It’s noon on a Thursday and I’m back at the mall again. I sit on the edge of the fountain, disheveled wearing an old tan sports coat with a tear on the left lapel where a pin once sat. A pin from a lover, a pin I tore off. Doc, stop me if you’ve heard this story before.


The doctor sits behind the desk across from me. I’m in Rehab. I rode here on the back of a great ape, a mighty mother with leather dugs and eyes of camphor. The doctor has a white beard and a bald head. His coat is white. I can’t see his body hair but I’m sure it’s white too. I wonder if he shaves.

See my problem doc is that I can’t write.

You’re an actor. Problem solved.

I’m a method actor and my method is writing. You see doc my problem is that I can’t write. The words come out arsy-versy.

Is that dialect?

Yeah it’s hard to punch up dialogue any other way. But you see doc my problem is that I can’t write. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. A horse walks into a bar. The bartender asks Hey buddy, why the long face? The horse says because a benign existence is impossible in a hypercommercialized world.