The world is like a bar, we all fill our glasses the way we can.
When I pass the bar, you’ll be barred from bars but put behind them.
Sully’s, on South Prospect, was the quintessential biker-bar, complete with hefty, leather-clad Harley worshippers, and stringy-haired heroin-addicted women who made the rounds among the bikers. Its décor was decidedly Medieval Garage Sale, with a dose...
Man, Dick Dale shreds. He’s welcomed to anybody’s bar mitzvah.
I agree with both these guys. Better make it a whiskey sour.