I have a thing for old signs.  Neon signs, signs painted on the side of old buildings, you name it.  Each one invokes a reverie on life in the city when that sign was new. When suit- and hat-wearing people gathered around or below it during a business day it to catch up the news, a shiny Buick Special with big fins and shiny chrome whooshing by, big engine purring, on the way to dinner at the Savoy.  The clicking of polished leather shoes on the sidewalks below, and the warm rattle from tube radios.  I can hear the jazz playing in the distance, taste the cigarette-filled nightclub air seeping from cool, dark interiors and the warm sting of a smoky bourbon sliding down my throat.  The past is still alive in our old signs.