In between the feedings and the pacings and the desperate attempts to placate, comfort, pacify, console and above all stupefy our daughter last night, I had two dreams which more than made up for months of not having gone to the movies.

The 4 AM show: I joined Sopranos producer David Chase as he scouted locations for the new season in our Brooklyn neighborhood. He wanted to look at a little family-run drugstore up the way -- and I told him, appreciatively, that I thought it would be good way to show the world what a lousy excuse for a pharmacy with which our block was saddled (there is, in fact, no drugstore closer than a subway stop away from us). We entered a tiny, dim, chaotically-ordered establishment staffed by a surly couple, and went promptly back to the storeroom (fame hath its priviliges, I guess), which featured a cockroach the size of a skateboard. That's not meant as a figure of speech -- it was clearly imported into my dream directly from my memory of Cronenberg's Naked Lunch. I killed it in a fit of terror and loathing, only to discover that the walls and corners of the room were crawling with large yellow scorpions and other arachnidally sinister forms. How to get my wife and sleeping daughter out without being stung? Unfortunately shorts-clad, I high-stepped us through the doorway, leaving behind an absorbed and un-freaked-out Chase, whose pure professionalism kept his eye on the location-scouting ball whilst I bailed with the baby, past a particularly malevolent, saffron-colored pest whose tinkertoy tail waved at me in a sardonic combination of threat and dismissal.

On to the 5:30 performance. My wife and I are on the Concorde, which has been turned into a large flying maternity ward. It's also unfortunately host to a kind of ersatz youth gang, made up of kids who are vaguely interested in being delinquents -- or maybe they're actors -- and who want to sort of hang around menacingly, but it's not clear whether they're just goofing or deadly serious, all wearing black. Sort of like the "nihilists" in The Big Lebowski. My response is to try and talk them to death, sort of defuse the situation, but it's meeting with uncertain results. Eventually, we get away from them in the maze of hotel-like hospital rooms, but get separated. Theresa has the baby.

And then it's time to land, in London I think, but because there's a movie being filmed from the plane -- I realize retrospectively -- the pilot is going to be spending a little while making a dizzying series of loops, dives, barrel rolls, and close approaches to landmarks like Big Ben and the Eiffel Tower (yes, I know. Wrong burg.). I then remember reading in People about how all of these actors have been complaining about the time they've had to spend, when making their movies, flying around on these stomach-challenging sojourns in order to capture the right overhead angles for opening credit sequences and such. Problem here being that in my attempt to find refuge from the Van Buren Boys or whatever they're called, I'm not strapped in with the other passengers and whatever celebs are along for the ride. I've instead installed myself in some kind of open-roofed Victorian cupola mounted somewhere near the tail, and while it affords absolutely sensational views of the Thames wheeling overhead, there's nothing except my shaky-grip on an ornamental pipe to keep me hurtling to my death. A surprisingly mild breeze tugs at my hair. Vertiginous horror and goddamn-I-am-so-freaking-stupid vie pettily for first place in a kind of emotional thumb-wrestle.

Baby cries. Cut.