I'm at some hotel like the LaPlaya in Carmel, California. There's some kind of a political convention going on, and I'm systematically spilling dirt out of a vacuum cleaner on either a driveway or grass lawn. Then I have my citron up on a lift in a garage and the mechanic is Mr. Kazon of the Harvard travel service, and I'm saying there must be a leak in one of the tires because it's way down, and he in his very competent manner dismisses this as not right because he says cars never go down that fast because of a leak. The feeling is that he knows exactly what he's doing and this makes me feel very good. I notice as the car is going up on the lift that there are big chunks of mud stuck to the cracks in the tire tread. Next Stanley Cantor is standing naked in a room and is having some very routine service performed for him, like have a button sewed, his fingernails cut or something like that. A very young girl is taking care of him. There he is standing with his penis hanging out. I'm thinking to myself how can he be so sure that this isn't going to get her all excited, especially because she's such a young girl. Maybe she's never even seen one before.