Quite a story. Unreported - and under-reported - stuff happens all the time, and everywhere. Here's my contribution: In 1976 I lived in Washington D.C. and was doing a duo folk/country act with a wonderful woman named Arlene (name changed for this story). Somehow, an agent set us up with a one-night gig in La Plata, Md. Used to playing small and jolly rooms in D.C. and Virginia where we were somewhat popular, we found ourselves setting up in a lounge with only a few people drinking, watching T.V., and hardly noticing us. We just assumed that it would be a good night to "rehearse with P.A." After a couple of sets, we had become friendly with the cocktail waitress who was bringing us a beer now and then. Not having much to do that night, she sat down with us and offered, "Do you know who owns this place?" We didn't, but she told us the owner was the notorious William Zantzinger. Well, since I was the driver that night, I didn't mind Arlene suddenly wanting a drink of hard liquor. And another... For our last (again practically unnoticed) set, we sang mostly Bob Dylan songs, even ones we hardly knew. We did not attempt "The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carrol." Arlene threw up in the parking lot as I loaded the speakers.