7/3/2010: 2 Shootings on Franklin Ave -- Near 95 South

I don't remember how I got home. I woke up the next day only recalling sitting at the bar in a stupor. It's like that part of my life was edited out. I checked the dailies for evidence of murder and mayhem and saw none, to my relief.No one looked at me funnily the next day. I figured I either transported home Nightcrawler-style (I can do that, you know), or muscle memory kicked in and I made my way home without the use of my addled brain.

I can't even recall the reason behind the drink. I went in because the music was pumping and the place was empty. I like the look of the place when the innards are exposed. I sat down and initially asked for a glass of Syrah and they had none. Merlot then; they had none. Uh well, how about a Long Island iced tea? The young lady behind the counter had on a t-shirt that generously exposed two of God's best gift to Man, and they were covered with an emollient that gave them a wonderful sheen underneath the dimmed light. I was already drunk on them. I wasn't going to leave empty handed, so to speak.

When she plopped the plastic cup in front of me I was disappointed. I'm not 16 in someone's basement. Give me glass or don't give me a gosh-darned thing. But I thought that maybe given the recent climate of events in the area, plastic wasn't necessarily a bad thing. You can't kill a man with a plastic cup -- unless you get him to eat it, I think. When I tasted the mixture it was as if it was made from cough syrup. It was horrible. But the sugar in it made me sip at it, and a centimeter away from the bottom of the cup I developed the ability to slow time down. I gaped at the twinned shiny softness kept snug in the black t-shirt and watched in Steve Austin slow motion as they bounced about. The young lady didn't seem to mind and asked me if I wanted another. I don't know if she mean another one in the t-shirt (oh gawd yes!!) or another drink. She gave me another drink. I pulled out my cell phone and started to diddle with the buttons to help me look oblivious. The music volume went up a notch. The bass began to wrinkle my skin rhytmically, the way the cheeks of middle age men undulate as they ride their Harley's on the highway; or it felt that way. They played a Keith Sweat song and I started bobbing and weaving. I finally got this place, it's appeal I mean. If you want a sweet alcoholic drink and a wonderful pair of breasts to give it to you, then this is where you go. Don't fuss or fight and you will live. The speakers in there are awesome. The hipsters like to work at being cool in Franklin Park -- which has it's virtue too -- but when you grow tired of that and the overwhelming whiteness of course 95 South will do.

Not that there is something wrong with whiteness, but whitefolks don't like bass, you know? And I love bass. Two Italian women from New Jersey came in with all their tacky splendor and said, "Where's the other bar? Aren't there two bars in one here?" They were obviously thinking of Franklin Park. Two brothers checked out their bottoms. They were packing. Not the brothers, the women's bottoms. It's a pity. They left. That would have been high entertainment had they stayed.

So the drinks were awful tasting, but it got me blitzed.