I usually don’t tell other people about my dreams, but last night’s was really odd.

I dreamt a fictitious uncle of mine had died, and I was at his giant New England mansion for the funeral. A seemingly narcissist and one who had invented some sort of special beer, his house was plastered with portraits and pictures and of him with many celebrities, including every president from FDR to GWB. Also on the wall was a letter in which he expresses regret that the pilot of the fatal Buddy Holly, Richie Vallens and Big Bopper flight was drunk on his brew.

Funniest moment was running into Willow Rosenberg. Not Alyson Hannigan, but Willow. She was dressed in her fuzzy pink sweater she wore in Doppelgangland. Of course, me being me and her being her, I grabbed her and hugged her. Which sort of horrified her. “Hugs are better when you’re ready for them,” she said.

Other moments I vaguely remember include a helicopter procession with the body to the cemetery. For some reason this uncle was scared of driving and would only go places in helicopters, including his final resting spot it seems. Ironically, I remember not wanting to get in, since I have a fear of flying, including, or especially, in helicopters.

There was also some moment where I took a bunch of food at the buffet (buffet at a funeral?) home in a tupperware container, which embarrassed the man’s children. That’s all I remember.