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
(and the somber lyrics of
Dan’s crooning often remind us of
this redundant, eternal vanishing
act), then simply disappear.
