A revised "Interpretation of Dreams," or, "Freud Help Me."

People of a certain age understand what it means for a person to be "touched." It implies he or she is mentally unstable. The term was used because it was culturally incorrect in those days to say, "Man, that dude is batshit crazy."

I'm afraid I might touched in another way that I think I once saw in a "Twilight Zone" episode.

Two nights ago, I dreamed I was covering a game in San Francisco when closer Brian Wilson came in to pitch. I remember the score, 2-2 in the seventh inning. Maybe the setup relievers were off playing with their iPads in somebody else's goofy dream. Anyway, Wilson goes batshit crazy on the mound.

I don't mean goofy Mark Fidrych antics. I mean he was wearing a spacesuit and dancing and waving and doing anything but pitching. He then ran to the dugout where he grabbed one of those gigantic air guns that some teams employ to shoot wrapped hot dogs into the stands, and he started firing away. A panic ensued, fans ran onto the field and the Giants had to forfeit the game.

Crazy thing is, I went to work after that dream and watched Wilson blow a save yesterday for only the second time this year.

Was I touched with a premonition?

(I'm not one of those "clean your plate because children are starving in Africa" guys, but could you imagine anyone from a poor nation visiting the United States and seeing meat being shot out of a gun and exploding to the delight of a crowd, or even one of those hotdog-eating contests? That would make for a hell of a "what did you do this summer" report in some third-world school.)

Last night I dreamed about being in a plane about to crash, and general manager Brian Sabean was the pilot. A lot of folks will say that's not a premonition as much as a metaphor.

I can't wait to see what my dreams hold tonight.

Maybe I'll dream that the New York Times will be less stodgy and try to compete with the Daily News and Post by publishing color photos of mangled bodies and subway accidents on the front page. A reader can be drawn to the gore then gaze up and say, "Oh, look, efforts to revitalize a two-party political system in Bangladesh are gathering steam."

Maybe I'll dream that researchers discovered that ice cream, chocolate, bourbon and steak, when eaten in precise proportion, will burn fat like nobody's business -- as long as you do not wreck the chemical process by exercising.

Or maybe I'm just touched in the head, Wilson was due to blow a save and this entire blog was a waste of Internet space and your precious time. I'll let you know if I have anymore batshit crazy dreams.