TAMPA -- So the other night I'm out at Skipper's Smokehouse with some friends, enjoying the whole surreal scene: chickens in the trees, hippies swaying in the breeze, the sweet smell of shrimp wafting over the picnic tables. I'd brought my two boys along to see their dad, who was playing in Uncle John's Band.
We're sitting there, listening to the music, eating supper, when a guy about my age comes up and taps my shoulder. He smiles, points to himself, points to me, then to the dance floor.
I smile, shake my head, say, "No thank you." Turn back to my meal.
A minute later, I feel another tap. Same guy. He cocks his head this time, points to himself, to me, to the dance floor. He twirls his finger around, to make sure I get it.
Again, I smile, shake my head, say, "No thanks."
I'm about two more bites into my crab cake when the guy slides a business card beside my fork - face down. He pulls a pen from his jeans pocket and on the back, he writes three words: "I'm hearing impaired."
I smile, nod my head, take the pen from him. On the back of the business card I draw an arrow pointing to the stage. Then I write five words: "I'm married to the drummer."
