Last night I dreamed of John Denver.

No, really. Well, sort of.

There was all this dream stuff about a big house I was moving into, or that friends were moving into, you know, empty rooms and large sash windows and bare wood floors.

Later that night, after we did whatever we were doing that day, we all sat down in the living room. My grandparents' old mauve couch was there, and a plain coffee table, and me, a guy who looked startlingly like John Denver, my sister, and some other friends.

"John" started playing the guitar, in fact he tried to play some John Denver songs but forgot the words. "

"Here," I said, sliding a book to him across the coffee table. "I've got the John Denver songbook." (note: I do.)

"I'm not sure I know these," he said, an odd scowl on his face. "I'm not him, you know."

I said, "Well, good thing you *aren't* him, because if you were, we'd have to deal with all that ego, and anyway, you'd have died flying an ultralight over the California coast." My friends all nodded. This was obvious to them, and they meant it as an endearment. Another person smiled at him; "We're glad to have you here."

And that was the end. I had my own John Denver. Sort of.