(Note: Other beanbag surface features the image of a joyful, smiling Tammy Faye.)

Began this night quiet, at home, writing after going for a run. Pleasant. Nick Drake. Smog. Then silence.
Then there were people here. These people—my friends, after all—announced, “We have wine!” Kept writing for about an hour. Made a mix cd for my very oldest friend. Heard people in kitchen. The best thing, after all, is this: to have people in the next room, available, but you, still alone. Then emerged, so tired, happy. Drank wine. Talked. Joked. Drank more wine. Joked about: Billy Squier, Abba, Crash Test Dummies. Mmm-hmm-hm. (“Didn’t he die? Cancer? Oh god, I’m terrible.”)

A game of cornhole outside. Thwap, thwap. Terrible, tonight. Beanbags landing everywhere but the neat little circle cut out of wood. What do you expect, after three glasses? We stenciled these to celebrate the generous spirit of Tammy Faye Baker, for a party. The friends who lived here before had cornhole sets spraypainted to look like June and Johnny Cash. When I put the purchase of these naked wooden boxes on my credit card, my roommate said her dad would slap her for paying good money for a few pieces of wood, nailed together. I said, we don’t have time to go looking for the perfect cornhole trees. My goodfriendinWisconsin found the whole thing enormously amusing. On the phone, the night we stayed up really late painting them the night before the party at which they would be unveiled, he made jokes: “Your favorite thing in the world always was the cornhole out on the verandah.” and "Okay. Don't stay up too late obsessing over your cornhole."

Tonight, thought about practice. Decided I could do this just about forever. The same gesture, something calming. Casual toss, thwap. Casual toss, wonderful silnece of landing the beanbag perfectly. Decided: we should be the very best at this game at any party, since it belongs to us. We should be cornhole sharks. Thought about the drinking while playing as an advanced brand of training. Should be able to play, drunk. In fact, we should only be able to play drunk. Thought of my father, how he loves to grow wistful and sweet with wine. Thought: I am exactly the same. Thought, What a nice Saturday, after all. Realized: it wasn’t Saturday. What was it? It was this game, midnight. Traffic outfront and you should relax and wow, you are.