Dancing Girls at the Saint

Well, that was another long vacation from blogging.  I had  fall from my bike on Thursday and have been recuperating/trying not to bend my scraped-up knee.  And not riding.  But I got back on the bike tonight to meet A. for a drink or two at our friendly neighborhood bar, the Saint.  It was a quiet night, but that might have been because we were early.  Things really get going there late–and I mean late, like after two or three in the morning late–but neither of us were in the mood for that sort of night.  The thing about the Saint, though, is that you can go there for that late night bender, but you can also drop in for a drink and watch television or chat with a friend or do your crossword or play Centipede.  As the night went on, the dj turned up the music and the dancers arrived.  Now, I love to dance.  I will dance anywhere at any time with anyone.  These ladies brought the dance, and for tonight, we were all friends, all dancing to West End Girls at somebody’s house, drinking cheap beer.  Yep, it’s a neighborhood bar.  Unfortunately, the neighborhood is a dangerous one.  W. stopped bartending here because there’s no security, and she just didn’t feel safe working there at night.  While walking over with A. tonight we saw cop cars, lights on, creeping through the streets.  There are regular losses in the Lower Garden District–of life, of sense of self, of sense of being at home.  Even when we’re all in the bar, enjoying the unseasonably warm December nights, thoughts of all the people lost on the streets of New Orleans creep in.  Be safe, everybody.