My friend who went to rehab and I just saw for the first time in years in real life was the coach of a major international soccer team. They’d won a place in the Euro finals, but their top two players were injured, or unavailable for some other reason. I sat with him to talk. He asked me if I spoke German. “Nur ein bisschen,” I replied. And we exchanged a few words in German and that was the end.

It was my turn to present my song parody concept to the breakout group that would be singing it with me. Larry David was in it, as well as a couple others. The idea was “Why Am I Always Eating Food That’s at War?” sung to the tune of the doo-wop classic “A Teenager in Love.” The catchy opening line would be “babaganoush,” and the song would catalog Israeli and Palestinian foods and how they’re both delicious and if you live in Israel, how hard it must be to love these foods from two sides of a conflict. I hadn’t sorted out the specifics but I figured, falafel, hummus, couscous on one side, shawarma, tabouli on the other. I’d do some research. I thought I was doing a good job explaining, singing the Dion & the Belmonts original and making sure they remembered it. But they were distracted by something on the array of televisions hanging around the space. A soccer game of some importance. I had to abandon their attention. I found myself looking up, too.

I was at a house party that lasted days. At one point Madonna arrived. She walked in with a bit of a smile saying, “Yeah, I’m Madonna.” She wore her hair short and dark. I was at a soccer stadium, watching a World Cup final between Holland and France. Holland went up 2-0 and then France scored on a weird, close-range shot that dribbled past the keeper. I woke up very late in my dream, thinking it was past noon, relieved it was only 11:25, but still dazed and a little bit ashamed.

I explained rules of Formula One to J. T. I suggested that maybe they should go back to tires that last the race, so drivers could just go flat out more.

I was at this place that sold Paris St Germain soccer team souvenir wine dolls. The red wine was black players, the white wine white ones. Thank God they have black players, I thought.

I was like the walking dead at work, knowing I’d get laid off soon. I wandered over to where the French programmers sat—we were all in one big room. F. H. caught my attention to say he wouldn’t last long either, by way of comforting me. I asked him what were his plans. He and his girlfriend would go on a trip, he said. He asked me if I’d ever been to Pelouse. (“Pelouse” is French for “lawn.”) I told him I thought I had as a child. Then the office turned into a bar and a soccer game was on TV.

People were gathering for C.W.’s wedding. He’d been out fishing, and now was back. A.H. told me she had played the lottery every day, and won it for $30 million once. It seemed weird that she’d never told me.

I was playing soccer against an Englishman. Just me and him on the entire field, kicking the ball back and forth from goal to goal. It kept going in the woods.

I played a soccer game. I was on a team of guys my age playing a team of teenagers. They kicked our asses 4-0. Later, I recounted the game to someone. I emphasized how soundly we were beaten, making it a story of the old being inexorably eclipsed by the young. "The game started at 2 am and lasted for two and a half hours," I said, as though this made the kids' feat all the more remarkable. Then I relived the game in my head. I cursed myself for not taking more chances. I recalled making some successful passes but I wished I'd launched the ball at the goal a time or two. Then I was playing the game, but the circumstances shifted. Barack Obama was playing. So was George W. Bush. I imagined how terrible it would be if Bush were still president. He took a free kick. His personal assistant was assigned to play goalie.