I Knew One Thing: As

Nice: Meaning I'm Going To Be Dating Leather-wearing Alcoholics And Complaining About Them - To You.

It Was A Blonde. A Blonde To Make A Bishop Kick A Hole In A Stained-glass Window.

And The Commercials Would Have Sickened A Goat Raised On Barbed Wire And Broken Beer Bottles.

There Was A Sad Fellow Over On A Bar Stool Talking To The Bartender, Who Was Polishing A Glass And Listening With That Plastic Smile People Wear When They Are Trying Not To Scream.

When A Book, Any Sort Of Book, Reaches A Certain Intensity Of Artistic Performance It Becomes Literature.