A few nights ago: I'm a happy little boy, traveling off to war, hanging off the back of a kindly mentor as we ride horseback up to the eastern shores of Canada. Suddenly - Nazis! We're in the Sudetenland! We have to escape! A guy with a dangling cigarette's smoke obscuring his five o'clock shadow helps lead us out. This guy is my colleague from Salon, Mark Follman.

Last night: I'm sitting in a Catholic church, observing services. A really low-level clergyman who looks like Dave Foley with a goatee hassles me and an old woman sitting near me. Then he has me follow him to an office. I receive a Ziploc food storage container that holds some slightly melted vanilla ice cream, and a Country Crock tub of fake butter labelled AVEDA, and possibly some paperwork and scripture. He tells me I am now an officer of the court. I try to explain that I really shouldn't be, what with not necessarily believing in God or Jesus and definitely not believing in the apostolic authority of the Catholic Church, when I wake up.

Oh yeah, and there was the one a few weeks back where I was in a Fry/Laurie adaptation of Wodehouse, complete with farcical discomfiture over a small dog, and then I took a cooking class that proceeded all around me as I rode a conveyor belt through the course.