This is the second day in a row I've dreamt about the arrangement of cardboard boxes.
I was watching The Sopranos, which is not a show I'm crazy about - on DVD, obviously. Tony thought his therapy was going so well, he'd bring his whole family. But Lorraine Bracco only handled singles, so he had to get a new guy.
The "doctor" was tall, with a white beard, and the group session was not in a posh office but a huge empty warehouse. The doctor had personally organized hundreds of waist-high cardboard boxes in swirls across the floor. From the angle, I couldn't tell if it was a spiral or concentric circles.
Then he brought out an old gray lawnmower and let it rip.
"Here's the plan," he said, pointing. "Tony and Meadow, you go to that far corner. Carmella and A.J., you go to that one. I'm gonna come at you..." - he ground the nearby boxes into brown confetti - "...and you predict where I'll be and notify the others."
This was stupid. I stepped in.
"Doctor," I proclaimed in my best edifying-the-ivory-tower-academes-with-the-wisdom-of-the-streets tone, "has this exercise ever caused any of your patients to sustain greivous foot wounds?"
He swiveled, stern behind the spectacles. "Not the ones with good communication skills."