Got up early to return the vehicle to its owners, then jaunted off with Peter to Highland Park's favorite local-color breakfast joint, the Country Kitchen. This is not the same Country Kitchen you'll find at expressway rest stops in the Midwest. It's a single restaurant on Central Avenue in downtown Highland Park, and it is singularly fast and tasty. We talked about college and professors and classes, and people from high school we hadn't seen in a while, and high school classes and teachers we enjoyed and still enjoy reminiscing about.

After breakfast, we zipped to HPHS to play disc with Noah and Scott. With only four people, we were stuck playing box. Better than nothing, but I don't like box much at all. Danny stopped by as we were getting started and insisted that I have lunch with him afterward. We went to Las Palmas, just down the street from Country Kitchen, and ate some fried stuff that wasn't especially tasty. Turns out it was not the correct Mexican restaurant; my mother had recommended the other Mexican restaurant near the movie theater on Central Avenue, the one with bread pudding that is out of this world. But that one was closed.

Danny was going to get his driver's license renewed, since he just turned 21, but the DMV was closed (surprise!). So we were going to go bowling at Brunswick Lanes, but the wait was over an hour. So we went to Borders, where I discovered that Danny, an otherwise intelligent and well-read human being, had never heard of Dave Barry. I would not abide this injustice and forced him to purchase “Dave Barry Slept Here”, a colorful and somewhat true account of the history of the United States.

I bought two Chaminade discs and a 2-CD Granados set. I love the piano: me playing my music, me playing someone else's music, someone else playing someone else's music, you name it. I love the way the instrument sounds. It pulls my trigger and shivers my timbers. The old Baldwin baby grand at home is especially easy to love because of its clear tone, and I play as often as possible when it is within reach. Someday, when I have a house, it'll be in my house. Makes me want to go and get a house.

We are not religious, but we always light the Shabbat candles and enjoy dinner together on Friday nights. When we get lucky, Mom makes challah. We got lucky this Shabbat. Her challah is fantastic. I could live exclusively on it (with maybe some vitamin supplements).

After dinner Danny and I went bowling, this time at Highwood Lanes. After losing the first three games by a successively smaller margin, I bet the total cost of four games on the outcome of the fourth. After the ninth frame, we were tied at 115. In the tenth I felled 8, then 1, for a total of 124; Danny proceeded to knock down 9 on his first ball, leaving one pin to determine the outcome. If he got it, he'd win; if not, we'd be tied.

When we were done bowling, we went to Jack's Restaurant, a quirky joint on Touhy (about halfway between Highland Park and Chicago). I got a cherry phosphate, like I used to have at Shelton's when I was big enough to leave the grounds of Ravinia Elementary School for lunch. Shortly after we got our drinks, Mike Goot and Scott Green (two more guys from high school) arrived by chance and joined us for some nostalgic banter. Danny paid for my cherry phosphate because he hit that last pin. Then he whisked me to Chicago, where we drove around my favorite city at night and he showed me the dock at Lake Michigan where he once taught sailing classes.

Chicago kicks ass. So does spending time with my best friends.