We were on vacation in Canada—I must have dreamt this because we were recently in Montreal. At a restaurant, I drank a beer and thought, I shouldn’t have another ‘cause I’ll be driving. S. and I ordered iced coffees.

Then we were in a weird amusement park that was full of booby traps.

A few of us were sitting around a table. Mo was there. The Ramones were playing. I remembered that he’d seen them, that it was the loudest band he’d ever heard, so I asked him where it was he saw them, was it Toad’s Place? No, he said, and he named a place in Brooklyn. I asked someone else if that place still existed and he said yes.

My arms were amputated up to the elbows. But I had a new pair. The old ones were disembodied on a table before me and I found I could still control them a little, though they were developing rigor mortis.

There was a convertible slowly ferrying drunks around town. You could hop on and off wherever, from a bar to your doorstep pretty much. JP was riding it. I saw the car let him out on the sidewalk. He was pretty wasted.