When I finally made it through the crowd and into the Music Hall room, I took one look at pasty party animal, Leland Leard, and cried, "Good god, man! How are you feeling?"

He looked at me, a bit of the previous night still trembling in his glassy eyes, and, holding onto a styrofoam cup of matzah ball soup, he responded, "Better now."

"That's good," I said.

"Want a whisky?" he asked.