I agree to pay for a tune-up for the General Lee due to some trade deals with John Schneider, aka Bo Duke. The young version of JS pulls up to the gas station where a group of us await. Upset, he crawls out of the driver's side window and hands me the bill, which is $1400. 'I had no idea it would be this much,' he says. 'Maybe we can split it.'

Needing financial advice, I call Chris Cornell and explain the situation with the deal and the outrageous bill for the car. Chris is apparently working on a new record at a studio in Canada. As I say hello, he immediately launches into a mellow yet terse diatribe about cars and record labels both being obsolete through their own fault. He tells me to put John on the phone. 'Here, it's Daisy Duke on the phone' I say to John, knowing instinctively that if he knew it was Chris on the other end of the line, he wouldn't take the call.

Suddenly, I am riding in the passenger side of the General Lee and Carlos D, bassist for Interpol, is driving us to the beach. He has cut and dyed his hair to look like Kurt Cobain, wearing aviator sunglasses, and begins explaining the marketing plan for the new Interpol album.

'For the last CD, we only had interns helping us promote it,' he says. 'This time out, we all agreed to take 5% of our salaries and invest it in a real PR agency.' At this point, he pulls out a crude, dog-eared, hand-written receipt from a diner-type pad that has, in red crayon, '$1,000,000' written and scratched out, and beside this, also in red crayon, 'minus 5% equals our spending budget for this CD'.

'You've got some great coverage in the Times and New York Magazine so far,' I say. 'And the picture of you fishing under the bridge is really effective.' Carlos looks at me for a moment, puzzled. 'I don't remember that picture being taken,' he retorts, 'are you sure it was us?'

Suddenly the car stops and he asks me my band's web url. 'It's hoyisnow.com', I say, 'geddit?' Carlos begins to laugh and says 'That's a really, really great web address!'

An event is being put together during the last few days of employment at my current job. Co-workers are snubbing me yet still making me do a lot of work. A table is filled with tiny bottles filled with chocolate-flavored Jameson. Though it is unclear for whom the event is being thrown, the stage is massive and hidden by a giant tarp ('There might be rain' somebody yells).

Very suddenly, a giant parade float shaped like a wedding cake begins driving towards the table where my co-workers and I work. Amy Winehouse is perched atop lip-syncing her song 'Rehab' while scantily clad go-go dancers in gold lame bikinis dance all around the edges of the cake.

The Edge from U2 runs up to me, handing me a bass guitar. 'Come on, you're late,' he says. I hastily throw a handful of the chocolate Jamesons in my mouth and am suddenly standing on a stage. The Edge is very far away off to my right. Bono stands way off to my left, singing something inaudible. He finishes a verse and begins sprinting away, off the stage into the darkness. The Edge begins to sing at this point.

When he finishes a phrase, he nods at me to 'go', then runs off into the darkness. I try to sing but realising my mouth is full of chocolate Jamesons, begin to choke and cough instead. I look around and, realising everyone is gone, wake up with a start.

For the new tour, Trent Reznor has assembled a nine piece 'industrial band'. We are sitting in a giant room that looks like my shop class in grade school, assembling bizarre-looking metal objects to take on the tour. The warehouse space is in Williamsburg near the river, and rehearsals are to take place at NorthSix, a venue which Trent purchased for just this purpose.

Two older black men are working with welding torches when the phone rings. In my haste to pick it up, I knock over a large object shaped like a huge rubber band ball but made of metal. One of the black men says 'Damn, kid, you'd better slow down.' On the other end of the phone is the woman with whom I've been discussing a job offer in Chicago. She says that Trent is bad news, a lousy boss, and a closeted homosexual, would I come work for her instead?

Meanwhile, the other 'band members' are loading up a beat up extended cab van. All the seats are ripped out except the front one, in which Trent sits cuddled up next to the driver. They are tickling each other intensely. 'Hey, guys, knock it off while you're driving!' someone admonishes. Elisa, seated on the floor of the van, asks me if I'm thirsty. 'I'll jump out and get something,' I say. I roll out of the back of the van, barely avoiding a skateboarder, and land laying on a sloping lawn in front of a mansion.

It begins to rain and, as the van speeds away, Elisa yells from the van window 'Someone better talk to Mother Nature!' I wave goodbye and yell back, 'I'm trying but she won't return my calls.'

Steve Albini and I are walking around a sporting goods store in Chicago. A Pixies song plays over the store sound system. 'Watch this,' Steve says, walking over to the baseball glove section, which becomes an oddly shaped tape recording device 'If you slow it down, it matches their BBC version,' as he demonstrates, maneuvering two ball gloves in a way that causes the two versions of the song to suddenly be in sync. I then ask him if he liked the Gil Norton-produced records, to which he snickers and says 'If he's good enough for Grohl, he's good enough for me.'

A friend recommends Starbucks as a great place to find an engagement ring. The rings come in their cup sizes (Tall, Venti, Grande) and are all around $200. The problem is they are made of cake. An older Asian barista pulls out the rings one by one and crumbs fall all around. 'I can't get her one of these,' I say, 'She'll just eat it.'

We are sitting on a couch playing video games and debating Apple's marketing plan when someone in the room leaks that Apple secretly bought all the old Sony BetaMax video players and tapes. The plan is to spray paint them all white, add the Apple logo and resell them as a new video technology known as iBetchya. I walk to the kitchen and spill wine all over the floor, taking out OxyClean and scrubbing.

Later, there is a spare office at the car dealership in Hershey PA. Alan, the car salesman, has agreed to rent me the space to record a new album. I drive to the dealership but realize I've forgotten to bring my recording equipment and instruments. Telling Alan this, he sympathizes but hands me a bill stating I owe the dealership $100 an hour for the room rental, and as I've blocked it out for the whole day, it's $1200. Angered, I tell Alan I will give him $100 for his trouble and not use the space at all. 'Then we'll see you in court,' he says.

I tell him to fuck off.

Drew Barrymore and Sylvester Stallone are filming a movie in my hometown of Ellwood City, PA. I take a trip back and stop into my 3rd cousin's pizza shop, situated in a back street, off the beaten path. The shop is rundown from generations of pizza making, and only a few locals come as customers. However, with the new filming, many of the out-of-town crew have been coming in again and again, raving about the pizzas.

My 3rd cousin, an italian man with pock marked facial skin in his 40's, explains all this to me as I eat a home-coming slice. 'You know,' I say, 'your crust is amazing, but I think my mother's sauce recipe, which only I know, would really kick this slice into overdrive.'

He and another man usher me into the kitchen and suddenly we are putting my sauce on his crust. Everyone begins to rave, and we discuss taking the pizza out into the world as a franchise. Sylvester Stallone arrives and says he's heard 'about the best pizza in the world' and is here to try it. We hand him a slice and he begins to cry.

'Truly this is the best slice of pizza I have ever had,' he says. 'You must franchise and I can back you.'

A short time later, Drew Barrymore shows up to the shop and immediately locks eyes with me. 'I hear you have the best slice,' she says, 'I'm here to try it.' The shop's lights dim and soft music begins to play. Suddenly Drew and I are alone, she eating my slice in orgasmic tones, and I excitedly leaning over the counter watching.

'I want to take you out,' she says. 'Anyone with pizza this good must be very special.'

The scene abruptly changes to a coffee shop Drew swears has the best desserts ever. To our right is a gang of teenagers, pierced and tattooed, chuckling and staring at Drew. One says 'We ate it all already, bitch!' and they laugh as they exit the store. We look in the display case and only a few pastries are left, all with unappetizing names like 'Turdberry Surprise Scone' and one simply called 'Flies.' Drew begins to cry and I console her, saying 'Don't worry, my pizza is still the best you've ever had.'