It’s about midnight, and I don’t think I’ve fully woken up from this morning I had one of those fitful alcoholic sleeps that seem to have no restorative properties. I think I can safely say that age decreases two things: my ability to recover from any liquor, and my confidence that I’m correct about any given situation. Thank god I don’t drink that much anymore, or else those two qualities would work together in glorious dis-harmony.
After a very lethargic, slow-witted lunch with the last group of Chi Psis left in town (I sat next to Dave Burris’ girlfriend Clare Scanlon, who assistant-edited Amy Eldon’s “Dying to Tell the Story” a very bizarre coincidence), we got on the road and drove through another god-awful storm that flashed lightning down on either side of the car for two solid hours. We couldn’t stand it anymore, and decided to pull off the road into Cleveland, into the waiting arms of the Clarion Inn, where I lie right now.
It was a great weekend, made even better by Tessa knowing so many of the brothers independent of my meddling other wives had to be eased into the proceedings, but Tessa’s already been 1988-drunk with half of them already. I wonder what many of them think about us being together; either it’s the most obvious thing on the planet, or it’s a bizarre mixture of two past worlds. Or perhaps it’s just “how did that whiny, basketball-hurling profanity-laced dork end up with someone as cool as Tessa?”
left: Tessa in July at Sears Tower; right: in April at the Chrysler Bldg