What’s money or my rehearsals for the celluloid auditions we’re moving 700 miles for, auditions that may well comprise your old man’s last shot at a life with any meaning at all, compared to my son? Right? Am I right? Come here, kid. C’mere c’mere c’mere c’mere. That’s a boy. That’s my J.O.I. of a guy of a joy of boy. That’s my kid, in his body.
