another cloud, I have visions of John Lewis sprinkling a few dozen ballot drop boxes into Harris County, Texas – the original 12 removed by Gov. Greg Abbott and another 12 for good measure. I see Lewis sitting on the shoulders of poll workers who aim to reject ballots that should be counted and push them into the ‘good’ pile when the workers aren’t looking. Good trouble is all the rage on the other side.

There is also a cloud where George Floyd is quoting Obi-Wan Kenobi, “If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine.” In my fantasy he forms a squad and they systematically and creatively take out every militarized white supremacist who terrorizes a person of color. Some they simply toy with by stealing their bullets. Others wind up in an operating room staring at a black surgeon who’s about to put them under. The most egregious cases – like Stephen Miller — get passed off to Dante for processing.

So many clouds. So much activity.

Back here on our little corner of the planet, I fantasize about a Joe Biden-Kamala Harris win in our presidential election.

Whoa, whoa, whoa.

Wait, hold on. Let’s take that one out of the fantasy file and put it squarely on the reality pile.


Along with the return of hope, decency, and a good night’s sleep.