December 22, 2005

I write this on the warmest Christmas Eve-Eve-Eve I can remember in the town that built the Mayo Clinic, encased in my new black USC zippered sweatshirt, the scent of Christmas cookies air-swimming in the next room, someone else's copy of Fleetwood Mac's Greatest Hits playing on a sound system I envy. This is a good day. However, it's a good day that followed one of the more treacherous nights of sleep I can remember. For the warmth of today was preceded by a bitter overnight chill that overtook closed windows and my soul. Between bouts of restlessness, I dreamt of Al Franken projectile-vomiting on me as we slept in separate beds in a barracks. Franken's vomit soiled my dream clothes, forcing me to miss the start of the final game of the summer camp soccer tournament. I'll never know if my team won the dream game because a cold cold air pocket slapped my nostrils and smacked by scalp, waking me before I even stepped on the field.