A public one, that is, and you’re washing up after having done, well, what you’ve done, and you’re singing along to the song raining down from the speakers, does it suddenly seem like you’re in your own private disco? Do you imagine that Barry Gibb is perched up on the ledge of a stall with reflections of the disco ball swarming all over his flourescent smile? Does the feeling and the song follow you all the way to the parking lot where you take your friend (in this case a tall drink of a smoking margarita) by the hand and spin him around while singing More Than a Woman, both you and him, laughing and singing under the foggy fake moonlight of the Denny’s sign? It would be nice if magic popped up and tapped me on the shoulder all the time, or maybe I’d get tired of it. Who knows?