faking it

For my Jazz, History and Musical Elements of: class, we have to attend various jazz performances and write reports about them (I happen to be finishing up one now.) So, NYC has probably one of the best jazz scenes in the world, and of course many of the venues for jazz are jazz clubs. The trick to many of these places is to stay at the bar and avoid sitting at a table (where there is often a hefty food minimum.)

So, when I was at Birdland last week, I sat down at the bar, feeling all cool. Normally, young’uns like myself aren’t allowed to sit at the bar (city law). But, the place was pretty empty at the time, so I don’t think they cared. It was the 9pm set. The bartender leans over to me and says, “What can I get cha?”

Of course, I didn’t want to sound like a stupid kid that knows he’s limited to only soft drinks and water. So I dig deep, and with a mature wave of my hand, I maturally growl at him, “Ehhh, just start me off on with a Coke.” As if I was going to order more. As if this Coca-cola was just to wet my thirst before I really start to guzzle the booze, before I start to throw back shots, before I order the REAL stuff.

That would be my only beverage for the night. I nursed that puppy through a two hour set.

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