Second thoughts about the stuff dreams are made of

I was in the library, reading a haunting Khalil Gibran poem called “Between Night and Morn,” from a volume of early writings by the same title, when a man with a Styrofoam head and clown hat appeared at my side and said, “Hi. My name’s Jack, and I’ll be your server today.” I replied, “Um,” and glanced around, wondering where I really was.

“Today’s special is the artichoke burger with foie gras and serrano pepper chutney on a pumpernickel bun,” he informed me.

“Urk,” I said, thinking that would melt the lenses in my glasses.

But before I could ask him if he had anything less volatile, I felt the hot breath of a large feline on the back of my neck. I turned my head to see a snarling Siberian tiger, poised to taste my head.

Tiger on my heels, I took off. I ran down the hall and tried to lose him by darting into the dining room, then quickly into the living room and back into the hall. But I hadn’t fooled him, so I dashed up the stairs, ran into my bedroom, and ducked into my closet, all of a sudden wishing it had a door.

Just then I heard the voice of my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Angst, and she said, “Shh — follow me.” And in a few steps we found shelter behind a huge wall in the midst of a barren field. I finally felt safe.

But it didn’t last. As I stood there, my back pressed against the wall, it started to lean over in my direction. And fearful that it would collapse on me, I ran around to the back side — only to feel it begin to lean in that direction now.

I quickly stepped around to the front side of the wall, but once again it began to tilt on top of me.

At that moment a car pulled up. It was a 1967 cobalt-blue Pontiac ragtop with the top down, 326-cubic-inch V-8, Hurst four on the floor, come to rescue me.

I was saved. I hopped in and threw it into first, but before I could take off, the snarling tiger reappeared, this time in my rearview mirror. He must have been in my tank from the last pit-stop at the corner Esso.

“Out, damn Stripes,” I shouted at him, but my words were met with a blank stare first, and then a fearsome roar.

Finally, with no other option, I ducked under my bed and checked that the dust ruffle was doing its job.

As I lay there, a line from “The Tempest” danced in my head — Prospero saying “We are such stuff as dreams are made on.”

Before Shakespeare could make much more headway, my alarm clock sounded, and as I waited for the cobwebs to clear, I pondered the dream that had tormented me in my slumber.

What did Prospero mean? Where on earth does this “stuff” even come from?

To me the Super Bowl means one thing — Clydesdales

I’m not particularly fond of football, and not just because most players can’t kick the ball. I’m also put off by the brain-scrambling head banging, I guess because I’ve become sensitive to mindless violence in my old age. Mainly, though, it’s the peculiar clock officials use to time the game that spoils it for me.

According to the rules, a game is divided up into four 15-minute quarters. That adds up to one hour, by my reckoning. But if you’re watching a college game, you might be watching the start of the second quarter after an hour.

And according to one study, the average pro game lasts three hours and 12 minutes. Out of that chunk of your day, the ball is actually in play about 11 minutes.

So there it is. It takes over three hours to complete 11 minutes of football.

And yet I do look forward to the Super Bowl. Why? Because I love horses and dogs, and I really love Clydesdales and retrievers — and if you’re familiar with the Great Super Bowl Halftime Ritual, you know what I’m talking about.

I’m not particularly interested in the product these two critters are promoting, but I sure do appreciate Budweiser for producing these little gems.

The 2013 Bud commercial, featuring the big horse alone, was a real tear-jerker, and that’s when I became hooked. In 2014 they added the retriever pup, and my addiction became complete.

I confess that I don’t watch the entire Super Bowl game to catch the Bud commercial — I don’t even write “halftime” on my calendar.

No, I’ve found that all the commercials are available as YouTube videos, and I have those and other Bud critter videos bookmarked.

Some feature other dog breeds, one featured a longhorn calf that became best pals with a Clydesdale colt. But all of them star the mighty draft horse that originated in the river Clyde region of Scotland.

The first horse I ever rode that wasn’t a Central Park pony was a draft horse, though a Belgian, not a Clydesdale, and it was a memorable ride. I was about 12 at the time, the horse was not saddled, and I felt as if I were astride a huge upholstered barrel.

While most people probably don’t think these beasts are meant to be ridden, they make surprisingly gentle saddle horses. Yes, they’re big — a Clydesdale stallion can weigh more than a ton and be over six feet tall at the shoulders — but this is why Rubbermaid invented the two-step stool. From there it’s a fairly easy leap.

I’ve ridden Appaloosas and quarter horses in my life, as well as a few valiant steeds without credentials.

The sweetest was a California quarter horse mare named Sugar Bear. But she was no comparison to that big draft horse I rode as I approached pubescence in 1955.

That was a little like riding my father’s easy chair.

I just wish there’d been a Labrador pup bounding alongside.