So this is going to be a journal of --

1) My stupid dreams and

2) Books that are better than me.

The other night, it was that I became the singer for No Doubt. I am very confused but secretly excited that my music will finally be validated. I'm trying to avoid the wacky drummer, which I manage to do because I don't remember any part with him in it. We're in India, gathered around an outdoor cooking pot. Instead of grabbing food off the grill, the band is mumbling and nitpicking, petulantly handling tiny pieces of meat and tossing them back on the cooker. I become really aware of the masses of Indians behind us, in full Hollywood 'coolie'-wear, who are wailing like Temple of Doom extras, begging for scraps. We can't be bothered. I'm aware of them, but I'm doing nothing to help them. Next thing I know I'm at a photoshoot with the boys, and I'm being freezed out of the pics. I whine at the bass player, "I feel like the black dude in the Rolling Stones," to which he replies in this really low, yet somehow grating, voice, "Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh...Billy Preston?"

and I wake up.