I was in court earlier this week pressing assault charges on a fellow citizen and the responding officer pulled me aside: “Jesus H. Christ, did you get a look at her bar?”
The cop was referring to a bar unit built into the garage of the defendant’s home, the whole of it veneered in white Formica and matched with white barstools, the floor decorated with mannequins clad in shining black leather. A sex swing hung from the rafters. I had hauled said defendant home many times previous to the altercation bringing us to court. Too hammered to use the front door, she carried the garage opener in her purse. So yeah, I’ve seen the bar. This is perhaps why I’m playing Peaches on the pleasure-radio tonight.
