The music for the Doll Hut's St. Patrick's Day party was supposed to start at noon; by 3:30 p.m., no bands had shown, but the bouncer was still trying to charge a cover. Still, although neither bands nor barbecue had manifested by 4 p.m., the four of us in the bar had a lovely chat on topics ranging from Jimmy Intveld (whose croonings on the box were probably a better soundtrack than a band, anyway) to the world's best lounge—the Fling—to the woman who came in briefly. She had a beautiful, sweet smile, and she looked more strung-out than I have ever seen anyone in OC. Her hair was matted. Her blue, limpid eyes were almost hidden under the violet circles. She said nothing—just smiled shyly. But it was asked for her: Could she borrow the bartender's car? Hers wasn't working, and she had to go pick up her baby. Here's a tip, sweetheart. Leave the baby where it is. Unless it's in a Nike sweatshop—and maybe even then—it's in better hands than yours, which are trembling. Drugs are bad, mmmmkay?