I figure if I gotta pay four bucks a drink, I should at least get something out of it. And since the only thing I can get out of it is material, and since that can’t be quantified, the material better be good.

The bartender’s circle, the inner regions of the their bully pulpit, circling like sharks around a bleeding prey from the inside out.

The customers, better known as “wallet,” sit around the parameters of the feeding zone paying tribute to the tenders of the chum line. And the never blinking eyes of the shark of the inner circle watch the scampering and frightened bait only for the weakness of the failing libation. Showing skin or showing no cards, the politics of personality and preference lays bare the soul of any man willing to look with the eye of trust or tryst.

The only ammunition against the concrete wall of celibate industrialism is the power of the word. And the word became flesh and dwelt amongst us. In the beginning was the word and the word was God. And God gave us the word. And love was the four-letter word. I stole that… and so did he.

Back in Santa Monica a single English girl with no green card can’t get a job at the local Starbucks, so she sells independent chocolate croissants for more money than the law should or does allow. Still she dreams of universal health insurance and free love amongst the homeless selling John Lee Hooker tunes for a dollar a look. A dollar that came from another ocean. A dollar that drifts, end on end, down nameless streets from third street to main streets, landing on Wall Street, only to be swept into the grave of a nameless woman lying, waiting, for the cashes of Hamilton to bear fruit.