And now I’m picturing a young John Travolta walking his walk on a New York City sidement. I like it. Before long, I’m imagining Travolta as he is now, in a kimono and underpants, walking the same walk in a hotel suite, his eyes fixed on the terrified intern he’s instructed to watch him. I snap out of it. That’s the thing with imagining – you can’t always choose where it leads.
