My first bar in Atlanta was this underground
place that had an entrance like walking down a
snake's throat. I passed broken streetlamps, the
glass jutting out like fangs, then, at the bottom
of the darkened stair, I found the bouncer and
the other victims. The bar was held together
with tarp and duct tape. Everyone sported skulls
that flew back with the glasses tossed down.
Behind the bar, on a platform, danced the last
women anyone would want to see naked. It
was the stripper entourage of the senior citizen
wing of the Betty Ford clinic. These women
wanted you to touch them. They'd been objects
so long, only human fingers reminded them
that they had skin, and that once it did not look
and feel exactly like a brown paper bag. One
woman, known the world over for her poetry
and television appearances and, especially, for
smashing beer cans with her tits, claimed to
know me. "I just moved here," I said. "Oh no,
baby," this monster cooed, "I know you."
- Jamie Iredell from his book Prose. Poems. a Novel.
I like the Yankees, watching TV shows and talking about stuff.
5 Best Things that Start w E
Netflix Reviews & Grades
2016 Christmas Letter
Top 10 Overrated Movies
Gruden Grinder Week 1
Guide to Weddings
6 Pack Review - Resin IPA
Pumpkin Weigh Off
IPA Tournament Semi Finals