There was an after-gig party at someone’s house. It turned into a record store at some point. I was hanging out with J. W., who took a surprising interest in AC/DC albums.

I was in the studio with Steely Dan, recording a guitar solo for “Fire in the Hole.” After I played one Donald Fagen said it was good “but let’s try again.” Then I did a better one, and he said, “Let’s listen to that one.”

Working on SC at my old job, trying to develop code that would make it recognize the letter A with a French accent grave—à. This was part of some language-teaching element. I realized the impossibility of perfecting the bot, that anything you add in one place takes away from something in another place.

There was some problem with water entering the office. A dew had formed on the surfaces of all the servers and equipment. M. L. was trying to make sure everything was OK.

C. D. asked me what the word is for the thing the guitar strings sit on at the end of the neck. I thought for a moment and then I remembered. “The nut,” I said. “The nutmeg,” he said. “The nut,” I said again. “The nutmeg,” he said again too. I wondered if he was right—is the nut so named because it’s made from the wood of the nutmeg tree?

I yelled at F. for accidentally deleting our mailing list database. I was choking with rage. “There was no backup?!” I screamed. Later I apologized to the group. I now felt my place was tenuous.

At the band house at night. Some people pulled up in a bus and began yelling threats. I remember hearing something but then I fell asleep right on the spot, sort of blacked out. Next thing I knew I was in a car with the band—someone must have helped me get away. We were just in the driveway though. I wondered if the bad guys would find us. I became aware that they were in the yard somewhere, doing nefarious things like bad guys do.

We had big piles of cash for some reason. We wanted to show it to Jackie, have her feel 3,000 dollars in her hands. I tried to count up the necessary hundreds and twenties. I had the kind difficulty you often have in dreams—losing count, dropping bills, starting over again. The apartment door was open. We lived on street level, on a corner. I was afraid the money would blow out the door, or that someone would see it and come take it.

I was on a plane that needed refueling. It landed at an airport and taxied to a far-off spot where other planes were getting fuel. I wondered if it would all blow up.

I reconnected with my old friend S.A. I knocked on the door to his parents’ apartment. His dad answered and said he’d get him.

I was at a McDonalds with Mick Jagger and his girlfriend.