Hanging out at a jazz spot with a good buddy of mine and realized he is not a lively seventy something, he’s a livelier almost ninety-something, telling me stories about the summer of ’54. Bird lived one floor up, Prez one floor down. Prez on steamy summer nites in jockey shorts and a pork pie hat; Bird, shy, high, in love, brilliant. Miles would come by, just to hang. I wasn’t even born yet. I ask him what his secret is. He holds up his beer. Good living, he says, and the sax player takes off into Sweet Georgia Brown.