When I woke from my brief narcoleptic drooling bout—a thirteen year quick doze, as it turned out—I was holding a microphone and staring down into the orchestra pit. The lights were positioned in such a way. It was hot. I was sweating. I wasn’t wearing pants, of course. And thus I began my monologue. I hope I’m not being too big-headed here, but I was brilliant. Especially considering my circumstances, with my dopey little flaccid penis just there, hanging out, I was brilliant. I had the place rolling for a good fifty-five minutes with original material, material I’d worked on for years, mind you, but it was otherworldly. I was happy, too. I should probably note. I was happy in a way that I couldn’t remember being in a long time. In a really really long time. I was happy, still am, strange as that sounds, I understand, but I was. I was. I am. And then damnit I drifted off again.