This morning I foolishly checked my email after I awoke and forgot most of the epic dream that I’d just had. Here’s what I remember: John Krasinski and me, a Ben Folds concert, a prophecy, a conspiracy, a play rehearsal, planted evidence, several explosions, a tough-but-attractive female detective, stalking charges,...

So I’ve discovered that, when I get enough sleep, I can remember my dreams. I have also found out that my dreams are the stuff of Carrollian acid trips. Last night’s frolic in Kazama-Pajama Land was no exception; it lasted for-eh-vur and was six kinds of awkward. I dreamed that,...