I own a house. I am looking up at it in the night. It has three levels & a cafeteria in the yard. I have a band that practices on the top floor, & also let Arcade Fire practice in the room below ours. But now, this night, both bands have arrived at the same time to practice, & there is only a tiny elevator, so small that you need to squat down, that can get us up to the jam rooms.

Suddenly I find myself squashed in the elevator, unsuccessfully trying to get a platter of cheese sandwiches out the door.

Now I’m in the cafeteria—or more like a food cour t—an outdoor food cour t in my yard, at night, & I have to go poo. The tables at the food cour t are made for outdoor use; round, cement, & each with a 2 or 3- inch hole in the center used to hold an umbrella. For some reason I decide that I will try to poo down one of these holes. I squat down, in plain view, atop a table really not that far from the food counter, & try. But I miss. The hole is too small, & I get poo everywhere. Then Regine & Ritchie & Jeremy appear from around the side of the house. They see me, & I make some joke about being caught in a slightly embarrassing situation, but they don’t laugh. They’re a little grossed out, but not so grossed out that they don’t continue on to the counter to order food. I’m quite embarrassed; I’ve gotten shit all over the table & still have my pants down.

Then, luckily, Neil Young appears out of nowhere & wants to help me. He seems not disgusted at all & in fact is quite motherly. He encourages me to clean myself & pull up my pants, & then grabs some nearby rags & star ts cleaning up my shit for me. I help, & together we quickly tackle the mess. I say it’s gross because people have to eat off the tables. Neil agrees, & pulls out a bottle of red wine from his shoulder bag & pours it over the sur face of the table, wiping it around, explaining that the alcohol is a disinfectant. I’m really glad that he showed up.