A couple of months ago (I think—time flies when you’re having fun, and when you’re not), another magazine, one that doesn’t routinely make its writers coax, cajole, plead, and threaten to get money they’ve been owed for months and months and months, urged me to profile Sighin’ Cy Curnin. Thus did the missus and I come to attend the Fixx’s performance at the Universal Amphitheatre. Afterwards, at the plush Sheraton

Something-or-Other, there was a great big lavish party of the sort record companies don’t throw enough of anymore, one with a well-stocked, open bar and a nearly obscenely lavish buffet, including a veritable mountain of delicately chilled fresh jumbo shrimps.