It's sad when even our fantasies are dysfunctional. I have more work to do today than a prisoner the day before an escape. Yet, I was sucked into "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" this morning on TV. I was caught fantasizing about looking like Paul Newman, drinking myself sodden, and saying cool things like "Careful Maggie, your claws are showing." Oh and then he breaks his crutch while trying to unstick his car (escape mechanism) from the mud. And in the end, he takes Maggie the Cat to his bed ("that girl's got life in her"!) and discretely tosses a pillow as the credits roll. Real life cannot compare with the sheer desperation of Tennessee Williams.