My only day at the club this weekend, since we’re closed Saturday knowing it will be dead due to the 4th. I arrived early… hoping to discuss with the bartender an epiphany I had had earlier. Bartenders, by nature, know stuff. It was a hot summer evening… capping one of those sun-blazing hot days. Earlier, walking out into the blinding humid white light, that familiar angst hit me and I understood summer. It’s the sensation that out there, somewhere… a cosmic vortex of fun is happening and I’m not cool enough to know where it is. I’m standing there in the goddamn heat with my crazy sunglasses on, white sun-block stripe on my nose, a water noodle tucked under my arm, squirt gun full, mitt & ball, frisbee, and a water-bottle full of Grape Kool-Aid carabiner-clipped to my plaid shorts belt loop with no idea where anyone is. That’s summer. When I walked into the club, it was filling up and my epiphanous discussion would wait. “What gives,” I asked (rather than, does the hot summer day fill you with despair?). I was reminded that we were getting a birthday party—expect around 40. These “private” parties are always a pain. The invited guests resent having to pay for drinks, expect premium service, never tip the bartender or waitress, don’t appreciate jazz, and are the source of inane comments and questions. “Does the band know any James Taylor songs?” “I love jazz… I listen to smooth jazz all day long at work.” In the cluster, I did meet a jazz lover named Dwayne or Darence or somesuch who is a singer and goes by the handle of D-Soul (“because I have so much soul”). I enjoyed talking with the D man, but restrained from asking him the question.
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