The Standstill
I order four “Miyagi” shooters, in
which a tiny oyster is served
inside a not-so-tiny glass of
spiced vodka (times four, or
somesuch), and I think Let’s
see how far this goes! I order
a Cosmo from some ski-bunny,
or, rather, perhaps, from a
skiing machine, or from a
dust-bunny up in the sky. It
obviously has gotten a bit
fuzzy by now, this bit of news.
And while I am shooting
at oysters, a pianist begins
to tickle the ivories somewhere.
Oh, there. At the other end of
the bar (or thus go my fuzzy notes).
And, hey, it’s Dan! It’s Dan the Man!
Dan is my friend (for whom I’ve
been waiting a very long time, I
think). Dan, Dan, the Piano Man—
and this part is absolutely certain—
sings: “When the Missiles Whistle.”
And it’s not even Christmas.
The Cosmopolitan Bar on the
west-side of the Rincon Center
no longer exists. I know this, but
there's so much more to the story.
There always is, I meander. But
it's unofficial. And most assuredly
unbeknownst. My scribbles fuzzy
into thin air (as the somber lyrics
of Dan's croons often remind us
they do), then simply disappear.
