“Scrap the watercoloring drag act and be a motivational speaker,” Tony says, or at least that’s what he’s trying to say but it comes out as something like a few mumbles and several punctuated high points that might be words but are more like baby talk. He has to lean against the window sill to keep from tipping over and that makes him close his eyes and take a few breaths. “I’m sorry,” he continues, and it at least sounds like English. “I think you’ve got me…dunk.”

Why’s it so hard for people to pronounce the ‘r’ in drunk when they’re plastered? There’s probably some neurologist that can explain slurring somewhere in the world, but there aren’t any handy close by.

“You-- You and your—” Tony twists his wrist around as if any of this helps explains himself. “You. You-you. You-ness. I like your singing.”

And that’s about when room service shows up, forty minutes post phone call and approximately right on time to stop Tony’s compliments from getting messy.