A little rain dampens the night. It also dampens interest
in coming to the jazz club, which is too bad. Rain and jazz are a good match.
Just like distant rumbling thunder, the jazz guitar quartet is perfect for
easing into a contemplative mood. There are a number in the club's sparse crowd
who get it. They know how to comport themselves in a jazz club -- you come to
listen, relax, and be cool. There's a group of eight pastel people who don't
understand. Every time the bass player takes one of his extended solos --
intricately fingering or strumming with his bow -- the pastels amp up their
yakety yakking and cackling laughing. It's times like this where The Doorman
needs special powers. I'd hit them all with the Immobolizer -- an energy beam
that would render them inert. In their quiet, static state they'd enjoy the
music.... hopefully. Pastel people are generally suburban residents who have
taken a lark to come to the city for jazz. They wear a lot of pastel colors,
horizontal stripes, or colors never found in nature. They are scrubbed clean,
usually very white, and consider the chain restaurant TGI Fridays to epitomize
extreme nightlife. An interesting black / blonde couple enters with their third
wheel. The third wheel is crippled with motor control issues. He uses a cane
with a four-point foot and uses two hands to get his drink to his mouth. He has
soulful cool jazz eyes that reveal intelligence. It seems like a cruel joke to
be stuck in a cattywompus body--but what do I really know? I make sure to give
him my card when they leave and tell him he obviously enjoys jazz and belongs
here.
