To commemorate my graduation from law school my parents hired a sky writer to draw a giant heart above the city with some sort of nice message inside. The sky writers in question used not a plane but a magical red ice cream truck that unfortunately ran out of juice before it was finished. I watched the truck land and the “pilot” get out—it was Bill Koch, that husky kid from Chicago who does all the magic. For some insane reason I followed Bill Koch home to his duplex where I learned he was breeding chickens. I let myself inside, we got to talking, and the next thing I know he’s hitting me up for money. I started writing a check, but he stopped me.
“What, you don’t have cash?”
I stood there for a second, a little offended, trying to gather my thoughts, when this seven foot tall guy I used to work with named Noah showed up to tell me because the Ramones were so punk rock I should give this other guy cash. Then the dream suddenly cut to grainy VHS footage of a fabricated Ramones show where Johnny, instead of playing guitar, tapped on the outer areas of Marky’s drum kit with his own sticks. Johnny was doing a little Native American rain dance or something while he tapped; this made me laugh so hard I woke up.