No matter what kind of evening you have at figure drawing, and I had a stinker, one where I begin to suspect that another one of Jeff Goldblum's experiments has gone awry and the talent part of my brain has been switched with that of a fly, no matter, I say, the après-draw at Shuck's irons it all out, what with the bounty of oysters and seared tuna and martinis and shockingly expensive beer, all doled out by the queen of Hampton Roads servers. What an effective erasure! I'll wake up tomorrow not remembering what a no-talent hack I am, who couldn't draw his way out of a paper bag, as if anyone could.  And in case you think the above drawing isn't half bad, it was painstakingly cobbled together from several aborted attempts. So there.