"Did you figure it out yet?" I asked. He wasn't sure, so I looked at Facebook on my own phone. There was nothing on it about he and I being there at that moment. "We aren't here, man," I said.

"Are you sure?" he said.

I was sure.

Allen gave up and switched to a game on his phone. We ate and drank and listened to people talk, lamenting the fact that we could never log into Foursquare.

When we were ready to leave, Allen went to the bathroom, so I stood and waited for him by the piano player. He was playing Irving Berlin, so I gave him a nice tip. I couldn't help but notice all the stuff he had on his side table: a handheld mirror, the kind Snow White's stepmother might use; two bottles of prescription medication; a metal tin of what looked like shoe polish; and what appeared to be a stiff drink. This was his night table. I immediately wanted to tweet about it, but there was something about it that probably would not translate. That is the problem with reality.

Like "Katy St.Clair’s Bouncer column" on 
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