Sunny day. Park Slope Brooklyn. "Batting zero," I said. "And?" He replied. "What’s the point?" I said. "That's the point," he said. "You’re not in the middle of it. Easy for you to say. Feel like eating six doughnuts," I replied. "How about riding your bike in the park? That always helps you." "Not this time," I muttered under my breath. "What did you say?" he asked. "Feel like screaming bloody murder," I said. "Are you alright?" He was starting to worry. "I’m 63 years old, turning 64 in August. My wrinkles are getting worse. My neck looks like a stretched-out rubber band, there’s age spots on my hands." "What’s that got to do with it?" he said "Everything, bloody everything." I was trying to use British swear words which sounded inaner than my usual “fuck it.” Age reducing creams and exercises have been flooding my email and Instagram pages a hundred-fold in the last 10 months. "Three new films to write grants for in the pike. Maybe this time?" he said. "I have no bloody idea." "That’s right," he said. "You don’t." "I’m stepping out for a walk." I said. "Whatever works," he replied. "Sure," I said. "Bloody sure."