Lance Armstrong knocks on my door. When I look through the peephole and see who it is, I get scared for no apparent reason. I yell through the door, Tour de France is over! Go home! This seems to make sense, but he knocks again and yells, but I've come all this way! I open the door and he walks in, yellow jersey and all. We've been watching you, he begins, and I just wanted to say that we see you working hard on your new book, just like we've been pushing hard in France. I explain that really I haven't been working that hard, and that ideas for the book (which is more of a booklet) more or less just come to me in my dreams. Oh, come on, says Lance, don't be so modest. We hear it's going really well. They are calling me the new Per Højholt, I agree (which is true in the dream). Lance doesn't want to admit that he doesn't know who I'm talking about (a true fighter!) so he switches the direction of the conversation. We see you working so hard, but we're a bit worried. If you really want to make waves, you've gotta get the right people in this book of yours. Who do you have so far? Celebrities. Athletes. Terrorists. Bad. (Here he gets a very grave look in his eyes and repeats) Bad. Bad for you, bad for your cultural capital. Here's a list. He hands me a folded up piece of paper. Me and the guys on the tour threw it together last night to help you out. I try to correct his grammar, but again he ignores me. Just take a look at the list. It might help. As he runs out the door, I yell down the steps to ask if he doesn't want to stay for coffee, but he's already out of earshot. I unfold the list and begin reading: Duchamp, Faulkner, Goethe, Cage, Wolfe, Eliot (be careful about the anti-Semitism), Pound, Foucault, Bourdieu, Hockney… The list goes on and on and is signed at the bottom by all the Tour riders like a moderne Declaration of Independence with an extra-large Lance Armstrong top and center just like John Hancock in his day.