I find it hard to let it show.

The French Kicks were beautiful.

I got to tell one of them about what their songs meant to me. I wasn't trying to be nice, I just meant it. I got to say thanks.

Tonight was really nice.

There were so many beautiful girls, and a guy my age, perched in a back corner of the bar in this red checked shirt looking for all the world like a leopard, listening and watching, his back curved with impossible relaxation, and yet such intensity in the eyes of a seemingly effortless person. I wished anybody else had seen him; I looked at him and saw a man I understand somehow. An instantly lovable, estimable, dangerous species. The world belongs to such people. It's no imagination - you can find the wilderness looking back at you in any crowd, if you look hard enough. Nobody else seemed to see him. We animals are really all the same, but people forget. Here was an artist's image of an artist, a maverick scent, an obvious cleverness, lapsing at ease. The sexy girls in the make-up and the beautiful dresses, dancing up front and getting less attention than they'd thought they were - they didn't seem to understand, somehow.

The music was wonderful. So much happened. They seemed sweet. I sang along. The band played nicely. It was fun.