Yesterday evening, I attended the debut party for a new literary magazine. It was on a Hudson River pier and cost ten dollars to get in. I amused myself by watching the attendees pretend they were there on literary agendae rather than for the drink tickets they got at the door.

Later, in a melancholy mood, I took Goblin for a late-night walk to the park. Jesus was there again, playing His lonely trumpet under the bridge. I watched Him for a few minutes from a distance: I could see His white robes shifting in the breeze, but I was not close enough to see whether He was wearing His oven mitts.

On the way home, we heard a clatter by the Diana Ross Playground. As we approached, a shadowy form leapt from the trashcan over the fence and headed for a tree. It was a raccoon, and a big one. Goblin, entranced by a creature that behaved like a squirrel but was bigger by half than she was, barked furiously. (Goblin actually never barks, a fact I am attempting to hammer home to my various prospective landlords.) The raccoon, realizing it was safe behind the fence, paused and gazed placidly at the excited Boston terrier before it disappeared up its tree. I think Jesus sent me that raccoon to let me know that everything is going to be all right.

That, or to give me rabies.