Almost all my dreams are vivid, but I’ve had some real doozies lately. Just a couple of days ago, I dreamed I was with George Bush and I was helping him hide for some reason and we ducked into some rundown bar on a boardwalk somewhere and he ordered a gin and tonic and was about to take a sip of it and I talked him out of it. I don’t even know where to begin on that one, but there it is.

My favorite dream is not actually a dream I had, but one that someone dreamed about me. When I first started spending time in New Orleans, I got all my mail and FedExes and faxes and things at this place down the street from my apartment called The French Quarter Postal Emporium. It was (and still is) owned by an ex-nun and she hired all these characters to work there including an actual bearded lady and a part-time bartender named Terry. These guys became like my little neighborhood family and one day Terry told me that he’d dreamed that we lived together with a bunch of other folks in a big old rambling house on the beach in Santa Monica. I was a world-famous tattoo artist and people came from all over to avail themselves of my talents. I always loved that image of me, which is so far from reality.