Smoke peels off the bar in thick strips of conversation. The enamel of thought is left bare in an empty glass of whisky the guy in a studded leather jacket left; he’s the one who should've been the most intelligent one in class but who drops a quarter towards the motion of some local teeny pop band.
Sitting in the Clash there is little left to absorb on a Tuesday night, but there is everything to be had, everything to be gained. The soft wager of another night of an enlarged liver and a child drawing in black against a picture of your lungs are gambled against sit-coms and a micro beers enjoyed in moderation. If there is a Costello’s than this is the only bar that really matters.
The best conversations in the world roll off the tongue in nicotine kisses. An idea, thought by many as rotund, is offered up as the word of God to believers. Questions with no dignity are drawn, quartered and marked, considered and answered in the premium that only a Grain Belt can answer. Hamms steps in as Mother Mary.
Will, you bastard, you always promised me that this stupid world was a stage but what more hope could there be than this thrust theater that’s been thrown at me? What more need be than these belly’s that thrown their silver at a horseshoe bar on the Northside? What more redemption is owed to those blessed with the gift of thought than the therapy administered by the simple servings of a degenerate armed with a public radio degree and a means of a mind cooling liquid?
Yes, mirror… this is me. I am looking at us now. I know who you are. I am the one that does this to us.
Yes, this is it. Fuck… this is it…
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I don't know about any of the rest of you but this website makes me happy. I could stare at the statistic page and smile for like... ever...
http://minnesota.twins.mlb.com/NASApp/mlb/news/article.jsp?ymd=20061205&content_id=1752046&vkey=ballpark_min&fext=.jsp&c_id=min
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