October 23, 2009

THERE was a period of time, before the accident, where the steady haunt was the fucking Italian Club. Western Pennsylvania is filed with clubs; all catering to a different set. Polish Falcons, American Legions, VFWs, the Moose, the Black Moose; all different but with an underlying similarity. A resignation born of desperation and lost hope. They all smell like stale cigarettes and dried beer mixed with a cheap industrial cleaning interpretation of fresh.

The barflys are all the same too. Your 8th grade English teacher might be there, retired to his usual spot at the end of the bar. There is usually a pool table with a top worn thin in spots and it takes three case quarters. And it’s surround by a gang of young men; one always brings his own stick, that screws apart into three sections and fits securely in it’s faux fur lined pleather case.


One Response to “”

  1. Creepy La Beef Says:

    I bet Tattoo Chef has his own stick! Probably with Ed Hardy designs decapaged all over it with the end wittled into a penis shape!

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