My night. The day started as normal. Me waking in the dark, feeling I am dying. Paranoia as I make my coffee, then resignation. Great old jazz like this (link). Maybe not exactly, but kinda. The morning ritual. Then work. Then some fun surprises that make life worth living. A secretary who thrills me often. A coworker who does, too. Some geniuses I work with. And then I cut out early and head for the gym. On the way there, last year's famous love texts--"Are you on the way to the gym?" A week before she had suggested she show me the yoga routine she had devised for me. She is a yogin now. And married. And I had figured it was a Hollywood invitation. But no. She is on the way. We meet. We do yoga. Nothing else. She is happy and in love. I am happy that I am not. . . whatever. After that, I go feed the cat and text my buddy who wants to go to the Boulevard for the lighting of the tree, the Tiffany Glass exhibit, the Bach Choir singing Christmas carols. We figure people we have known forever will be there (including my ex-wife). We eat at the sushi bar and are shunned in some way. They make the boys wait on us. It is decided. We will not go back. Then the Boulevard. Carols. Art. But we are for the bar. Oban, we decide, and a girl comes to me who knew me, she says, a long time ago. Big titties all over my back. Not for me, but thanks. Two Obans and some more flirtations. We have fun, but then we are gone. What profit? Neither of us would change lives with anyone we know. That is not bravado. We walk by the bar--The Graveyard of Dying Elephants. We stop before the window to watch the old ones dance. Two women my age begin to flirt. They dance for us. My friend runs. I tell them to lift their skirts and they do a bit. I laugh and kiss and wave goodbye. Goodbye they giggle, and I am off. Oh, god, the holidays have begun. There are so many people I want to write tonight, but I am drunk and know not to. But to you who I do not write. . . oh, you precious ones. Goodnight, goodnight.