Easy going night. It seems like we were getting just enough people to form an open-weave crowd, which is respectable considering how dead the streets are. Minimal car traffic, several bicyclists whizz by, and a pair of ooh-lah-lay young ladies hobble past on their stiletto heels and wearing sausage-casing minis. I say hello to the pair but I’m considered nothing more than building ornamentation—a gargoyle—and my greeting probably registers as the wind burping. I guess when they get to their destination club they must just stand somewhere on display—like fly paper, hoping to catch the right guys. Back at the door, I’m trying to fill it so I let some in at two-for-the-price-of-one and others for free. A fun couple in their late thirties or early forties greets me at the door. The woman says, “I suppose you wanna see our IDs?” I say, “Damn skippy I do, although I’ve seen so many fakes tonight. Take that gray-hair guy at the bar. I know he’s under age but his obvious amateur-hour driver’s license claims he’s 67—what a scammer.” Since her birthday was yesterday, I only collect for him. While the night wears on, the band pulls out songs they haven’t played for awhile. I especially enjoy their version of Cannonball Adderley’s Jive Samba. As the end comes near, I notice four different couples each cocooned in worlds of their making. If it wasn’t so authentically sweet, I would have puked.