After Paige’s birthday dinner we went in search of a jazz club. Sadly, we couldn’t find any place willing to accept a unscheduled party of nine on a Saturday night. (Go figure.) But we did find a piano bar called The Redhead who was willing to listen to (cash-based) reason.
The drinks were cheap (by Miami standards), but all the entertainment was at the nearby tables, where a group of animal-print spandex-clad older women were gearing up to do battle with an obnoxious cigar-chomping slab of beef. The actual pianist sounded as though he had just finished studying the Elton John/Billy Joel fake book, without actually learning to play the piano or to sing.
Add to this our curiosity about the management folks dressed in leftover costumes (and attitudes) from The Untouchables — and it was an entertaining evening.
Oh, and I guess I would be remiss if I failed to post a picture of the birthday girl. After all, it’s been a few years since I got search traffic for “Paige Davis nude.”
Paige Davis, not nude
Off to the Chicago Art Institute.
