In Martin Scorcese’s “Taxi Driver,” the titular character famously snarls “Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets.” Albeit, Travis Bickle was traveling the streets of New York City in the 1970s, which, to my understanding, was a veritable petri dish where scum was meant to proliferate. A hard rain came down upon Sonoma Saturday night and the only scum that was washed off our local streets was likely my cronies and I, who had just collectively emptied our wallets at the bars of a number of local bistros. We’re not scum in the usual sense – our sleaze factor would rate rather low when compared to the scum of a larger burg like, say, dread Petaluma – but we’re the kind of would-be uptown trash that drinks too much and wallows in the rain as if it were some specialty cocktail made just for us. For that matter, I don’t know when I graduated to $10 cocktails, but my bank statement tells me I’ve done it whole hog and my throbbing noggin tells me I must have enjoyed it. The irony, of course, is that I feel like scum today, but worse – I feel like Fitzgeraldian scum of the Great Gadfly variety. And even that’s an aspiration. Oh, to put the “dense” in decadence.