James Earl Jones ≠ Frank Sinatra.

Latest dream: After a weird run-up involving celebrating the Everest expedition of Sir Clive Owen in Central Park (as well as his PhD hooding in astrophysics) with Marjorie and other CPCers, Mischa and I take to the skies in a 50's style airliner that is hijacked by James Earl Jones and a couple of other members of the NAACP. I single-handedly take back the plane by swinging those plastic chairs with the metal legs, only to discover that it's not James Earl Jones, but Frank Sinatra! After seizing both handguns from his lackeys, I try to restore order, but then a bunch of male flight attendants, while serving food to the passengers, pull out machine guns and pump my body full of bullets while I try, unsuccessfully, to shoot my assailants with pistols that turned out to be empty, thus leading me to realize in my dying breaths that I was set up. My last thought is to hope that Mischa doesn't have to step over me on her way off the plane.

All kidding and puns aside, a dream like that just takes the life out of you. I woke up simply thinking, "Shit."