There sat I, preparing those few, perfect, penetrating words, those well-sifted nuggets of wit, those giant squids of wisdom-things that would reveal me as neither nerdy starfucker nor blithering idiot. Then, sulk into your coffee, thinking about all the things you could have been saying to Dave Holland. Allow the window of opportunity to close, and the guy sitting on his other side to grab his ear. ![]() ![]() Holland himself occupying the bar stool next to yours? Sit there and fidget, of course. ![]() ![]() What to do when, returning from the restroom after the early set of Dave Holland’s quartet at Birdland, you find Mr.
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