The angler puts his line into the clear cold water in hopes of hooking one of the shiny beauties below. Sometimes he succeeds, more often not. So it is with the guileless young man with amatory intent—or perhaps more accurately a lusty quest. At the bank where he cashes his check every other week he always frequents the window where the smiling face and friendly banter awaits. Eventually he asks her out. She acquiesces to a simple lunch. When the day comes, her smile is skewed as she begs off with an unlikely excuse. Chagrined, he offers the most face-saving reply he can muster, “Ok, some other time.” He deposits his check at another branch after that. He recalled his experience from a few years before, in a pre-disco era. In a Roxy Music moment, love was the drug he was looking for at the Depot, a former bus station rehabbed into a club. In platform shoes, button-front bell bottoms and a tight fitting top he hit the dance floor. A woman he met mirrored his every move. The promising synchronicity led him to her apartment. There her young daughter kept waking up, calling for mom at the bedroom door. It mattered not; even in his 20-something youth, the effects of alcohol overcame his libido. He never saw her again. The club where he had seen Mitch Ryder, Zappa and the Mothers with Flo and Eddie closed not long after, never again providing an opportunity for a more successful encounter. Lust, love and life in general can be a lot like fishing.