There is a long hallway and the band is playing to a packed house. My apartment is very cheap because it's situated in the back of a giant concert hall. I keep trying to use the bathroom in peace, but am interrupted by drunk fans needing to pee. My bathroom is huge, and one end is a more private tub and shower for just these occasions. The problem being its cleanliness: covered in mold, mildew and crawling bugs.

As I'm getting ready to shower, a man knocks on the bathroom door. 'Hey buddy, it's the singer. Can I please come in?' I mumble an affirmative and in walks Kurt Cobain wearing only boxers, covered in a light blue silk robe. He hurriedly runs to a urinal and I hear him begin to pee.

'Careful out there, man,' I say. 'There's a lot of pitfalls.' He disappears and two fat and sweaty women barge into the bathroom wearing magenta tubetops which barely keep their heaving teets covered. 'Oh my god, where is he?' one exclaims. I get very angry and try to start the shower but no water comes out.

I am on my way to Chicago in my new car to record with the legendary engineer Steve Albini. My best friend from high school, Donovan, is with me, as is another unidentified person that I sense is my girlfriend. We are in the new car. We pull up to the studio in a part of town best described as 'cruddy', and there are patio doors for front doors. Mr. Albini is inside setting an old microphone up on a golf club. My friend Andy is tuning a guitar. I hear the sounds of a very heavy band somewhere inside. 'Mastodon,' Albini says. 'Don't worry, they won't bleed.' Donovan rushes into the room. 'Dude, your car is gone!' I run outside and see that my car has been towed: somehow I've missed the sign about illegal parking. I ask an old man where I can get a towed car in Chicago. 'You're in luck, son, it's right there' and points down the street to a sign that says 'Cars'. Suddenly I am parking the car, careful that it's a legal spot, when from an adjoining wooded area Elton John calls to me. 'Come here and help me play this'. I walk to the wooded area and find a stage with lights and a drummer, Elton sits at one piano and motions me to take a seat at a second piano a few feet away. He plays a melody and asks me to correct it: I oblige, adding a few new notes, and he nods that he is pleased. 'Oh shit!', I exclaim. 'I have to get back to the studio. I'm paying for this time.' Back at the studio, Steve is miffed, but still cool. 'I don't usually record acoustic songs,' he says pulling out another golf club, 'but since your band left you, I'll make an exception'. Suddenly I notice my car is gone again. I rush out front and this time a man stops me. 'You really need to relax, man. This is Chicago.' I again retrieve my car but when I return to the studio, Albini is gone, along with everyone else. There is a message on my phone: it is Albini, and he is drunk. He rants about several other bands (apparently this is a group message, somewhat read like a will out loud) and finally gets to me: 'Hoy, you disappointed me the most with all your potential, but I'd work with you again if you got your shit together and quit parking in the wrong spaces.'