I’m writing from New York State, where I’m winding down from this year’s golf outing and keg party, organized annually by my 90-year-old grandfather. The day turned out to be perfect, with 80° weather and a cool breeze blowing off the lake. I hauled my clubs out of the basement, brushed the sawdust and cobwebs off my bag, and proceeded to shoot a lousy game of golf, punctuated with infrequent moments of competence. Luckily, my family plays somewhat regularly, and between my father and sister’s drives and my mother’s putting, we didn’t embarass ourselves too badly.

After lunch and the prize announcements, we hit my uncle’s house on the lake for a continuance of partying (which, at this stage, means watching my cousins’ children run around in water wings while sipping beer, eating chips, and catching up with family) and a lazy afternoon boat ride on the lake. After eating dinner, we retired to my parents’ front porch where I proceeded to pass out for an hour with my feet on the railing as the sun fell below the horizon.

I took a bunch of pictures, which I’ll probably post tomorrow, and got a pretty decent farmer’s tan, which will be gone in three days. But right now, I’d like to strangle the drunk guy singing Rolling Stones covers at the lawn party down the street so I can go to sleep.