Part of my stage act is peeing in the corner, which raises a flurry of sand flies.

It's very complicated.

As we prepare for our journey, David shows me his only piece of luggage: a wide empty plastic case that folds out into a bed. I make a purple shake and there is just enough for my family. Later, on the back of an Army transport at night, we drive out onto an endless tarmac overgrown with grass.

Routine break-in and burglary with David Spade and Chris Farley. Later, I step on a pin.

Cleaning the tub.

"I gave you up before I gave myself the chance..."

To play along at the salon, I pull out my acoustic bass guitar. But someone has already started playing a somewhat throaty antique instrument. I apologize and go into the other room to pluck out "New York State of Mind".

Renovations at work. H is naked in a corner of the stairwell and asking for wheat. M says he's going to work three hours a week just to keep his health insurance. And Sarah says they're dismantling a 17th century cupola, already, and an improv nook, and the hall of graphite, just to build god knows what in its place. And that's just on the first floor.

After the dinner party a fight breaks out—or it might be an epidemic. I stay inside waiting for casualty reports. After, R doesn't want to talk and leaves angry, with the flash of a smile. On the bed I find L splayed out, pale and visibly in shock, with a severed penis between his legs on the bedspread. He says he is giving it to charity because what doctor would perform a reattachment on the Friday night before New Year's? I can hear his mother in the kitchen, starting up the phone tree.