Irma the ghost is playing the piano. Apparently, it's a habit with her. She takes requests on a nightly basis, although by the sound of it, her repertoire stops somewhere in the late 1970s.
It's my first time inside the Magic Castle, LA's well-known but exclusive club for magicians. I gave the owl sculpture perched in the foyer the secret password--"open sesame" of course--a hidden door slid open, and now I'm nursing a cocktail while people in their late sixties sing along to songs I'm guessing were groovy party standards back when I was still in diapers.