I remember the Kingston Trio, and the Smothers brothers’ vinyl: Songs from the hungry i, and want to find this bar, where good comedy and great jazz once reigned. The address is 546 Broadway St., but I can’t locate it, wander back and forth in the hot sun, stop in a bookstore to ask. “Just next door,” she says and points. I look, see a narrow neon sign depicting a curvaceous woman stuck to the corner of a building. It's a strip joint. I wander over. A billboard hangs in front showing young women with gorgeous bodies. For many minutes I stand in the street, stare at the brick building, this onetime temple of music.

no more jazz,
just pictures of women
smell of diesel