I am dreaming. I think about Lucinda Williams, and then I’m talking to her. I ask her if it’s difficult having such an unusual name. My sleeping brain constructs a dream-world where you need to possess a rock with your name written on it in order to have that name. There are name-rocks all over the place, but the polished Lucindas are rare gems, hard to find. If she ever lost her name-rock, she’d have a hell of a time trying to replace it, and might end up having to take a different name. I don’t have that problem. Toms are dull and common, about as rare as pigeons in a parking lot.