I'm out exploring on the surface of Mars, with a group of friends. It's hot and dusty and uncomfortable, and we're sitting in the shade of a rock passing around a canteen of lemonade and waiting nervously for something awful to happen.

It does, of course. Macauly Culkin (who's in our party) suddenly begins metamorphosing into something that looks like the bastard lovechild of the National Enquirer's Bat-Boy and one of Whitley Strieber's grey aliens, with Maori tattoos all over his face. He's really smug about it, too, prancing around and chortling about how he's going to kill and eat us all in our sleep, and that we'll be completely powerless to stop him, since he's got this amazing Invisibility Helmet.

Fortunately for all of us, it turns out that it's a regular-ol' motorcycle helmet with no special abilities at all, and Macauly's not really all that difficult to subdue. We're still on Mars, and it's still hellaciously hot, but we're all feeling a bit better with him locked up. Raving, still, but under control.

Then I wake up.

People keep asking me why I prefer cooler seasons; I wish I could draw an accurate picture of a large-eyed, bat-fanged Macauly Culkin by way of explanation.

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