Since Friday: At what point does Illinois give? Mapquest me. If I could swim. The X-burbs making a moat of traffic around the city. In time. For the best open mic ever at Woody P. Ro’s continuing Bicycle, surprise Lisa not yet in New Z, and afterwards. To the P’lish Falcon where TV was convinced away from hockey to the lip-reading edition of a VH-1 Jim B. Where balls were examined for signatures by George Bowering, where I was continually limbo to pool. Late. Saturday driving back past all the deer carcasses I would have killed the night before, and after brunch, walking, falling mid-day asleep to Cubs game. In this, thirty years unchanged. Out. M, L, and J confer. Being an asshole is the new nice. In this, pragmatism seeks a flair for the dramatic, like Skynard opens a wound. Monday: God save my technical difficulties, increase my bewilderment in other things.