Reorganization of the Day's Events

First these guys parachuted into Wrigley Field, then Grant flirted with this greasy shiny-faced girl with a mustache – the whiskers reflecting sunlight at certain angles – and made us follow her afterward to Harry Caray’s where a few of us danced to classic rock while he attempted canoodle with his prize. We found a table out on the patio with a caterpillar crawling on the edge and I spat on it, not like a violent ptooie! but like a slow oozing ball of bubbly spit hanging from a thread of saliva that was carefully guided onto the caterpillar’s writhing body. Guys laughed but girls frowned – the trade-off in my transparent effort to be the enfant terrible of the evening.

Ate toasted ravioli, left the bar after a couple more beers, played bocce at dusk with some struggling musicians in Bucktown, then went for an easy 3-mile jog along the lake so that I could sweat out the alcohol. Got home, turned on the TV, found a channel, watched Chaplin try to eat a boot in “The Gold Rush,” thought about how the movie looked surprisingly smooth, like they must have done something to the frame rate because people usually move all nervously and bird-like in these kinds of films. Drifted to sleep. Dreamt that I was somehow teleported into Jupiter’s atmosphere, freefalling through an endless sea of orange and pink clouds as hydrogen and helium and methane gas entered my lungs. It was terrifying. It seemed so real. Also, a flying jellyfish type of creature brushed against my arm in midair. Why couldn’t I have just had the one where my teeth are falling out?