I was hanging out in a bar downtown with G. C. and my old hometown friend B. S., who grew testy and obnoxious. At one point he grabbed my arm and examined the crook of my elbow, claiming to see needle tracks. There were indeed little holes there that seemed to go past the sinew and all the way to the other side. I protested angrily, saying maybe at one time that was true, but not anymore. B. had a second mouth at the level of his chin, a wide, grimacing maw full of sharp little teeth.

The bar was one of those old ones that claims to be the first in New York City. G. C. said it’s funny, there’s a different address on the door than the actual address. I said it’s because 170 years ago—I thought carefully before choosing this number—no one gave a fuck what number they were at or what street they were on.

I rode a centrifuge that was meant to replicate zero gravity. Someone I knew was driving it, like a car, and someone else I knew was another passenger. I waited to feel it. But I didn’t, really. I lifted up my hand, thinking it would seem to float away. Nothing was too different, except I kind of wanted to puke. Maybe it would work if I had a spacesuit on, I thought.

I was near Donald Trump—he was getting out of a limo—and I imagined running up and calling him a pig. The praise I would get, the vilification, depending.

I was sitting at a table at a tropical-themed outdoor bar with an ex-girlfriend. Someone up at the bar invited me to drink with him. I couldn’t decide what to drink. “A Coke?” the bartender suggested. “What’s in that?” I asked. “Coke,” he replied. I’d imagined it was a whole lot of different booze that tastes like Coke when it’s mixed together. I considered a tequila shot.

Driving my parents home, up and down steep hills, going too fast—90 miles an hour.

David Bowie was my brother, or my cousin. I realized this when I read something in a book he’d written, a kind of autobiography in which he mentioned me and my brother and wished us well.

I was at a Radiohead show with friends, the night after the disappointing one we saw. It’s a much better show, I told them. The sound was better.

Thom Yorke began wandering the crowd, interacting with people. He came right up to where I sat, singing seemingly improvised nonsense words. I held up my phone, but worried that he might take offense. Between lines in his song he told me it was OK. I took a few pictures and thought immediately of posting one to Facebook with the message, “Thom Yorke just sang in my face!”

The band hadn’t been rehearsing enough and there was a gig coming up. I wondered if I’d even remember how to play all these songs, whether I’d have to improvise my parts. C. W. did always say we played great after a bad rehearsal, I thought.

I was listening to “Satisfaction,” how this was the beginning of Keith playing like Keith plays, the double-guitar riffing thing, except it wasn’t, really. Only in my dream. At the end of the tune Charlie played repeated accents on his snare, and I knew they were coming: Yeah the twister comes, here comes the twister, bang-bang-bang, except that’s not a Rolling Stones song at all, is it?

The Stones were now playing behind a gauzy curtain to the side of an arena, and I was sitting in a floor seat. I craned my head to the right to watch their familiar shadows: Mick prancing, Keith and Ronnie doing what they do. It’s not clear why they chose to be shrouded.

We were on a bus tour through Central Europe. We were advised to look out for the anti-semitic relics on one particular street, signs or messages from a darker time. Except why were they still there, I wondered. For the tourists?

Tim was still in charge of the office out west, all these years later. The place was dilapidated now, the chairs ratty, computer parts and cables disordered everywhere.

But he was still running the Product. And some of the French guys were still around, tweaking the algorithms. Their determination was poignant—heroic, even. Still there was no plan. No viable path to profitability. But there was hope.

And I wanted to help. I wished I could help.