What can YOU say in six sentences?
It was my twenty-first birthday, a block or two off Broadway, and I was drunk without the usual temptation to cut my own throat with broken glass. The sun was out, things looked good, something like magic was starting to work, and I was not getting in the way. I walked past a little Japanese noodle place, just about empty in the mid-afternoon, except for a hard-luck man sitting at a piano singing his karaoke version of The Summer Wind. The look and feel of schizophrenia was about him, stable for the moment, and he sounded a lot like Sinatra to me. I went in, sat down, ordered an Orion beer, and applauded. The singer thanked the absent crowd and me, flipped me his Zippo and winked.