I was playing some kind of tricky song on my guitar, a song I'd written. It was in five-four time. I was playing it for my mom and dad, who were seated before me in chaise longues on an unfamiliar lawn. The guitar became a gun and in the dream's logic I played the song by holding and firing the gun somehow, in the air. I made sure to cradle the gun carefully and point the muzzle in the air, away from my parents. I was having difficulty so had to try again and again. At the same time, my dad was giving me money, a few hundred dollars. I thanked him profusely and kissed him on the forehead, still holding the gun.

Went to sleep fantasizing about S. W. and so dreamt about her. We were at a party, P. C. was there too, other people. Maybe R. H. from work, oddly enough. We got very drunk. I was sort of pushing it, getting her to drink with me, feeling that I could seduce her by enlisting  her in debauchery. There was some kind of strange circle dance at one point. She drank enthusiastically until the very end, when she precipitously got up from our table and went to throw up. We marveled at how she could keep it together for so long, how she hadn't shown any signs of excess intoxication, until now, suddenly. Then we were leaving and the stairs down were like the stairs in my apartment building. Ahead of us, in our way, was a guy on his hands and knees, crawling down the stairs and vomiting along the way. There was someone with him, assisting him, making sure he was safe. In between vomiting he said it's OK, you can go ahead, I'll be all right. Go ahead without me. We stepped around him and continued down. However, his puke somehow rained down on us below him, the stairs actually being ladderlike with spaces between the steps. When we got home I saw that a bit of puke had landed in my bag. I set about cleaning it.

Later I dreamt I was at a Formula One race with C. K. and others. The lead driver, Fernando Alonso, dropped out for some reason. He walked over to where we were standing, terribly aggrieved. I told him it was OK, he was a great driver. It didn't look like Alonso in real life. His mood lifted and he allowed us to take some pictures of him.

Dreamt that the first time I met C. D. he was looking for a spoon to eat a big steak and kidney pie. Also about hanging out with J. L. Got into a huge argument about whether "Sandinista" was better than "American Beauty." I was arguing for the latter, insisting, "It's a matter of taste!" J. L. said, "It is not a matter of taste!" I said, "OK, so I'm right and you're wrong!" We went to the record store, University Music, which was actually this incredibly sleazy sort of porn/novelty shop with Frank, the owner, dressed S&M style. He also happened to sell bones, which I was interested in. J. L. recalled when there were prostitutes at this place, hanging out near the pinball machines. One machine was called "Hooker Salmon." I played the game but it accepted pinballs instead of quarters. I put in two pinballs and woke up.

I find a book about painting called I Paint the Moon With Glass and I think about giving it to M. B. I open it and there are examples of how to paint various lettering styles and many pictures, in grainy ‘50s Life Magazine-style color, of raw meat and wood. Meat on wooden cutting boards. The center of the book is a two-page spread picture of a cocktail party where there are about a dozen men holding drinks in various pastel-colored suits, wearing bird masks over their heads. Each head is an elaborate and colorful exotic bird's head. There is a caption below the picture. The caption says, "Coffee and cigarettes are most popular for breakfast."

A bunch of thugs come over to a house I am alone in, which it turns out I am taking care of for the L’s. I think they are gone and I'm hanging out downstairs with Matt and Nat and John and Rich, smoking pot. The thugs come back and ride their dirt bikes in the yard. We all go up to get them to leave. "I'll be polite, though," I said, but they were gone. Now they were downstairs playing with our microphones and PA equipment. I tell them to leave, very politely. As they hand me the equipment, I see one put a lit cigarette into another one's coat pocket. I wonder if he will notice or if his coat will catch fire. He notices. C. W. is also there, checking to make sure they don't steal anything.