Note to publishing interests

If you have a little investment capital burning a hole in your pocket, I have a can't miss business venture: PopCulture - a progressive parenting magazine geared toward fathers. I've stumbled upon the motherlode of untapped consumer markets, a target demographic that is ripe for the plucking. Now, I know what you're thinking, "Isn't the market for parenting magazines pretty much saturated at this point?" Think again. The vast majority of these magazines are geared toward mothers, and those that aim for the broader target of the parent dyad largely address fathers as an afterthought. Fathers appear in a tiny fraction of ads in these magazines, and the preponderance of articles are by, about and for pregnant women and new mothers. When fathers are directly addressed, it's typically because we need to be cajoled into performing our parenting duties. Based on the image culled from these magazines, fathers are reluctant, incompetent, ambivalent, distant, and often downright negligent. The fathers in these magazines are stuck in a 1950's stereotype that was already becoming anachronistic by the time of my childhood during the 1970's. I'm just dipping my feet into the pool of fatherhood, but I can tell you now that my experience isn't going to fit the stereotype. I will be a breadwinner but also a primary caregiver. I look forward to being a stay-at-home dad, and feel a little sorry for Anna having to go back to work. I don't find housework emasculating, and I'm not even slightly invested in the social status that comes with a professional career. I look forward to afternoons at the park and matinees and visits to the children's museum and swimming at Barton Springs. The last thing you'll have to do is goad me into being a father. So, where is my magazine? And believe me, I've looked. There are magazines expressly targeted to fathers, but they generally fall into one of two categories: right-wing Christian propaganda of the PromiseKeepers variety, and bitter rags produced by and for angry, divorced single-parents. These magazines don't really speak to me as a father, y'know? So there's definitely an audience here. And it's not just stay-at-home dads. Most of the working fathers I know have spouses who also work, and even if their wives stay home, these guys share a good chunk of the parenting duties - and not reluctantly. It's just expected these days. It's part of a modern marriage. But you wouldn't know that by looking at the parenting magazines. We'll make billions. Because when I say motherlode of untapped consumer markets, I mean the end-all-be-all-grandaddy-behemoth of demographic segments. There is so much shit for expectant parents to buy, it's just mind-boggling. And I have no idea what kind of diapers to buy, or which baby food is best, or what toys my boy will not be able to live without. I need consumer guidance. Companies will be climbing over each other to get ad space. As an audience, we're an advertiser's wet dream. We'll choke on ad revenue, but if that's not enough for you, think of the spinoffs: PopCultureTV, the 24-hour Dad network; PopCulture-brand daddy-centric parenting paraphernalia; PopCulture fatherhood manuals and weekend seminars. Scads of money, right here.

So, if you are a magazine publisher, or have influential ties with someone in the magazine publishing industry, have your people call my people, and let's make this thing happen.

David Breshears
CEO/Founder
PopCulture
A Magazine of Modern Fathering

What's in a name?

When I told my dad we found out we're having a boy, and that he would be our son's namessake, his voice swelled with pride. Not only was he finally getting a grandchild, a grandson no less, but the boy would carry his name. I'd done real good, and he told me so. He also told me the meaning of Franklin, "free man," and said it explained why so many emancipated slaves took the name. I flashed forward to a moment in the future when I would relay this fact to young Frankie, and silently congratulated Anna and myself for our choice. I was happy we'd decided on a name that was heavy with familial significance, but hadn't considered the broad spectrum of potential meanings beyond that (as demonstrated by the fact that I didn't see the "Dookie" controversy coming). "Free man"? That's cool for so many reasons. Not only would the boy share a name with this father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, but a name that carries an interesting and noble meaning beyond its obvious genealogical significance. I'm sure the kid will have his share of complaints, but getting saddled with a lame name shouldn't be one of them. This morning, Anna sent an email that further confirms the sheer brilliance of our choice:

I just looked up Franklin to find the meaning. It's "free man" in Latin. Duke is "leader" in Latin. So apparently, Franklin Duke will be the leader of free men or something...

XOXO

Anna

Random Notes

Someone told me Thursday, “Oh, you’re so big. Are you sure you’re not having twins?”
I smiled, grit my teeth and curtly replied, “Yes, we’re pretty sure” instead of “At least I have an excuse,” which is what I would have preferred to say.

Proof that Dave is also pretty cool himself: When I got home from work Friday to grab him and pick up our newly fixed wagon, he had printed out maps and menus to a number of restaurants on the Lake so that we could spend the evening driving our car on some curvy country roads and watch the sun set. Not bad, huh?

Further proof that Anna is pretty much the coolest chick on the planet

No. 2,347: Anna vs. the Car Salesman. For the past month or so, we've been shopping for a car. We narrowed our choices to a Toyota Highlander, a Honda CRV, and a Subaru Outback or Legacy wagon. We studied safety ratings, read everything Consumer Reports had to say about each, compared consumer feedback, and took each for a test drive. We settled on a Subaru a couple of weeks ago, and after crunching the numbers and reluctantly abandoning hope for a moon roof, we decided to go with the Outback. I tell you all of this so you understand the amount of work that went into the decision about what kind of car to buy. Now, imagine that amount squared, or maybe even cubed. That should give you a sense of the magnitude of the effort Anna put into the actual purchase. She researched the Kelly Blue Book value of our trade-in, found invoice prices for various Outback models, learned about all the tactics salespeople play while negotiating a deal, and figured out precisely what she was and wasn't willing to pay. She was fully prepared for this, and even said she was looking forward to haggling. We made an appointment for last Friday, told them the model, color and options we wanted, and they promised to have more than one waiting for us.

I had my car detailed Friday afternoon, hoping the investment might help our negotiating position on the trade-in value. Anna was hoping for somewhere between $1200 and $1500, but I would've taken $1000 and considered it a steal. Without the detail job, I wouldn't have given you $800 for it: 1995 Honda Civic, 100K+ miles, body damage, "check engine" light on (it needs about $500 in engine work), cracked front windshield, recent hail damage, smells like it was driven by a smoker, interior covered in dog hair. Do I hear $750? So, I take the car to get it detailed, and they are running late. Anna picks me up at the house at 4:00, and we decide that she should go ahead and go to the dealership without me. She's already forbidden me from speaking during these negotiations, so I certainly won't be missed.

By the time I make it to the dealership, Anna and Michael, our sales guy, are already deep into the negotiations. He shakes my hand on his way out of the office, heading next door to make a phone call to his sales manager with Anna's latest offer. She fills me in: they are still pretty far apart, and he keeps insisting that the invoice price on the car is $1300 higher than any of the invoice prices she found on the web. "He's pulling every trick the websites said he would." In her auto shopping research, Anna had come across multiple sites that warned of dubious sales tactics, all of which Michael had tried, without success. He returned to the room, showed Anna their counter-offer, and suggested that he take a look at our trade-in. We watched as he walked around the car, noting all the defects I listed above. We headed back to his office and he made what he called "a generous offer" of $900. Anna looked incredulous. After seeing the detail job, she was leaning more toward the $1500 end of her anticipated range. $900 was an insult, and their counter-offer wasn't much better. That's when Michael pulled out the four-square worksheet. "No!" Anna was adament. "No worksheet. I know about the worksheet. Put it away." Michael froze. I'm fairly certain he had never encountered this reaction before, because he had no idea how to respond. He tried several tacks, in succession:

Tack 1: Stick with the gameplan. "This worksheet is very useful." Not a good move. Anna isn't budging on the issue of the worksheet, which is apparently a standard device employed by sales people in their efforts to pry your money away from you. Anna is growing increasingly impatient with these sales tactics, which are reinforcing her belief that Michael's trying to take more of her money than he deserves. Continuing to argue the pragmatic utility of the worksheet is hopeless, and even counterproductive. Unfortunately, poor Michael doesn't realize this quickly enough, though he eventually puts the worksheet aside.

Tack 2: Feigned accommodation. "OK, Anna. You've got me. What is it going to take? What's your best offer?" Anna writes two numbers on a piece of paper - one, the amount we're willing to pay for the car; the second, the amount we'll accept for our trade-in. Michael takes the paper and again heads out of the office to talk to his manager. I tell her that $900 isn't a totally unreasonable offer, and that a couple of hundred dollars when you're talking about thousands isn't such a big deal. The dealership is located in far south Austin, and it took more than an hour to make it here. I told Anna that I didn't want to drive back and forth again over a difference of $2 a month. She reminded me that that was precisely why I wasn't allowed to talk, and told me not to get anxious. They'd cleverly parked the car just outside the window of Michael's office, a brilliant tactic that's probably sealed hundreds of deals. Anna was impervious. Michael returned with another counter-offer that still didn't reach the compromise range Anna hoped for. They stared at each other in frustration as I fought back my fiercest consumer impulses. But Anna held her ground, and Michael left the room once again, determined to make the sale, and now growing visibly frustrated.

Tack 3: A firm and final offer. "This is the best I can do." The numbers are written in thick black ink, and below them a note: "We appreciate your business, but this is our best and final offer." This was it. They'd moved enough that Anna could walk away with a sense of victory, however minor, and we would have our shiny new car that afternoon, in plenty of time for me to drive it to Houston for the Astros game on Monday (such are my priorities, the reason Anna is in charge of these sorts of things). Michael looked at her nervously. This former Navy pilot's hands were literally trembling as she stared at the sheet. She didn't blink: "Well, thank you Michael, but that's not going to do it. Let's go." And we left. We just stood up and walked out. I thanked Michael, both of us slightly in shock as we shook hands.

Anna was just awesome. Even though it meant we'd have to drive back again if we didn't actually find a better deal, and that I might not get the new car for the trip to Houston, I was proud of her. "Just wait," she said, "they'll call."

Anna was at breakfast Saturday morning when Michael called to say that after further consideration, his boss had decided to accept her offer. She let him leave a voicemail, and didn't answer when he tried her twice more before she made it back home around 1:00. She finally called him back just before we left to talk to another dealer. "Thanks, Michael. I'll talk it over with Dave and we'll think about it. We're going to stop by another dealership, but we might be by after that...if we're still looking." She said that Michael sounded panicked. He warned her that cars at other lots might have hail damage. Anna told him thanks, but that we'd already made an appointment, then she hung up.

To make a long story short, Anna's haggling wound up getting us twice as much for our trade-in, $1500 less than HER lowest offer at the other dealership, and 1% lower financing on a car that included two equipment upgrades and a custom sound system. She is good, people. Michael called again after we were home with the new car. Anna didn't want to talk to him, but I took great pride in telling him how badly he'd been beaten: "She got twice as much for our trade-in, a percentage point better financing, and $1500 under the offer you accepted on a car with better features." He sounded like he'd been kicked in the gut. "Well, uh, okay then." That's all he said before I hung up.

No. 2,348: Anna passes up a spot on the Vans Warped Tour. So, I'm watching Clemens and Hudson duke it out with Glen and Wes when I get a call from Anna. She's pregnant, so I am obligated to answer it, even though it is otherwise a clear violation of masculine etiquette. She is calling to tell me that her band, The (Revenge of the) Bad Apples, have been invited to play on the Vans Warped Tour. Luckily, it didn't take a lot of convincing for her to decide against even doing the three Texas shows in late-June, the logisitics of the event being somewhat sketchy w/r/t pregnancy accommodations. But still, how cool would it be to tell your kid that his mom played guitar on the Warped Tour while she was pregnant with him? Cool or criminally negligent, or maybe a little of both.

The looming battle

I love my mother-in-law. I don't know if it's just a stereotype, or if most husbands really don't like their mothers-in-law, but I think mine is one of the coolest folks around. You all know by now what a badass Anna is, and she pretty much gets it all from her mom. Joann is an artist, a chef, and a black belt in karate. She's got a very wry sense of humor, great taste in books and film, and she can more than hold up her end of a conversation. As far as I can tell, the only significant flaw in the woman's character is that she's a Cardinals fan. Though not necessarily an indication that she's evil per se, this fact combined with her penchant for friendly torture and my love of the Astros makes me a frequent target of her rapier wit.

After the Cards finally slipped past the Astros in Game 7 of last year's NLCS, Joann was the first person to call. This fact is itself remarkable. I'm in several fantasy baseball leagues, and during the course of a season I do an enormous amount of shit talking on behalf of my Astros. Much of this is directed at or near the Cardinals and their fans. In some cases, money was on the line, what with my mouth holding the proverbial checkbook. Guys I've been hanging with since high school, lifelong, diehard Astros fans, should be calling to commiserate. And most of these guys did, but after Joann beat them to the punch. She's that cool. In hindsight, I wish I'd answered that call. And I'm sure her message was scathing. I almost wish I hadn't erased it without listening to it.

So, yesterday I got a package in the mail from Joann. She frequently sends care packages, but they're usually addressed to Anna, or even Anna and Dave. This one was for me.

Now, to really appreciate this, you need a little backstory. It's 3:30AM, and I have just made it back from Houston, having driven down earlier in the day to meet up with a couple of buddies and catch the Astros' game against the Braves. I'm home about two hours later than I'd hoped, the game having gone into extra innings. And it truly was a gem of a game. Clemens against Hudson. We had spectacular seats, 28 rows up, five feet from home plate down the third base line. From those seats I could've hit Drayton McLane in the back of the head with a bag of peanuts (but I didn't). Clemens threw 7 scoreless innings with 8 K's, Hudson threw 9 scoreless with 9 K's. In the bottom of the 10th, the Astros stranded three [3(!)] after loading the bases with no outs (0!). The 0-0 tie was finally broken in the top of the 12th when former-Astros prospect Ryan Langerhans launched one over the rightfield wall against Dan Wheeler (0-2) for his first major league home run. It turned out to be the game winner as the Astros once again failed to provide any run support for an outstanding pitching performance by the Rocket. But I digress.

It is 3:30AM, and I have just made it back from Houston, and I am disappointed, melancholy and exhausted. I try to slip out of my clothes and into bed as quietly as possible, but manage to wake Anna, as usual.

"What time is it?"
"Half-past three. Extra innings. Go back to sleep."
"There's a package for you on the kitchen table. From my mom."

I've managed to make it out of my clothes, so I'm stumbling around naked, trying to make my way to the kitchen in the dark so I can shut the blinds before turning on the light. There is no package on the table. I tell this to Anna, almost reflexively. I have a terrible habit of asking her where something is before taking the half-minute required to look in some of the more obvious possible spots. The letter is sitting next to the mixer, less than three feet from my right hand. Anna gets out of bed to point this out to me, and to pee, which makes me feel a little less guilty.

I open the letter, and she calls from the bathroom, "What is it?" For a brief moment, I am speechless. Once again, I'm Joann's target, and her aim is dead-on. What I'm holding in my hands is both adorable and horrific: a tiny, red and blue St. Louis Cardinal baby outfit, complete with a bib emblazoned with the Cardinals logo and matching pair of red and blue booties. I holler at Anna, "You'll love this." And she did, because Anna - who otherwise does not care one iota about anything even remotely related to professional sports - has decided that rooting for the Cardinals is worth it, if only for the pleasure of watching me squirm.

And this is the looming battle: Anna and Joann on one side of the fence ( the evil side), my dad and I on the other. Of course, the gals don't stand a chance. There is no stronger bond than the one between a father and a son and a professional sports franchise. Joann's influence will be attenuated by distance, and Anna simply doesn't have the stomach for the kind of all-out offensive I'm willing to wage on this issue. Do you seriously see Anna making it through 12 innings of shutout ball, much less an entire season? Won't happen. So y'all might as well pack it in now so you don't confuse the poor boy, because you are tilting at windmills on this one.

It's ALIVE!!!

I think I felt the baby kick on Monday night. Well, ok, not kick, but squirm around. I had been lying on my side and I think he felt squished so when I rolled onto my back, I think he was moving around to readjust himself. It was freaky. It felt like I ate some live goldfish and they were still alive swimming around my stomach.

Pretty much unrelated, but needs to be said

I've been listening to AM sports radio for the past couple of days while archiving Equal Protection/Fourteenth Amendment law reviews. Franklin's impending arrival has me working double-time on the dissertation, and the long hours would drive me crazy if I didn't have a little white noise running in the background. Sure, AM sports radio is repetitive, mindless chatter, but that's what makes it the perfect non-distraction. Anyway, I'm listening to AM sports radio all morning, and now again this afternoon. The big story? In last night's game between New York and Boston at Fenway, Yankees rightfielder Gary Sheffield got into a minor altercation with a fan after chasing a ball to the edge of the stands along the rightfield line. The footage of the skirmish has been on high rotation all day. I've seen the footage, and it's pretty clear what happened: As Sheffield is running down a ball that's dribbling down the rightfield line, bearing down on the stands in rightfield, a fan swings his arm, gesturing. Whatever you think about his intent, this part is HUGE: he was not taking a swing at Sheffield, trying to knock his hat off, or even just going for a souvenir ball, as some apologists have suggested. HE IS GESTURING. As the camera closes in on him, you can clearly see that he is turned away from Sheffield and the play, looking in the direction of the guy next to him. His arm is swinging down as Sheffield closes in on the ball, and by sheer fucking coincidence they make slight contact. Sheffield goes berserk. He later explains that he got socked in the mouth, and that he was totally freaked out. He says that he almost snapped, as his cocked arm and clenched fist indicate, but he thought about the consequences and caught himself at the last second.

Let me say at the outset that Sheffield did have a right to be pissed - not because of the fan whose hand swiped his face, but because in the ensuing melee another fan dumped a beer on him. Of course, nobody is mentioning the jackass who poured a beer on Shef. Everyone is so preoccupied by the alleged "punch" that they totally miss the more egregious act of the beer-spilling moron. So, the poor guy who inadvertantly swiped Sheffield gets the boot and is universally vilified on AM sports radio, while Sheffield is celebrated as some kind of hero for not going off half-cocked and climbing into the fans Artest-style. This is ridiculous, and further proof that the cretins who call in to AM sports radio shows should be forcibly sterilized for the good of humanity.

Like I told you, it's pretty much unrelated, but it needed to be said.

I'm sold

Franklin Duke it is. And for those of you not reading the notes, my cousin Shelee pointed out a glaring omission in my genealogy of the "Franklin" moniker - my grandpa, Dad's dad, was George Franklin Breshears. That makes our boy a fourth generation Franklin. I realize that's probably another argument for Duke Franklin, but more than one person was quick to point out that the poor kid will be saddled with the "dookie" nickname. I'm not sure which is worse: that I'm persuaded by the shameful force of the word "dookie," or that it's the first word that popped into the head of more than one grown ass adult when they heard the word "Duke." Personally, I think John Wayne, Hall of Fame centerfielder Duke Snider, Duke Ellington, Olympic gold medalist and legendary Hawaiian surfer Duke Kahanamoku...I don't actually think Duke Kahanamoku - that's a Googlet [holy crap - I think I just coined another word ] - but my point is that you should be slightly embarrassed that the first thing to cross your minds was "dookie" (and before you take offense at having been called out on this, know that my mom is one of you). In either case, I think we'll be going with Franklin Duke Breshears. Anna gets her "Frankie," and our boy can exercise his option on the "Duke" name if there's ever an uptick in the market value of hypermasculinity (the over/under is his 10th birthday, for those of you looking for side action). Besides, there may be a kind of Boy-Named-Sue-effect that comes with bearing the load of a cute nickname. I'm not looking to get stabbed by my kid or anything, but in this world, a little toughness doesn't hurt.

That's Duke Franklin

Don't let Anna's casual and conclusive tone fool you into believing that the matter of the name is in any way settled. Well, that's not exactly true. We're pretty much set on two names, Duke and Franklin, but we're still up in the air about the order. I'm pushing for Duke Franklin Breshears, and Anna's obviously a Franklin Duke supporter. She likes the idea of a cute little boy she can call "Frankie." This is precisely my father's argument against naming the kid Franklin, or Frank, or any variation thereof. Having been one of those unfortunately named little cuties, my father is adamant about this. "Frankie" is apparently a tough nickname to shake, and not something you want to be called after you reach the age of five or six. His opposition seems reasonable when you consider what vicious little shits kids can be.

Franklin is actually Dad's middle name; his first is Hearl. Swear to God: Hearl Franklin Breshears (thus his obvious decision to go by "Frank"). I'm David Franklin Breshears. So, the way I see it, it's only fitting that our son should be Duke Franklin Breshears. If the kid likes "Frankie" better than "Duke," he can follow in his Grandpa's footsteps. And if he changes his mind at some point and decides that "Frankie" isn't doing it for him, he can switch to "Duke." "Duke" is pretty much the antithesis of "Frankie." Duke doesn't take shit from kids who think its funny to make fun of other kids' names. I'm sure Anna shudders when the mental image of her little Frankie (Duke) bowing up to some preschool thug flashes across her mind. I'll confess only a slight twinge of pride.

We actually settled on Duke because it's Anna's mother's maiden name, and not because it more or less guarantees that our son will be a little stud (although it can't hurt). "Frank" was also our boy's Great-Grandfather's name, Anna's mom's dad. So, it's a name that echoes a family history. Duke Franklin or Franklin Duke...I guess I could really live with either. We're actually just glad that our baby's a boy, because we couldn't really come up with any good girl names, familial or otherwise. Anna was pushing for Brittany, but I was dead set against it.

Franklin Duke #2

Check out Frankie's scary Halloween face. I like the one eyeball/skull look. Creepy! I hope he doesn't turn out to be an alien. There was that one time that I woke up in the yard and I felt really funny...hmmmm....

Franklin Duke #1

Holy Toledo, Batman! It's a BOY. Don't know if you can see the arrow pointing to a tiny little bump that says PENIS. Yup, no mistaking that for anything else!

Squishy

I woke up the other morning after sleeping on my side for a long time. My whole stomach was smooshed to one side! It was a little creepy and wobbly until it centered itself. My stomach is officially it's own entity that I can no longer control.

10 things I'm looking forward to

In no particular order:

Kool-Aid. I love Kool Aid. I can't wait until my kid has a favorite flavor of Kool-Aid.

Tinker Toys. I haven't checked, but if they don't have Tinker Toys anymore, someone will have serious hell to pay. Remember Giant Tinker Toys? At one point I thought Giant Tinker Toys were the coolest thing in the world, next to Sea Monkeys (which I never had, and hence, totally believed in).

Saturday morning cartoons. I know they suck right now, but in 4 or 5 years, when they really matter, there'll either be something better on, or I'll hook the kid on Popeye & Looney Tunes DVD's.

Plastic swimming pools. The turtle pool with the built-in slide? And the Slip-n-Slide. Who can forget the Slip-n-Slide?

Legos. Not those stupid Lego Gas Station or Lego High-Rise Condominium "kits". When I was a kid, Legos came in giant boxes, and they were sorted by shape and color into various compartments. I don't even remember instructions, much less directions for the construction of a Strip Mall Shopping Center, or some other nonsense. If I have to, I'll buy every "kit" they make and reverse engineer an actual Lego set.

Little League sports. I don't care if it's soccer, football, basketball, baseball or ice skating - there's something intrinsically wonderful about watching children strive. Sport is among the most noble and beautiful of human achievements. If only I can get Anna to recognize this simple fact.

Richard Scarry books. If you don't know what I'm talking about, and you're younger than about 35, you were neglected as a child. Actually, I can name several dozen titles off the top of my head that I'm looking forward to revisiting, and dozens more I've discovered on recent trips to BookPeople. Our kid will have books, if nothing else.

A swingset. We have a huge backyard, and we will have both a swingset AND a treehouse. This I guarantee.

Fingerpaints. I can't wait for our house to become our child's art gallery.

Two words: Play-Doh.

The turtle of my dreams

Last night I dreamed about the baby. Anna and I were lying in bed, my arm draped across her belly, both of us teetering on the verge of sleep. I felt our baby's hummingbird pulse against my palm. Suddenly, Anna opened her eyes and said, " I think I can feel it moving." I sat up, my hand still on her swollen stomach. We've yet to feel the baby kick, and we're growing increasingly impatient. But there it was! I definitely felt it - an unmistakable thud against my arm, the first outward sign of the life inside. Then a second kick, and a squirming sensation. I can actually feel it moving! I pull my hand away and look - I can see it moving! The look on Anna's face is either shock or horror, and I'm sure mine must look the same. Our baby is squirming inside her belly, the outline of its body increasingly visible beneath the surface of her rubbery skin. I see it settle into a comfortable position, supine in the hammock of Anna's diaphragm, stretched between her hips.

"I'll be right back. I gotta get a picture of this. Don't move." Anna is smiling now, stroking the baby's head. I rummage around the office for what seems like an unusually long time, but eventually return with the camera. Anna is still smiling, her hand still lovingly stroking. "Move your hand for a minute." She does, and I snap the picture. I turn the camera over to see it. Something isn't right, and this realization registers on my face.

"What is it," Anna asks. I hand her the camera and look at her belly. The silhouetted outline of our baby is still reclined between her hips, but now the body has a decidedly different, but familiar shape: it is a turtle, lying on its back.

Of course, I don't remember anything after that. Once the dream starts getting really good and weird, I typically wake up. My sleeping mind is such a tease.