Winter is here. Not quite the bitter cold but no longer the brutal heat wave Cincinnati was treated to during the middle months. A nice enough night to appreciate not having to be at work, servicing the needs of diners. As I approach the steel gates I show the doorman my ID even though I’ve been here dozens of times before, but he’s never seen me. He’s only ever seen a cheeky smile in a photograph and a birthdate. As I walk in I scoff at the hunky metrosexuals crowding the entrance still toting tank tops and skinny jeans, slurping tallboys of whatever while they talk nonsense. The bartender knows my face so he promptly pays mind to me. Tonight I’ll start with and probably stick with bourbon, neat. “Bulleit?” he asks. He knows my face too well.