Tonight is beer night, to be lowbrow. It’s actually our social club where we discuss politics, literature and science, but we do drink beer.

Don’t know if I’ll go or not. My wife scored a ticket to The Wiz and is going with a friend, leaving me to ponder what I’ll do this eve.

As Mrs Trump said, “Ask not what I can do for a beer, but what a beer can do for me.” She was also famous for saying, “I never met a beer I didn’t like.”

But other things are possible for the night. The baristas called me over as I was leaving the coffee shop yesterday. “Look what we made ourselves. Affogato.”

“Love it.” Envy turned my eyes green. “I go to the Growler Guys for mine. They make a mean one.”

“Bring in ice cream, and we’ll make you one,” Meghan said.

“But they already have ice cream at the Growler Guys, so…. Do you two drink beer?” They’re young and I’m not certain they’re old enough. Yes, both answered, so I continued, “Growler Guys make a delicious porter float, ice cream in a chocolate infused porter.”

“I don’t like porter or dark beers,” Shannon said, “I like IPAs, but I could probably do a porter float, if I let the ice cream melt and stir it all up together.”

“Which is the correct way to enjoy,” I answered. Customers arrived so I headed out, but now I’m thinking, maybe I’ll go by the Growler Guys tonight.

At midnight, looking out the window over the front lawn and toward the street.

It was the witching hour. I wanted to see witches.

I saw none.

Nor were there any walking dead or pokemon.

But a huge spotlight bathed the street with white light. Something was going on. Peering in each direction, I looked for police vehicles.

I saw nothing but a clear, bright moon above the trees and mountains, a few cats and several raccoons.

Disappointed, I closed the window against the cool night air, drew the blinds and returned to pouring a fresh glass of wine.

Nothing ever happens around here.