Last night Paul and I went to bed early, got up as midnight approached, put on jeans, sweaters, and boots, and drove downtown. The trees to our right and left on Massachusetts Street held a dusting of snow lit up by Christmas lights. We parked on Ninth Street, walked briskly to The Jazzhaus.
Upstairs the scene was festive, expectant. It was “stop-day” for KU. Classes were over but finals yet to begin so the college kids were out on the town. Older generations were dotted here and there, everyone drinking beer and–to use a new word made up by a friend–“conversating.”
We sat on low chairs, drank beer and, amidst the loud music playing, tried to conversate, too.
My son Roland is keyboardist and a vocalist for The Irietions, a hot Reggae band that writes its own music. The “Iries” are winding up/winding down the end of their performances with Ska. The band was hot. Roland was skankin hot.
Cora’s Nigerian friend begged me to get up and dance. Then she begged Paul to dance. But most of the time, I was slunk in my chair avidly listening and watching.