I happen to believe that great American novels are written by osmosis, an accumulation of the stories you hear if you spend enough time in your neighborhood bar. At least that’s my excuse. I go to the Lighthouse Tavern, where the carpets are stained, the walls hung with oars, and the regulars tell better tales than any of the hip and happening authors I read about online. This one guy I know there—long story short, he walked into his own memorial service, alive and thirsty as hell.
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