“THE EDGE: there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.”
I need to stop drinking with Ray. It’s 3 a.m. The train a half a mile away is click-clacking away over the joints in the rails. I can hear every contact through the open window. Every single one. It’s reminiscent of the sound an empty beer can would make when crushed, like all of Ray’s did a few hours ago. Except…
Date: Sat, 4 Apr 2015 18:02:19 +0530 [05:32:19 AM MST] From: Mrs. Emeline Vallien <email@example.com> To: firstname.lastname@example.org Subject: Drgonzo, SMELL some fresh body of adorable Mrs. Emeline Vallien The body of the message was complete spam of course. What I think Mrs. Emeline Vallien intended to tell me was that, as I am a recent divorcee and man of the highest…
Gonzo di Dottore
The best part of the #Sparty victory tonguebath is switching the TV to #Goldfinger
In our previous episode, we were headed to the Goathead Saloon.
Nope. Closed, for sale, DOA.
Deader than SAE after the YouTube.
Saturday Night is a Great Night for night two of a weekend bar crawl. It has to be better than Friday in Scottsdale with its lookalike clubs, bar-rescued overpriced theme bars and packs of hot but insipid ASU chicks. Plenty of milf-y Scottsdale goodness showing off their silicone, too, but they’re all paired up. Their dudes are eager to show off the handiwork and stake their claim by mashing while you do your demoralized shuffle past the minivan hormone showcase.
So Saturday, aim lower. Some place with Earth-based beer prices. Some place unfamiliar with artisanal ice. In four words
Monkey Pants: Dark. Try the Cheese.
Yucca Tap Room: Too fucking many hipsters.
Uncle Monkey: pandemographic crowd; well-lit dive
On deck the next time there’s a night off? The Goathead Saloon.