False rumors of rain exposed by a partly cloudy truth, making my ride to the tub a relaxed affair. I waltz through the halls to find Liza Torelli chatting outside the tub door. The EBMB and Lester’s More join shortly after and, despite two tests of B*****’s Limit, no infractions ensue. Out of the tub, onto the bikes, and over to the Hutch under high skies. The Spaniel in waiting has surely tested the wax before we arrive. Live music spectacle a bit of a mish-mash, but no bother to us in the shuffleboard corner.  Slow going on the table, ones and twos and laughably long games. 50 cents to buzz the score in. The doors to the booze closet surveiled by twin cameras. Lebold and Lebeautiful and Zulu arrive to make us seven. The Good King is the “Starsky” of the Hutch, but Lester’s 8-point end(!) is the true highlight. We depart for the Slammer, splintering into two groups and routes. I peel off and head home, leaving the others to the wee hour finish. The late night reports arrive in time for the morning edition: Slammer barkeep Leslie says, “When the Aussie get’s back from the bathroom, he still owe’s me for his beer”; The Leech shows up at midnight; Food-cart tacos are devoured by the five count; a Hawthorne Strip night cap fills out a “cycle ,smoke, soak, cycle, suds, shuffle, cycle, smoke, suds, cycle, sustenance, suds, strippers, cycle, sleep” dance card for the EB effing MB! Oh, what the wakers do while others sleep.