Dance Baby, Dance

I made the critical error of stopping in at the Green Parrot during daylight hours. The 5:30pm slot known as Sound Check. What a horror show. The house was packed, a band was blasting, and yet the atmosphere sedate and so different from the Parrot I know and love.

Old people with straggles of white hair in limp ponytails, and denim everything, slumped in scoliosis positions, resting their tattoos on the bar, or standing in clumps. Everyone drinking. Some smoking. All talking.

A few music lovers payed attention to the band who were equally ancient though energetic. The music lovers swayed discreetly or tapped a foot, from a distance and almost circling the dance floor, but not on it. You'd have thought the floor was sprinkled with ebola spores. No one danced but it was obvious some wanted to. They couldn't seem to let go.

Quite exactly the opposite from the night crowd who jam that pit in front of the musicians, becoming a mobile thrashing glob within which I frequently frolic with abandon.

I could, I thought, just twirl on out there to the empty dance floor. But I was Jane Goodall on assignment and not looking to interfere with actual life in the wild. I didn't want to disrupt the natural flow of Sound Check, which I acknowledged I would never again go anywhere near. The Haley's Comet of my time here on the Rock. As long as I live I don't ever want to see anyone in daylight. Further, I don't even want to see daylight except as a glinting rim around the edge of black-out curtains.

Like the werewolf I am, if only partially, I padded back to my lair and napped until the sun went down and the grownups went home.

For me the Green Parrot is a night forum and under the current full moon, and a certain New Orleans lady coming to town, Miss Mia Borders, I know where I'll be.

Hope to see you there. After dark.