In Italy, a girl in her 20s has hidden a large lost diamond in a can of restaurant food to keep it from being stolen. A Spanish man (very Antonio Bandaras'esque), has been helping not only with the search but in keeping the search quiet. He has claimed that for some reason the diamond must be returned to Spain.
Along with a woman friend in her 30s or so, the girl very carefully begins to search various receptacles of food. Regular patrons of the eatery notice this and deduce the valuable item could be in their servings, so large portions of food are suddenly unceremoniously dumped onto the floor, and a large pile of people begin to sift through the mess for the jewel. Also interested in the diamond, a well dressed man and his assistant enter during the fracas, the assistant carrying a wide, shallow box from which the well dressed man carefully removes handfuls of baby chicks so to search the box. The chicks fall amongst the maddening crowd. From another box he takes three ducklings, two of which he simply tosses gently aside, but suddenly realizes, and with the third duck stops, and carefully lets the fluffy, dark-green tinged bird drop onto a few people so the duck has less distance to fall.
Back in the kitchen searching on the floor, the Spanish man is seething not only that he cannot find it, but that the women have caused such a commotion. "It was not a Spanish diamond," he tells the women. "It was an Italian diamond...!" he reveals. It was/is his intent to sell it locally for far more money, but the diamond remains elusive.

Dream Fade most likely is the culprit for why I am unsure how All This Began.
I am sitting on a low stool or such in front of some sort of on-the-street vending machine that dispenses postage. It is on the bottom shelf of a two-tier esction from an entertainment center; a flat scale onto which to put the mail matter, and one puts in enough coinage until the correct postage is dispensed.
Surrounding me are surly cops, being as willfully intinmidating as they can be. I have a handful of clean change, but at least one cop (at my left), refuses to allow me to use quarters, demanding I only use dimes and nickels. I have several large manilla envelopes that would hold one or two flat documents. Apparently I am to obtain the correct postage and for some reason I am being forced to do this.
As I have great issues with corropt cops, all of whom have Trouble With Authority (e.g., sovereign Americans are the public, while [corrupt or not], cops are public servants...), I am extremely irritated at their characteristically anti-American behaviour. As using quarters (many of which I have in my hand), will take less time, I am less annoyed at the situation than in their refusal even to explain why I "can't" use quarters, as they are valid coinage, and the machine should accept them.
Despite Knowing Better, I choose to challenge the large, burly and apparently most alpha cop, at my left. I hold up a quarter and snarl, "How much money does this represent?" (Technically such a question is a waste of time, as it attempts to introduce civilized reason to a dialog; when he answers it represents twenty-five cents, from there I can demonstrate that logically it follows quarters in the machine should work just fine...)
Being deliberately obtuse, however, the criminal cop sarcastically replies, "I don't know." He adds, "It doesn't matter."
Against my normally better judgement I spit back at him, "What, are you retarded...?"
This predictably gets to him. "That's an ugly word to use," he says, as based on results, he cannot deny it.
"Then we're in agreement." I say with flat but obvious authority. "It's the most apt and accurate description I can use..."
The corrupt cop glares back at me, surprisingly at a loss for words or even action.

I am working the second day on a science fiction movie or TV series. The shot has me playing some Russian scientist who believes he has the task of blowing out a circuit next to an open elevated garage door at a truck docking bay. Cracks in the white cement have grass sprouting through. The key moment is that two other scientists warm me in time not to do it, and for me to get clear. The trick is they are several yards away and I cannot hear what they are saying, so somehow by splashing around in water conveys their message.
At first I'm to turn and make as though I believe they are urging me on (I even have a white futuristic rifle with an orange arming lever on top, and I go to pull it back), but at the last second I realize they mean for me to get clear, and I jump from the platform, slowing down before I actually hit the ground and while I realize I am wearing a full astronaut outfit and helmet, the slow down of gravity does not surprise me. I nearly get up and realize I have no heard "cut" called. I also realize that the previous day I had lines I'd now forgotten I was to say. I slowly glance to my right at which is the open ground to where the others were, the direction from which a diminutive script supervisor approaches. Figuring I'm safe, I get up, apologizing for not remembering to say my lines and admitting not quite remembering the lines as it is, but as I go to request a copy of the sides with the lines, the woman merely says it was fine, as the scene was being filmed MOS anyway (e.g., no audio).

I am what seems to be a high-end penthouse presumably in Vegas or such. I hear a familiar name of someone quite powerful and I look about to see them, but a female Dream Character friend tersely admonishes me to "Stop it." I find this irritating and ignor her and she no longer remains, she may as well have been written out. A couple on the other side of a room-island bar seem friendly enough, but beyond them as a double doors swing open and a group of business-suit men enter, the couple take out Uzis and fire a quick blast at me. I say "Freeze!" and time instantly freezes, similar to a Star Trek: Next Gen holodeck program. The two sets of Uzi bullets are clustered in mid-air, annoying me greatly as either set would have hit my chest.
I walk around and find the couple have been with their backs up against a partition, their heads above them. With time frozen, I am able to lift and pull them over. Strangely, both fall to the floor, which technically should not happen. The male resembles Kevin Dillon, and the female a young Lea Thompson as a red-head. She hits the floor and un-freezes, struggling and resisting. I verbally order her to freeze, which she does, albeit still with visable reluctance.
I notice a police badge has fallen from her pocket. The male I bring over and search him, finding another badge in his jeans pocket as well. Feeling even less guilt over my intentions (what with corrupt cops being even far worse than flat-out, overt criminals). I bring them to where I was standing, so when time unfreezes they can meet their respective clusters of bullets head on, as it were.
To dispose later, I pocket their badges signifying their evil corruption, and head to the main door beyond the double doors, at which I say "Unfreeze!" I do not even need to turn around to see the sudden carnage I can hear taking place behind me, but I've already left the room.
I pass a lobby of sorts just outside a large casino, and I find a service elevator into which I head, wish to go to the ground level and depart. The elevator indicator is peculiar, and despite the sensation of movement I am not precisely sure if I'm going up or down, and the floor indicator keeps looping the numbers counting down from fifty to single digits then down from fifty again.

I am at work, failing to notice the room is larger, with wider aisles, and different stuff on front shelves rather than bankers boxes, such as televisions. Three TV turn on and while there is no picture, loud music of sorts begins to play, and while two switch off, the second one in the middle will not turn off (the sets are on different shelves, not in a row). I try various knobs and buttons on the ancient style set, to no avail. Suddenly I see a tall, lean man (wearing a black shirt and white pants with tiny black spots) walk by and down an aisle. Knowing no one should be in there but me, I wonder if I could have seen a ghost.
I walk to the aisle and turn the corner and find the man lying face down on the floor, as though he'd suddenly turned and fell forward. Unable to tell if the man is dead or unconscious, I glance down and the image sort of locks up, generally a condition that would have me realize I am dreaming, but in this case I am merely puzzling; as I physically turn my body around but my vision retains the same unmoving image of the body.

Backstory: Film maker Henry Jaglom wrote quite a positive blurb about Strictly Background; this past Monday night was a preview screening of Jaglom's new film Irene in Time to which I had planned to attend (after which would be a Q&A, at which I could meet him), until an emergency came up and I was unable to attend.

My producer friend and I are in a strangely (e.g., rather poorly) constructed movie theatre auditorium, containing oddly placed support columns that block the view of the screen, similar to a basement of a small community church at which local amateur talent puts on little plays as they have no theatre of their own. We sit in the very back row The film has ended and there seems there will be a brief break before Jaglom speaks, so I suggest to my friend we prepare to move forward as there will be people who may not return for the Q&A. My friend reluctantly begins to follow me down the slender aisle; as I glance back my friend silently heads to a seat only a few rows forward from the back. I head that direction but in the near dark I somehow cannot recognize my friend, and no indication is given as to which of the seated people is my friend (no verbal whisper or hand raise). So I figure I am on my own and move down towards the front.
A video camera takes up a few seats towards the end of one row of seats. Some people return and take up seats as I seek one on its own. I find a seat near but not clocking the camera. Suddenly a stench hits me and white cigarette smoke visible comes from around the back of my head. I turn to see a young man in his late twenties leaning up against a pillar, next to a seated woman. He is clearly smoking and hastily re-inhales some of it in near embarrassment. I growlingly remind him there's no smoking in a theatre, when I notice two other people smoking nearby as well. Thought I point out they can be removed from the theatre, they casually continued to pollute the air.
I head out and up the light-carpeted stairs to where I know is the theatre office. I pass upstairs theatre ticket takers and instead of a normal office, french doors open to a wide room more laid out like a living room. A young woman sits on the floor being attentive a very playful long-hair cat (the cat's face has the peculiar look of having been stuffed and sewn together, despite being alive). I ask the young woman, who I presume is either the manager or someone in enough authority, whether in fact it is a crime to smoke in the/a theatre. She sort of agrees but in a simultaneously apologetic and apathetic way, as though she's had complaints before and nothing can be done about it.
"So you're telling me," I say (as I notice the cat's strange face with the blue-thread stitching about its eyes). "That when I go to the Health Department tomorrow, that they'll be equally interested in your inaction as with the smokers' smoking?"
The woman casually shrugs as though such a complaint will go nowhere as well. Missing Jaglom's talk, I depart with disgust and return to the cramped auditorium and after again being unable to find my friend in the seat area to which she'd sat (either I still could not find her, she actually left, or she was simply wrapped from the dream), I go to the other end of the camera's row only to find upon sitting that a single set of metal scaffolding blocks my view (most likely my subconscious handling at the time my having no idea what Jaglom looks like). At first it seems Jaglom's talk is being shown as a black and white movie, then I notice Jaglom is in front of the screen at a podium accepting a rather massive award with which the theatre has presented him. To continue his talk, he hands it off to someone and I can hear the familiar squeak: while the diorama seeming award is colourfully painted and about a foot tall and two feet wide, the award obviously is wholly constructed from styrofoam.

From a nearby room I hear the opening theme to Mystery Science Theatre start then the lyrics going ludicrously stupid ("They hired a temp by the name of, well, you already know... and everbody was..." [at which point I realized there was a problem; the singer never lost stride but despite the extra words, the song doesn't really continue to the actually music stanzas beyond trying to squeeze all the new lines into the same bit of music stanza]...). I hasten into the room to find a few Dream Characters watching the show on a large screen TV, but the set is some peculiar living room with strange, plush, Muppet-like characters; the editing jumps rapidly to different ones, one flailing sheets on a bed, et al. It looks ridiculous and unwatchable; I can hear the voices so I say to the others watching, "Okay, I can hear Kevin and Bob, but where's Mike?"
"Mike's gone," lazily replies one of the apathetic two sitting on the sofa, as I watch on with horror the nonsense going on.
Dream Memory tells me I'm still living at the Montclair [New Jersey], but that for some reason my room is the orange front room of the house, not the blue back room. My mother happens upon me and (implying her room would be where her sewing room was, directly below the blue room instead of being below the orange room), she asks me why I've not been making any noise in my room. I am puzzle and tell her I'd moved across the hall, which is when (even as Mom wonders why I would move to such a colder room), I'm already internally wonder, why would I even do that...?

Comedian Greg Proops is the host of a new late-night talk show, and for some reason is doing a remote broadcast on what seems to be a farm. It is near dawn and he greets the farm owners under a massive tree, while nearby on another, tall slender tree, are ropes suspending about twenty feet up, a large rock. Techies light the ropes which turn out to be large fuses, setting alight an impressive huge fireworks display, though quickly some of the rockets zoom straight into the ground and explode, much to the concern of the fleeing TV crew and the horror of the farm owners.

I am in the middle of a long queue; as I approach a down escalator, there is a metal detector through which to pass, even though it is only about five foot tall and proportionately wide, so it breaks while I squeeze through it, as I'm thinking Did I remember to take my keys out of my pocket...?
As the escalator goes down, I receive a sharp nasty pinch on my back from the person behind me as though to insist I hurry, despite my having little room to move. I turn to the blue-shirted middle aged man who has pinched me, and I angrily (and quite uncharacteristically) refer to him as/with a politically-incorrect epithet. This does not endear him to me, and I realize we could come to fisticuffs; noting I do actually have about three steps on which to navigate, I quickly prepare myself to hurt him as hard as I can as quickly as I can, while hastily realizing my epithet may have struck a real nerve rather than a fictitious one.
We reach the bottom as I've quickly begun to verbally empathize with "his" plight and manage to diffuse his anger as we begin a lengthy discussion, causing me not to notice I've walked much farther than I anticipated. Noticing I am at a very wide version of Grove Avenue in Upper Montclair [New Jersey], I take my leave of him as he suddenly chooses to lay down on an inclined grassy lawn. The nearest traffic light is a few yards away, but I see its light is green and due to a complete lack of traffic, I run across the several lanes to the opposing side to head back towards from wherever it is I'd meant to be.

I walk up a few steps to the glass doors of a bank, but before opening the door, I can see inside that standing in line is (the Heath Ledger version of) the Joker. He is not really terrorizing anyone; despite a large silver-metal gun in his hand, he's just waiting in line, with about ten or more people ahead of him.
I still decide that as I am not armed, perhaps my bank errand could be done later... I walk to the right and towards a small building perpendicular to the bank. As I get to the door, I find it locked. I knock for entry, turning around to seeing the Joker casually having exited the bank and walking straight. Suddenly realizing I am inexplicably dressed as Batman, I hastily duck to my left as there are numerous people wandering about the large courtyard. Just as I am losing sight of the Joker, I see his head turn, his having noticed my own move. I turn and begin to knock again, quietly but rather urgently. A woman comes to the window in the door to see me lean my head against the door to entreat being allowed inside, hoping I can be inside before the Joker reaches my position.

I am on the start of a quest of some sort; with me is a sentient animal of some sort which I cannot recall, but as we briefly stop (at a sort of T-junction of the road, where we can go left or right), we are met by a talking crow, who appears to wear on its beak two long paperclips holding in place bright orange clothes pins. These do not hamper his speech, even though they move sideways rather than up and down. The crow understands our quest, having to do with some sort of global devastation we're trying to prevent (or least understand). The wise crow declares not only will he join us but will provide us with the clues so far deduced by his kind.
I make sure our packs and provisions are set on the backs of a mule or two, the crow has been making rapping sounds as though cutting through something with his beak.
The lofty bird returns with a flat piece of bone on which now are several lines cut all the way through, a few of the lines are curved, but most are straight and parallel.
"This is brilliant," I exclaim as I examine it, suddenly crestfallen. "I can't read crow," I realize aloud. My partner apparently can and the two concur with the findings as there's something of a Dream Shift as we find ourselves apparently at an inn.
I go inside and find very much a Dream Character, in a role I have no recollection of ever having had within a dream. I am surprised she is there, and tell her that the quest is progressing. I bring her outside where the crow walks through the dark evening mist, noting our emerging from the inn.
"Crow," I say to him, gesturing to the woman following me. "This is my wife, and I would be honoured if you would speak to her." I do not say that I hope it will even prove to me the bird is actually speaking and I've not lost my mind.
The crow does not speak but does provide me with a round dark-clay tablet on which he must have been working, on which are more markings, these of which I can understand.
"This is a representation of our solar system," I say regarding the concentric circles, and I note "drawings" of buildings below, which Crow (speaking only to me), points out represent planets: that the race of crows was able to deduce which building represented which planet, but they were a little fuzzy regarding Mercury, which apparently is the key to our quest.
Crow heads over to our group, which apparently has had several people having joined us, as my wife begins to climb onto a tall, multileveled wagon of some sort.
I am distracted by a large bright-blue owl hastily walking by (the street on which we stand is below an overpass), heading to the inn. It glances almost nervously at me, as through surprised I can see it. Its plumage is so blue, it gives the appearance of plastic.
As it about reaches the door to the inn, I turn as my wife has declared she is joining us. Sitting on a part of the wagon below her Fred and George Weasley watch her as one of them says, "You certainly are not."
"I most certainly am," replies my wife in a haughty tone and voice sounding like Zoë Wanamaker (without her looking like her). She goes on about courage and how other women shirk from protecting their husbands or sons, and as she says all this, I notice she is wearing a bright orange set of ancient Asian costuming, and that the wagon she is now at the top-most level is also some ancient Chinese wagon or so, despite having no walls of which to speak. As she finishes her little speech, she puts on a little hat with a tassel, and stands prepared to depart, as the group below (now also having added my friend Cary Mizobe) stare silently up at her.
After a few moments she realizes and says, "Oh. Sorry; thought this was our transport." I watch her begin her descent to the street level as I begin to wonder how so many have joined us.

I suddenly find myself at a desk in a classroom, a mostly unintelligible voice coming from a speaker somewhere. The wall at my left has small objects slowly emerging and retracting, but I cannot discern what they are or deduce their purpose. At one point a slender section of upper part of the wall begins to move forward like a segment of a mirror. I cannot tell if any of these items are monitoring devices.
Eventually I can just make out the voice is that of a teacher or such, with increasing impatience calling on me for something (and possibly accusing me of being uncooperative rather than at a loss), but I still cannot make out what it requests. I feel self-conscious as I am towards the back of the classroom and I have to speak up to point out the audio is too distorted me for me to understand what is being said.

I want to spec on a movie or TV project, but I am missing a specific type of hat required. I know Dream Character friend with me has an elaborate hat which he lends me. It's supposed to be an admiral's hat, despite looking nothing like one. This almost seems to be made of plaster. I glance at the bottom and see a signature. This causes me concern: Oh great, I think to myself. It's autographed.
I bring the hat to a registration table, finding available one of the five or six people signing people in (the rest are lines of three or more people each). Irritatingly, the available woman is chatting with the person on her left, completely ignoring me, and her duties.
Later as I'm walking elsewhere, a man points out there is a large caterpillar on the marble floor: I look to my left and sure enough, there it is. With a few black spots, mostly it is deep reddish-orange with yellow at its "face." It is also about five inches wide and maybe a yard long. For an instant I worry the man is going to step on it, which would be messy beyond belief. Just put it outside, I suggest, and he picks up the massive thing. A while later as I climb a flight of stairs, I notice a "miniature" version (e.g., more regular caterpillar sized), on my jacket along the zipper gently remove it and carry it onto a wide patio balcony. The caterpillar is now the small white with red and gold highlights G-Force robot, at least from the Robot Chicken sketch. Unlike the dimensions it would be (the size of R2-D2), it is very small, like an action figure size, but it is still the actual robot.
I am holding it by its antennae, and as it swings back and forth in my hand it is loudly chuckling merrily. I reach the balcony and hold it out to pretend as though I am going to drop it, but suddenly as it laughs, its antennae suddenly elongate and it all but zips down the four stories towards the lawn below. I call over a (different) Dream Character friend to watch this amusing bit, particularly as I wonder if the seemingly flexible antennae will retract into the robot's head when I release them, or will they fall like limp spaghetti.
As I let go I turn back and realize to myself, Oh crap: I'm not wearing any pants...
I quietly request of my friend to go to where I recall my pants and underwear are sitting, to bring them back to me: going myself would make me too obviously noticeable. My friend rushes off as I wonder, how could I have forgotten to put on pants?
While my bare legs would indicate my not having pants, my t-shirt is just long enough to hide my not wearing underwear... mostly (it only goes down to just below my buttocks). Front wise, I still have to cover manually what even a long t-shirt won't cover, particularly as suddenly the area has numerous people casually walking to and fro.

I am in a wide room, similar to a nearly empty school cafeteria, with but one or two tables away from the center. Somehow I know I am at some telemarker job place as I walk towards what appears to be stage-theatre make-up mirror.
Suddenly my friend Norma Jean is there, requesting our having a photo taken together. I have one of my one-time-use cameras and we pose in front of one of the make-up mirrors, but facing to the right at which stands a full-length mirror. In the reflection I can see we are not properly standing next to each other. In the reflection Norma Jean is standing in front of me; when I notice a Dream Character friend standing nearby who agrees to take the photo, I look back to see we are still facing but not aligned with the mirror as I can no longer see our reflection.
In the distance I hear a slight bell ringing numerous times, which I deduce is an arriving elevator outside the door. I depart to meet with someone outside, but as I hasten down what appears to be a long airport concourse, I drop my thumbdrive. I notice I am being followed by the character Doakes from the series Dexter, who apparently is an office coworker of mine, similarly suspicious of my activities. He asks if, should he need it, whether he can take my thumbdrive onto which to put files on which I can work. As he doesn't ask for it now, I agree, making a strong mental note to start bringing to work an empty thumbdrive so he doesn't go through any files of mine.
At the end of the corridor are doors to the left and to the right, as though I'm in a multiplex cinema, but from inside at least one door I hear a college professor teaching a class. Concerned Doakes is nearby, I spot an adult Emma Watson obtaining a pass to some sort of nearby gaming conference, using as currency a used PS3 disc drive.

I am finishing up in a diner, having paid my bill. I head to the glass door and hold it open for my cat who comes running to follow me. At the last moment the cat realizes there are two glass doors, and I'm currently holding open the inner one. He veers to his right, managing to avoid running pell-mell into the outer door, but just collide a bit with his shoulder. I wonder why I don't have him on a leash, and whether it is safe for him to follow me on foot into the parking lot (as opposed to my wondering why he's even in a diner with me).