A San Fransisco writer in his mid-to-late fifties wakes up every day believing that day to finally be the one where he is able to write. Lamenting how people take themselves too seriously, the writer admires the improvisational creativity of jokes and musicians and singers. On one particular morning, the writer wakes up to his normal routine: announcing his feeling that he will finally write today, singing along with Cubby Checker’s “Hooka Tooka,” drinking too many cups of coffee, and smoking through a pack of cigarettes. For 45 minutes, the writer is absolutely convinced he will be able to write that day, yet when he finally sits down to write, nothing happens. Counting down the seconds to when he'll be able to begin, he reaches zero multiple times, yet, still remains unable to write. The writer laments in despair, his confidence about writing that day slipping away. He quickly gives up, choosing to do nothing for the rest of the day. He reveals that he has remained in this pattern for the past 55 years.