The second song the DJ played was “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction.” Is that appropriate for a wedding reception?

I was on a park bench. Off to my left a man was ranting. Police were around the apparently mentally ill person dealing with him patiently. On the next park bench to my right were people who begged in the park and seemed to know the ranter. One of the them looked at the police, saw a blonde woman, and said, “Look at her. She doesn’t look like a cop. Why did she become a cop? She should have been, uh, uh, uh, a chemist, or something.”

I hope it was for a law firm, but it did not say so. The billboard read: “Medical malpractice is all we do.”

I went to a butterfly release. It was a fundraiser for a county Women’s Resources Center that aids abused women. (It is shocking how many women this center aids each year.) For every $15 given to the center, the donor got to release a butterfly. I had never thought about how butterflies might get released. They come from the grower in an insulated container with an icepack. The cold, but not freezing temperature, keeps the butterflies—monarchs in this case—dormant. Each butterfly is individually wrapped in a triangular envelope. The envelopes are taken out of the container to allow the butterflies to warm up and become more active. At the appointed time, a flap on the envelop is opened and the butterfly comes out. In our case, since it was cool evening, they needed some coaxing to start flying.

I think it was a typo. The New York City Department of Transportation sent me an email about upcoming street closures. It said that various thoroughfares around Central Park would be closed “for the Susan G. Komen Race for the Curve.”

I watched some men’s doubles at the U.S. Open. I knew nothing about any of the players, but the men on one team were identically dressed in black shirts and shorts with skulls as decorations. The players sported tattoos, infrequently seen on professional tennis players. I expected them to play heavy metal on the changeovers. They were trying to look as if they were the bad boys of tennis. The image was undercut, however, when they lost in straight sets of the first round.

At a recent dinner party, a guest mispronounced a word. Other people at the table, either out of ignorance or out of politeness, pronounced the word in the same wrong way. I avoided using the word. What should one do in such a circumstance?

“Shish kebab. Sugarloaf. Sheboygan. Whenever life called for foul language, Aughenbaugh broke into a reserve of quaint Midwestern euphemisms.” Michael Chabon, Moonglow.

A once magnificent hotel had become decrepit and was torn down. I and others were touring the grounds to see if they could be turned into a park. A flagpole had been left standing. Two of my colleagues were looking up and commented that the donated flag was too small for the height of the pole. They were right. It reminded me of the President when he holds his hands up.