Basic Cologne who slipped onto the next stool, those three boys straw-sipping vodka-Sprites at the other end of the bar.īobby, the middle-aged bartender in a rolled-sleeve dress shirt and black Nike cap, takes a bite from a sandwich. (I moved to San Francisco across the bay from Berkeley, in 1982.) We’re all drinking on borrowed time-me, Mr. I came to have a couple of last drinks, here where I never really hung out. And when Sister Sledge slides in with that first chorus- Oh what, woThe patient is all around us in the form of the Gangway, said to be the oldest gay bar in San Francisco, in danger of imminent shuttering (any day now, news reports say). The piano comes in, slapping syncopated block chords just before the strings rise, lifting me as if I’d downed a hit of ecstasy forty minutes ago and every muscle in my body is starting to liquefy.
Nile Rodgers’ guitar line slips in and out like a tongue, flicking around the drum kicks and spasms of electric bass.
