Part of the doorman’s trade is to be aware of the full moon. Having a full-moon calendar may be as essential as breath mints, a cell phone programmed to 9-1-1, and a taser X3 electronic control device. Full-moon lunacy might explain the antics last night, including the belligerent customer who wore the Davy Crockett coonskin hat with dangling raccoon tail. Tonight was tame by comparison. Any lunatics in the crowd were no doubt soothed by the jazz siren, who sang a mix of jazz classics. Not that I noticed, but it was pointed out to me that she looked quite captivating in her black leather mini-skirt. Over the course of the night, there were two groups of four and another couple that hesitated at the door. I invited them all in with the deal: “pay on the way out if you enjoy the music and your experience in the club.” All stayed, enjoyed, and only one four-some departed without paying—and to be honest, they could have forgotten. It was nice to see again the gentleman who writes in his journal while sitting at the bar. As the singer belted out the Billie Holiday song God Bless the Child, and her blonde hair fell in her face as she cooed “God bless the child that's got his own… That's got his own,” I watched him writing madly in his notebook and realized that we are clearly brothers of the pen. At any given time or place, that could easily be me sitting at a jazz club bar writing in my own notebook.
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