That was fantasy. The reality: you just clench your teeth, reach for your Classic Milds and blow out the demons of your mind in insipid smoke rings. Back home, you try, in vain, to dissolve your impotent rage in the angriest Velvet Underground tape you possess. But next morning, you're that meek, submissive slouch again. And the performance dossier on you doesn't have too many good things to say.