Minimalism was perfected in this one word story from 1978 but minimalists, somehow, could not resist going on and on, writing more and more, while also going on and on about how everyone else shouldn’t go on and on. One winter in 1993, when I was in Chicago playing a bit part in some dreadfully butch play at The Glass Bead Theater, I recognised A. at Ann Sather’s Swedish Diner. He was having the pancake tower with lingonberries, ice cream, whipped cream and strawberries, with sides of bacon, chicken basil sausage links, sliced avocado, two biscuits with gravy, hash browns, corned beef hash, tenderloin steak, and a plate of their world famous cinnamon rolls. We talked for hours and he told me that, even though he loved the food, the main reason he came to the restaurant was the bottomless coffee served by a woman who looked like his mom. I tried to convince him to change his name to ‘.’ but he just laughed and asked for a refill.