My last-minute self left home at 8:55 and got to the Ravinia Metra station maybe 3 minutes ahead of the train. (Would it kill me to leave earlier? I don't know, but why risk it?) 10 minutes after I walked from the downtown terminus to the Amtrak station, the Van Galder bus arrived. The ride to Madison was uneventful. If one were to divide the number of seats on the bus by the number of passengers, I could have made fair use of ten seats. If only there were a way to move them around to make a couch.

The guy at Boston Market asked for my first name so that he could tell me when my food was be ready. I told him my name was Joe so I could know when he was talking to me. One of the drawbacks of having an interesting name is listening to interesting attempts at pronouncing it. Often, if I am not expressly listening for possible permutations, I am not even aware that I am being addressed. So it was Joe for me, this time.

While Kelzie was at a required soccer function, I hung back at her house and chilled with her parents. Her father received a phone call from his alma mater requesting a donation. He managed to turn things around and request a donation from them. After all, he said, he's got to put a kid through college. The ensuing lengthy conversation was quite entertaining. Apparently he does this sort of thing all the time.

Kelzie and I went to a very bad Thai restaurant for dinner. I could actually hear my cells screaming from the several pounds of salt in my “food”. It didn't much matter though; hours passed, seats were stacked on nearby tables, lights were dimmed beyond the point of ambience, and we just kept sitting and talking. I wanted to spend as much time as possible at that restaurant, because there's no chance I'll ever go back. Eventually, we acknowledged the numerous hints and left.

In search of a piano, we went to her church. It was fairly late, and she expected it to be locked, but it wasn't! Then we expected to have difficulty with the lights, but we didn't! And finally, I expected the piano to be locked, but it wasn't! It was a nice new Yamaha, and the room's carpeting kept the bright tone in check. I first improvised on a theme from a Brahms sonata, which was tricky inasmuch as Brahms had already used it to excellent effect. To recuperate, I rendered my standard Rachmaninov Prelude, which seems never to leave my fingers even if I never practice. (I haven't, and it hasn't.) And then I brainstormed for some moments, found an idea good enough to use, thought of an interesting introduction, and played my best improvisation ever. A third idea presented itself while I worked, and I ended up stretching and folding the introductory idea more than what I'd intended as the main one. Yet every note and phrase and thought was under my total control, and it carried more personal weight than I thought my limited improvisational technique could be made to bear.

She explained how to drive a vehicle with a manual transmission. I nodded, then popped the clutch and frizzed out. At least I understand it conceptually. In time, with practice, I can figure it out.

Some days should be longer than 24 hours.