The band had a gig. Except it wasn't quite music, it was more like hockey. Somehow, I had befriended a legendary figure who lived around town. He was a cross between Doc Watson and Gordie Howe. I planned to drop by his place to borrow a plastic face mask. I called him from my car, fumbling with an old flip-style cell phone and skidding around through snow. His wife answered. I was suddenly unsure of his first name, but I asked for him anyway, guessing at a name —I can't remember what. She said he was out. I said, "Tell him I called." I was spooked that I'd be playing tonight without a mask. I returned to the band house and told Chris W., "Fuck it, plenty of guys have played without a mask. So neither will I."

I was hanging out with comedians, including Jay Leno. I shouted a joke at some point, something about the fact that they were comedians, the fact that Jay Leno was there. I don't know why I shouted it. I seemed to be removed from them somewhat, like in another part of the room. It was time for everyone to leave. I got into an elevator with two or three of them. Someone brushed the front of my pants and I said, "Did someone just touch my penis?" thinking this was very witty, and immediately the elevator stopped with a jolt. One of the others pressed a button and it started up again.

I needed to get back home to Storrs from Hartford. I got on a bus that was crowded with rowdy people. After it began on its way I asked the driver if she was going to Storrs. "No," she replied. "We're going to Bethlehem." We agreed to drop me off at the next gas station.

Dreamt about some awful car accident.

We were eating outdoors somewhere, at a table with another couple.

I had to meet S. at the airport to fly to Paris. I don’t know why we went there separately.

I was at Eliane’s apartment around the time my dad was dying, and I was somehow responsible. Like I’d let some murderous person into the building by accident.

And I dreamt about cocaine. Big, big piles of coke. Someone offered it to me, a woman I think. The lines looked like little snowdrifts, too big to snort in one go. I felt daunted, but I also desired it. I felt myself getting high even before I leaned over with the bill in my nose.

There was a flying object low in the sky, not really a plane, but something like a blimp with wings. It began to do slow loop-the-loops. Often in my dreams, the planes crash. Not this time.

I had been in Vegas for a few days and it occurred to me that I had not gambled at all—I had not once sat down at a table, nor wagered on a game, nothing. I felt vaguely proud, but also perplexed. What had I been doing there? It had been some kind of event I think, possibly work-related, but also involving friends.

Toward the end of my dreams I wondered about the motivations of Islamist terrorists.