The World Famous Kenton Club is named so because of Racquel Welch. It is also one of my favorite places to sip whiskey. The north side of my town is where I was born and raised and though there are times I find it miniscule and tiresome, these neighborhoods are some of the best on the planet.
The knife protruding from that man’s belt is big enough that the handle alone could be considered a club. I wonder what he really cuts with it or is it just part of his hillbilly regalia. His denim is dirty and he’s an awful big guy to just be standing in the street like that.
I was on a train once where the handle for the bathroom had been broken from the inside and I was trapped for a good 10-15 minutes trying to negotiate the little door open. Sweating and frustrated, I kept wondering how much longer my claustrophobia would have held out until I just exploded out like the Kool-Aid man.
Bathrooms define an establishment. Usually. I’ve been in some beautiful restaurants and hotels whose restrooms are extravagant examples of lurid excess. I’ve also been in plenty of dive bars and rest stops where the toilet is the cleanest thing in the room. It’s always funny to me when I go into a somewhat high profile joint and the bathroom is a reeking cell of spilled urine and soggy toilet paper. My favorite: an unassuming and ordinary venue whose water closet is a lavish, immaculate chamber in which one is utterly honored to fumigate and soil.
The establishment is wearing us all thin. Corporate vultures, car giants discarding their dealers as if they weren’t generations deep in Chryslers. Layoffs and cutbacks but those who’ve survived still have cocktail parties and box seats.
I love the super-tight jeans these thin, lanky guys wear nowadays. I think it’s so their bicycles go faster catch less drag. What am I supposed to do with all my baggy jeans and backpacks? Trade ’em in for some hip-huggers and a messenger bag? Timbukt2 and Chrome? I think not! Maybe I’ll just save money by not buying insurance or gas for a car so I can spend hundreds of dollars for a lousy bag to carry my American Spirits and thrift store clothes to the next Arcade Fire show. I kid. (My motorcycle just broke down so I am secretly riding around on my 1989 Bianchi with a shoulder bag in tow.)
Back to the Kenton Club, where the brown stuff is lovely and heavy and it’s either the Stooges or the Stones that’s making it all kick in so nicely.