Popular club, popular night.  A line of people spills ambivalently down the sidewalk like some sort of schizophrenic snake whose personalities neither agree with their position nor quite know what to do about it.  We’ve all been there.  The only solace found in most situations like this is knowing that you’re not alone – that many people before and many more after you will likely find themselves dubiously arranged in predetermined order against their will – no matter how cool they think they are.  What is it about entertainment that does this to us?  A band gets hot and we scramble to get in line.  We get in line to see the show, get in line to buy their cd, to take a picture if such industry strikes us.  I always thought that a good name for a band would be simply, “Get in Line.” 

   Everyone has the same collective expression, a buffet of lament if you will – equal parts surrender and unrest – for lack of a better oxymoron, patiently impatient.  Some may even have experienced the VIP treatment from time to time, the “Back Door Nod,” or the coveted “House Stamp” that either comes from working at the club or a strong relationship with someone who does.  So, shifting from one leg to the other, one thought to the next, peeking through windows and doors and silently hoping the bouncer will realize his oversight and declare, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t’ realize it was you,” can rankle an even deeper level of frustration within a select few.  And as this stew of dynamics inevitably simmers, an individual casually strolls up to the entrance without a second glance to the obvious minions, makes a benign, almost subservient facial connection with the door men, and eases inside like a ghost.  The assembly outside is left with one communal observation, “Never fails.”

   But there’s more to it than that, right?  Isn’t there?  I mean, who is this guy, or even, who does this guy think he is?  How does a person just walk past a line of people like that?  And that’s just the beginning.  Once inside, he’s no longer a ghost.  And in this case, he’s quite the opposite.  If he had six hands, they would all be shaking someone else’s.  If he could get through the throng of admirers, he would find that anything, everything is on the house.  He would realize that every female in the club wants to dance with him – and he will grant many of them their wish in the usual fashion – dancing for hours tonight.  And he would patiently stop every few feet for yet another picture.  There’s something to be said for a person like this.  Quite frankly, not enough could ever be said about such a person.  In a world such as his, such as this, he is the main event - however you want to look at it - and there’s a reason.  His name is Hank, and he’s ninety-three years old.

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