nce again, here’s the straight poop: every hapless hambone stranded in this sorry life should at least have a main squeeze who knows how to clean his clocks, an unholy soul band that this twosome can do the Do to, and a copacetic little gin mill where they can work this blissful bit of juju.
Now that’s a sweet little vision, but it’s not the Big Picture. The Big Picture, unfortunately, is that there is a wealth of chowderheads, mean-spirited stiffs and marginally adjusted jerks out there upon whom such a blessing would be squandered. I’m not trying to sit in anybody’s lunch, so to speak, but some people in this world wouldn’t know a good time if they chipped a tooth on it. For this reason, I feel at this moment that most of the people who reside in the totemlike town houses of Manhattan’s moneyed Turtle Bay area should never be privy to a piece of heaven like Jake and Elwood’s legendary Big Apple hideaway, the Blues Bar.
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