“OK, so you’ve had your specialty—your hot dog with the ketchup and relish and onions and pickles.  We have no further business at this hot dog stand.  What are we doing now?”  He kept on bugging me.  I didn’t know; I didn’t have any idea.  Sometimes it’s just okay to walk, when the weather’s real nice, and there are no clouds.  So that’s what we did.  We started walking down the street, east toward the lake.  Well, we were on the Northwest side of Chicago, but you know what I mean.  Whenever we say “east” in Chicago it means towards the lakefront.  Even if the lakefront happens to be 7 miles away.  I kept trying to think of something we could do—somewhere the two of us could go at one in the afternoon.  Neither of us felt like seeing a flick.  Paul had already worked out at the “Y” early this morning, ran his laps around the track, played basketball and swam, so that was out.  I had gone bowling with my league last night, so I didn’t really feel much like doing that either.  “Come on, man, think of something,”  Paul nudged.  “Shut up and let me think!” I replied.  We were coming up to the stoplight at Cicero.  Then Paul noticed a sign that said “Golf-A-Rama!”  “Let’s go look at that a second,” he suggested.  It was a large building that had obviously once been a factory of some kind.  “Wanna try it out?” he asked me.  “It’s an indoor golf place.  It might be fun.”  I checked out the admission price, hesitated, and said, “Sure—why not.”