  Last night ( after staying home from work with the kind of headache that makes you wish you could puke for a couple of hours until whatever is making you hurt is expelled,  but that never happens,  of course,  of course.  I dreamed I was on an on-
site tech support call.  In an automobile repair shop [ note to newer readers:  I work for a computer software company that specializes in county court systems]  With Michael Moore ( no,
 I'm not using cute pseudonyms here,  I'm talking the real deal here.  As the dream begins,  I'm sitting with my face in my hands.  Looking up,  I find I am in the middle (
physically and chronologically)  of a discussion between Moore,  a male and female employee of the repair shop,  and one of my female co- workers ( I can't tell who because I never see them clearly in the dream,
 and they barely get a word in edgewise with the others doing a perfect version of vintage Robert Altman dialogue)  The female repair shop employee is talking in the kind of right- brain manner that lowers the life expectancy of support personnel:  instead of discussing her actual * problem*  she's talking on and on about how the problem makes her feel and how it's affecting her ability to do her job.
 Simultaneously,  the male repair shop employee ( apparently her supervisor)  is apologizing to us for this woman's inability to stick to answering our questions:  he says he knows we don't support the machine under discussion ( something that,
 despite the paper feed,  looks most like an EKG machine gene- spliced with a toolbox)  he knows they don't even have a * support*  contract with our company;
 he knows it's all her fault -  it's something she's doing wrong but he can't watch her every minute of the workday.  yadda yadda,  etc.  ad infinitum .  Finally,
 to my relief and surprise,  Moore seizes control of the conversation by making the seemingly- sensible suggestion that they put the machine in self- diagnostic mode,  and then we'll read the printout.  I decide to use this break as an opportunity to extract myself from the midst of a conversation I wasn't really following anyway,
 but as I'm circumnavigating around Mr.  Moore,  at roughly the same spot Magellan died,  my right knee gives out ( and when I say gives out ,  I mean it in the sense of a dry tree limb breaking under baseball-
sized hail -  it's loud,  it's ugly,  and it hurts like hell.  I manage to crawl the rest of the way around Moore and prop myself up against the wall of the shop,  everyone around oblivious to my situation.
 Moore,  apparently killing time while the machine is self- testing,  is now recounting all the things he says he left off his job application:  that he was born in Germany,  the journalism awards he won in junior high,
 and so on.  I briefly consider fabricating a story about winning some college science competition in Connecticut while still in grade school,  but decide I'm neither in the mood nor the physical condition to play either side of the 60 Minutes Interview Game ( home version)  I look over my shoulder at the shop's break room ( which more resembles a bus station)
 and see an upright piano in its midst.  My brief glimpse of sunlight at the possibility of playing it is quickly darkened when I notice two adjacent white keys about a third of the way up the keyboard appear to be permanently stuck in the depressed position ( ooh,  there's something Freudian right there,  eh?
