these lovely female golden throats

The querulous girls in the chorus are singing songs that rifle your soul.

That's not to say that the tunes and their execution are not unfine to behold. The melody and harmony flow high and are buoyant, like twin Vs of birds racing gracefully off to places untouched by winter's grimy and flu-ish aspirations.

No, those robed young ladies can really and without argument sing.

Aderyn & Beata & Cloe & Dore & Elenore & Flo-flo & Gretta & Hilda & Ingrid & Justine & Kathy & LunaMoona Martinez & Mahalia & Norine & Odalis & Patrice & Quiterie & Razi & Sugar Sweet Susu & "Timbre" Timber Treetop & Umi & Vern & Wendy "Why Not?" Wynette, Xyza-ndallthe rest: They cough out tunes so beautifully, so perfectly timed.

But 1/3 of them have explosives strapped with electrical tape to their smooth young thighs. Another 1/3 have sharp blades tucked into the bountiful sleeves of their flowy singing gowns. And the last 1/3, well the look their eyes wear are as plainly poisonous as cyanide.

I'm singing along with them, these lovely females with gilded throats, only I'm doing what they do in reverse. It's as if I'm sucking in whatever words they sing, recycling them and releasing them back out into the world transformed, even purer.

I grow lightheaded and eternally, collapsingly faint, rife with regret that I can't do for the singers what I can do for the song.

long after darkness invaded every corner of our country

The grass here is almost as tall as the cornstalks. I've done measurements. I used my eyes, narrowing the lids over them to make the calculation more precise.

In truth, what I've just said is in no way impressive. I'll be the first to call my own bluff. The fields are stubble, the corn is slowly rotting in silos, and the grass is browning and bending under the weight of the impending winter.

Mary walked over yesterday, two miles trespassing through dun fields, with a scarf wrapped her whole head like she was either a terrorist or someone terribly, shamefully disfigured. She carried a plastic bag that contained two jars of a jam, foamy white bread, and a flask filled with something awful.

Mary's still not over her stay-at-home-dad of an ex-husband, who, as she explains, "Went away 'on a business trip' three years ago and never came back. I try to think he was like some kind of sick dog who strays off into the calm, wild night to die somewhere far away, alone. Only this dog must have been a Hindu or something, because he was reborn with a new life in Chicago, and is remarried to an earth-shatteringly...hot, no other word for it, really...public defender."

She talks about him at length, hopping from metaphor to metaphor to tame the redundancy of her diatribe. What she says is edged, not with anger, but jealousy.

Me, I came here to get away from that life. Him, he left here to embrace it. I feel like I'm emotionally arm wresting this stranger. We're well matched, veins show on our foreheads, but our arms just balance between us.

All I have to offer Mary in return are solemn nods and requests for her to pass the flask please just a little more please thanks.

Mary left long after darkness invaded every corner of our country. She wrapped into the scarf again and switched on a spelunker's headlamp to help her find her way through a landscape I'm not sure I'll ever find the courage to fully understand.

bloody nose

It may be fear. Then again, it may be the brutality of desire or the fragility of the soul.

Whatever it is, early in the morning, squared up against noon, or curving the swell of midnight, my nose bleeds every time we have sex, thicker and redder than anything you can imagine. The fault lies somewhere, but we've stopped looking.

harold the hunter

Harold shot himself in the head on the night of the second snowfall of the season. Already, the midnight air was swarming with sirens, distantly far off and slightly muffled by the cold.

The finality of what he did was not his intention.

He'd put the kids to bed and kissed his wife, his second, once on the lid of each closed eye. Then he'd gone to the basement to move a load of laundry into the dyer.

The gun that did it was one he got from Uncle Ron years before, when he was 14 and enrolled in hunter's ed classes.

Uncle Ron was the main reason Harold got into the deer hunting in the first place. He was the consummate outdoorsman. The kind of guy who wears camouflaged clothes wherever he goes, year round, unselfconsciously, proudly even.

Ron neither smoked nor drank, so when it wasn't deer hunting season, after sun lapsed behind the horizon, he spent his time in his pick-up truck with his Maglite, driving slowly along the rural roads, shining for deer. He loved watching them like that, frozen and statuesque, their eyes glowing sharply in the light.

Uncle Ron had died several years earlier. Something with his lungs. Harold tried to not think of it, so the details were blurring from disuse.

After loading the dryer, hopelessly lost in other thoughts, Harold slammed the space above his temple and below his hairline into the edge of the heavy oak gun rack that sat at the bottom of the stairs.

In the years since Uncle Ron died, Harold had hunted less and less. It became so rare, in fact, that he'd thought about pawning off his hunting gear and guns. But something always stopped him. Harold never called himself sentimental, but when he really thought of it, he didn't know what else it could be.

Harold pulled out his first gun, and with his calloused finger, stroked the trigger, as if it was some genie's lantern and all he wanted was to get those times back.

The whole house shook.

Battle Flagging Father

I've talked about Hamish Sewell's radio documentary, Battle Flagging Father, a lot lately. It follows a really strange family journey that begins and ends in the small mindedness of the confederate American south.

Here's a more official description of the story:

Earlier this year Brisbane based writer and radio documentary maker Hamish Sewell travelled to Alabama in the American 'Deep South' to meet his estranged father for the first time in more than 30 years. This tentative reconciliation had to bridge not only a distance of many thousands of kilometres and a lifetime of separation, but the profound gulf between their values and understandings of history, symbolised by the giant Confederate flag (the 'Battle Flag' of the American South) hanging on Jim Sewell's front porch. The gulf between father and son is all the more profound when you know that Hamish's mother was a prominent New Zealand feminist and a senior government bureaucrat.

Set against the re-enactment of a Civil War battle, and the last stages of the Democratic Party's presidential primaries campaign, Battle Flagging Father is the story of what happens when two very different worlds collide, and an intimate portrait of two men attempting to reach out across a great divide.

Sometimes you just have to look the other way if you want to connect.

Go to the Radio Eye site to see hear the story and look at photos.

turkeygiving.

If you think that eating turkeys is awesome and delicious, you should go listen to Scott Carrier's piece on the recent Hearing Voices. It's about 23 minutes in.

It's a good, unbiased, non-animal rights portrait of the gruesomeness of modern American turkey farming.

Dude, death's never cool.

This holiday always makes me a little preachy (not peachy).

rake up some real terror

Looking straight into the lightly fogged bathroom mirror, he palms some water and spreads it on his hair, taming rebel strands, until it's as smooth as the bottom of the ocean.

"Today will be different," he thinks. "My life's been so so good, so so prosperous. It's time I do some bad, sour things a little."

His house is immaculate and expensively furnished, his cuff unfrayed.

But...
- Cowboy
- Pirate
- Someone who looted banks at gunpoint
- Distiller of bathtub gin

Those boyish fantasies and fascinations, he's been each of them. It may have been in separate lives or maybe he was all four at once. Whatever the case, he's been them all.

But in this life, he works in insurance and he's running late.

He'll mentally rehearse his wickedness during today's meetings and commute both ways. And when he gets home, if he's not too beat (he has to be honest with himself), he'll rake up some real terror. Really, fully, and completely this time. He'll haunt the ghost.
 

Joanette, Joanette

Mr. Abe Abel is doing mindblowing reps of squat thrusts in an attempt to cleaver the flab from himself. He's doing this in an airy room on the second story of a country home.

It's a little after noon on a Wednesday.

Abel had helped himself to a lunch consisting multi-layered turkey club on wheat and a fist of Cheetos. This made him feel icky, so he's squatting and thrusting recklessly. His face is red and hot to the touch. When it he exhales, it's so strained and awkwardly pitched that, if you could hear it, you'd think it was a steam whistle.

His jeans and sweater are folded nicely, balancing on top of his hiking boots, next to the laundry shoot on the room's west-facing wall.

This is not Mr. Abe Abel's home. It's not the home of anyone he knows.

Each Wednesday, Mr. Abe Abel takes an early lunch and drives out of the city with a small ball peen hammer plunged into his belt. He finds a house that's been orphaned for the day and, in a delicate, piecemeal fashion, cracks the glass in all of the windows that are within tip-toeing distance. He savors the fracture that comes with each tap.

After he does this, he angles himself through the lowest window he can find, and then finds his way to the kitchen where he preps and eats a sick-making meal.

Then he sets to squat thrusting.

This he does with so much vigor and speed that he can't keep count. He has a mantra (Stop! Stop! Stop!) but he's not sure what it means or if it's something he could ever realistically achieve.

At exactly 12:46, his wristwatch interrupts him sharply. Mr. Abe Abel re-clothes, slings his ball peen back into his belt, lumbers out through the window, and drives back to the city, to work.

***
Joanette, Joanette, you were his once. Your heart was so big and wild it burst your brain. You were under the covers, warmly next to him as he dreamed one of his ferocious, jolting dreams.

You left him a widower and a hapless, timid thief.

Some Wednesday, he swears it, he'll drive to where you're buried and in full daylight, dig down to you and pry your casket open with a tire iron . He'll hug your skeleton. He'll do it so tight that it splinters and breaks apart. Just so you know how it feels.

He has it in him.

stunned-dizzy

The water ripples and gathers strength. The sky takes the narrowing shape and negative coloration of the inside of a coffin. The wrenching of wind makes everything smell earthy and corpseish. The porch door slams a fast rhythm as the roof is torn off.

It's a miracle that we're as safe as we are, sitting here in the car, a handful of yards down the long driveway, with the windows open a crack, watching this happen.

I'm eating a peanut butter and honey sandwich in the passenger seat. Mom uses one hand to hold her cell phone and one hand to move the steering wheel right and left, even though we're parked. She's talking to her mom.

"Guess this means we'll be coming back to live with you."

"-"

"Yup, again"

"-"

"He's not...he's been gone. It's just the two of us."

"-"

"I don't know where.

"-"

"She. She."

"-"

"A while."

"-"

"She. I."


"-"

"What could I have done? It was out of my hands."

"-"

"What can I say?"

"-"

"I haven't heard."


I can hear grandma's voice getting louder and rougher, but her words are still too tinny for me to actually decipher.

The sky hasn't gotten any paler. The branches on the trees that are still standing—they're so empty of leaves you'd think it's mid-November—are moving so fast that they could splinter at any second. The house and yard are asunder and still under threat. A small bird, stunned-dizzy, drops from the sky and lands just in front of the hood of the car.

I feel sure that the worst has past.

Mom keeps keeps taking, responding in the same voice she used when I still needed lullabies to go to sleep.

What scares me most is that we're both just sitting here, totally unafraid.

done with the occult

I'm done with the occult. I mean it. After dabbling in every fogged thing that parents, news media, and clergy warn against, I'm through.

What was the straw that the camel tripped over, flipping it, popping its water hump, snapping its spine?

Well, you could call it spiritual bubblegum, though it actually has nothing to do with the spirit or anything you can chew.

It was a man. He's not God or even godly, nothing like that. No, not someone you'd abandon your ambitions for or give your head and home up to. He's not someone you could ever feel love for or be in love with.

Here's what it is: I've looked death in the face and its expression is serene.

That's all I'll say. I don't want my explanation to putrefy the surprise for you, should ever be so lucky as to...

So gone are the days of navigating the darkness of life with a torch of black light. Now I just feel sunny—this is something altogether new.

I've taken a job as a mascot for a sandwich shop. I stand out in the daylight during the lunch rush, proffering coupons. Tourists drape their arms around me and shout "cheese" chorally in endless tongues. Businessmen and businesswomen swoop almost into the street to avoid me. Kids get teary or otherwise punch me and tug at my costume, swearing loudly. Depends on the age.

And all the while, under my gorilla mask—you can't see this but it's true—I'm beaming.

Birthday Girl

The cinnamon bun on the plate is still warm. Too warm; hot, she'd guess. If she takes a bite, she burns her gums. If she doesn't take a bite, she's still hungry and anxious to eat.

Today is Carol's birthday. "Fabulous 50!" she shouts at whoever's in front of her. She's wearing a two inch red button with Birthday Girl in bold sans-sarif.

She is proud.

Tonight she'll celebrate at the bowling alley by knocking over 1.25 pins for each year she's been alive and drink just enough to make her whole body feel rubbery. But right now it's morning and she's having trouble resisting the cinnamon bun.

It's raining hard outside, which makes the cafe where this is happening seem almost aquatic. The flutter of bodies lining up for their morning drinks is so heavy with excited energy that it's almost like a submarine has sprung a leak and the crew is rushing around attending to tasks they know they'll never complete.

Carol pays attention to none of this. She's gazing at the cinnamon bun, mentally subtracting fractions of a degree each second, and da-da-da-ing the melody of the birthday song, just loud enough to hear the ticking of her own tongue.

What I Did On My Late Autumn Vacation

Seems doubtful that the kids latched onto the earnestness of my threats of making them pen their "What I Did On My Late Autumn Vacation" essays, which I guess makes me an unsatisfactory dole-r out-er of things. I'm use to disrespect. It costs nothing but hurt feelings.

So, between sniffles and snobs, I'll tell you, dearest, gentlest reader, that our little ensemble makes some horrific music. We lack mastery of our instruments and firelight does nothing to illuminate vocal talent of any stripe. But that didn't stop of from blanching the the hell out of the blues; it was so bad that I swore that I could almost see the genre's ghost flutter away, high over the forest, far past the lake. But during our disservice, we laughed and drank, and then fell asleep before the the new day got its bearings.

Of course this gave way to rising with the sun. A slow, rain-slogged morning. Lots of coffee, then tossing soggy tennis balls as far into the lake as the dogs' leashes would allow.

Once we got going, we mostly spent the day terrorizing the small town thrift stores. We tend to prefer the ones brimming with things, the ones with a woozy lack of order.

And so, with the car newly packed, we went cabin-bound. Soon, we were greeted by W&J. Then we began assembling a meal, a process during which I feel inordinately in love with how easy it so to make bread sticks. Bread sticks! Oh my fuck.

Lots of American music. Trivia from the 1990s. Beer, beer, beer. Bed, eventually. Haze entered the picture at some point, but I can't pinpoint where it crept in or how it managed to escape. Next thing I remembered was daylight, revitalized.

First thing that happened was that W&J were called away on a domestic emergency. Those of us left started early, tracking food and brewpubs. A lunch of Pizza, washed down samples at Old Hayward Eatery & Brew Pub. Their alt was great, so we had a pint.

After, we modeled our red and black flannel jackets in photos on the site of the Lumberjack World Championships, which was understandably shuttered for the season. But here's a photo of Amy and me, with the rest of our bunch filling the background:


Then, after turning down the exorbitant cost of getting within kissing distance of the world's largest muskie (one half-a-city- block long and four stories tall), we decided to stand in front of the "electric" fence that portioned off the behemoth and instead burn film at a distance.

Thirsty, and wanting to continue the aquatic theme, we stopped at the wonderfully well-restored Angry Minnow brewery for more samplers. The Imperial IPA was the standout for me, but everything was nurseable, so we did. We nursed under a bold stamp of late afternoon sunlight until there was nothing left.

Again, the haze entered. A good dose of haze should be the ubiquitous theme of the any good weekend, I'd argue.

Anyway, under the haze, we ran like banshees in the lakefront acreage. The dogs bounded every which way. Then we dumped damp leaves and twigs in the fire pit and kept waving the lighter over them until a fire took hold. The haze lifted a touch. Eventually, four of were us piled on a queen-sized bed for some (very platonic, thank you very much) atrocious misuse of Hollywood's bankroll.

In the middle of the night, I woke up to a tightness in the old growth forest above my...nethers. Apparently, the tone and timbre of my flesh appealed to a tick, who decided to seek asylum there. Amy, drowsy and squinting out the lamplight, clasped its body between her nails and tugged it out. I slept fitfully for the rest of the night, sore from the pickpick. I'm still nervous of a that a Lyme target might show up, but at the same time curious how the shape would manifest in that assemblage of parts. Uh-huh.

Anyway, I could tell you about Taco Juan's and the hours stuffed with talk radio on the way home, but I'll spare you that. You're likely already a cyber expat, camping out on some other digital continent by this time as it is.

But no harm. I just wanted to get this all down; to explain how it all went down. I aim to live by example, to keep my end of promises. This is what we saw & these are the things we did during our late autumn vacation.

In summary: Fuck the summertime. Viva Wisconsin!

norman blake

While gearing up for a long weekend away that includes a five plus hour drive to the northwest part of the state, it's hard not to take solace in a road song. And Norman Blake's "Lord Won't You Help Me" does the job perfectly.

Though my weekend will be gill-filled with friends, it is fall, so there is some inherent degree of solitude with anything that happens. Everything feels as cold and lost as the phrase Mr. Blake twangs in his particularly delayed way: Chilled to the bone...

This record is taken from his 1974 Flying Fish lp, The Fields of November.

Download: Norman Blake - Lord Won't You Help Me (mp3)

voices of lynchburg

The "Voices of Lynchburg" lp was released in the early 1960s. It archives the lives of folks in Lynchburg, TN, the city where Jack Daniels is distilled.

Each track on the album tackles a different Lynchburg-centric topic. Here's what's covered:

SIDE ONE
1. "Around the Square"
A "get acquainted" stroll around the one block business district with Herb Fanning, Mr. Tom Motlow, Mrs. Reagor (Jeanne Garth) Marlow, and Mr.. J.B. Murray.

2. "Moonshine - and other Natural Phenomena..."
Personal reminisces of whiskey-making in Moore County - both legal and otherwise. Herb Fanning, Tom Motlow, Lem Tolley, and Clarence Rolman.

3. "Goin' Fishing"
Everone in Lynchburg fishes. And those who don't like to talk talk about it: Jack Hobbs, Bill Fanning, Lem Tolley, Connor Matlow, Garland Dusenberry, Irvin Crutcher, Clarence Rolman.

SIDE TWO
1. "Whittlin'"
Herb Fanning and Connor Motlow discuss the techniques and philosophies of therapeutic whittling, Lynchburg style.

2. "A Country Banker"
The Personal legend of Mr. Tom Motlow, recorded in his ninety-first year, and shortly before his death.



The record was released by a Jack Daniels-related private society called Tennessee Squires Association. Wikipedia describes the Squires this way:

A Tennessee Squire is a member of the Tennessee Squire Association, which was formed in 1956 to honor special friends of the Jack Daniel's distillery. Many prominent business and entertainment professionals are included among the membership, which is obtained only through recommendation of a current member. Squires receive a wallet card and deed certificate proclaiming them as "owner" of an unrecorded plot of land at the distillery and an honorary citizen of Moore County, Tennessee.

The record is a special relict of a town that is now certainly changed. Its population is up from 400-odd to 5,740. And being home to Jack, it's surely gotten radically corporatized. Of course, I can't say for sure, but it seems like a hunch I'd throw money on.

Here are the folksyfolksy liner notes, for your reading enjoyment while you download: Voices of Lynchburg (.zip)

These “Voices of Lynchburg” are real voices, belonging to real people. What they say is spontaneous and unrehearsed. What they say—and how they say it—is reflective of both their peaceful surroundings and their quiet life-style in this middle Tennessee town, nestled in the foothills of the Cumberlands. Lynchburg was settled shortly after the Revolutionary War, and has never grown beyond about four hundred inhabitants. The present population seems to include as many lively, vita eight-year olds and it does live, normal teen-agers. Numbers notwithstanding, there is no ‘communication gap’ in Lynchburg. Ever one is neighbor to every one, and most families are distantly related to each other.

Lynchburgians love to talk, once they get to know you. Nothing seems to be all that important but what it can be postponed long enough for a chat on the courthouse lawn, or on the sidewalk benches in front of the Lynchburg Hardware and General Store, or the feed store, or the drug store, or the old Farmer’s Bank. A spirited conversation is always underway in the whittlers’ chairs up at the Price brothers’ service station.

There are calm, good-natured, humorous people—intensely loyal to each other. Their reserve with strangers is tempered by a quick and friendly hospitality. They are strongly independent, candid, and forthright in their beliefs, and reflect a quality of pride and patience which only thrives where people roots are many generations deep.

“The Voices of Lynchburg” is no ordinary listening experience. It is not a record to play as background to conversation. It is conversation...with some of the warmest, wisest, possibly wittiest, and certainly most unforgettable people we have ever met. It is an unqualified pleasure to introduce them to you.

The material on this record was selected and compiled from more than thirty hours of recorded conversation with citizens of Lynchburg, Tennessee. The original tapes cover a span of some twelve years. They were variously recorded, on diverse equipment, and in “studios” ranging from the subjects’ kitchens, front parlors, and porches, to sidewalk benches and other public meeting places in town.

We hope that you, as a Tennessee Squire, will enjoy this documentary glimpse of a fading facet of our traditional heritage and culture. Your host for the record is Mr. Herb Fanning.

dock walsh

Found an lp copy of Old-Time Classics: A Collection of Mountain Banjo Songs & Tunes at a thrift store last weekend. It contains songs taken from recordings made 1925-1933. It was released on Country Records in 1968, with liner notes by John Burke.

The whole record is good, but the standout track for me is Dock Walsh's "Going Back to Jericho". The song was recorded on April 17, 1926 and issued on Columbia in September 1926.

I'm not sure if I should trust my ears or not, but I think that he uses the "N" word at in the last verse. But "N" or no "N", Walsh gives the sort of fall-off-your chair solo performance that's imbued with so much raw energy that you go away convinced that any and all rock bands should have hung up their strings and sticks and shot out their speakers before the whole mess of their music began. All that seems like pretense in the shadow of Mr. Walsh.

Walsh was born July 23, 1901, Lewis Fork, Wilkes County, North Carolina. He died May 28, 1967. In the liner notes to the collection, Burke writes of Walsh:

Walsh was a professional and played for urban as well as rural audiences. In addition to the claw hammer style he used for "Going Back to Jericho", he had a highly developed minstrel finger picking style which he used for band playing with such groups and the Carolina Tar Heels.

A touch of research reveals that this song has been issued on CD. You can hear it on at least two collections: Old Time Mountain Banjo or Serenade In The Mountains.

Download: Dock Walsh - Going Back to Jericho (mp3)

the fantastic johnny c

My friend Marty inherited several boxes of lps and a few hundred 45s from a friend who moved across the country. That friend bought most of the records from some old dude in Detroit. Marty's run out of storage, so he wants the records to be turned over to their fourth owners.

The records were lined up in fairly neat rows on his garage floor. He opened the box of 45s and I dug in for two hours straight, stopping only to rub the cold out of my hands and take swigs from the can of PBR Marty plied me with.

All told, I got a stack of lps (which I left at his house because lugging lps on a bike is obviously no simple feat) and 110 45s. I picked up some isopropyl alcohol on the way home and once back, set to cleaning the beasts.

The 45s are in pretty wretched condition. Lots of dust, some molded over with what looks like a thick layer of cocaine. I'm only a fraction of the way along, but I just played this one track - "Hitch it to the Horse" by Greenwood, South Carolina's Fantastic Johnny C and my ears are so scorched by its hotness that I had to stop to cool down and share it with you.

The record was released by the Phil-LA Of Soul label in 1968.

This is the kind of record that makes it seem worthwhile to endure the hassle of cleaning armloads of records that turn out so scratchy that they're largely unplayable. "Hitch" sounds pretty clean, and...shit, again, it just burns!


Download: Hitch It to the Horse (mp3)


Oh, and to read more about Fantastic Johnny C, head over to the always informative Funky16Corners blog.

old bikes and old people in old photos

If you have a penchant for photos bicycles & peoples from the days of yore, I suggest that you skedaddle over to the Old Black and White Cycling Photos group on flickr. There's a lot of really gorgeous, odd stuff there.

swiftkicks - oct 16, 2008

Kevin won't be able to make it this week, but if you are anywhere near Milwaukee, WI USA, come join Brian and me at Burnhearts this Thursday. As always, we'll be playing classic and contemporary pop. It's the best night of pop music this city has to offer. In fact, it's the only night of pop music this city has to offer!

Oh, you should add us as a friend on myspace! We could always use more pals.

soundtrack

My friend Justin does a great blog called Soundtrack to the End of the World.

He let me curate a mix of 13 songs.

Go here to download it!

pears

Pears. They've started falling into the street of some wealthy subdivision. Yesterday, I scavenged two of the best looking of them. Just had one for breakfast and I swear it's one of the most delicious things I've ever eaten. Not sure if it's because it was so local, fresh, and unexpected, or if it was because it was free. I'm a hopeless tightwad.

One thing, when I brought them home, I asked A if she thought they might make us sick. "No," she said, "Of course not.". I dunno why, bt I like the idea of poison pears. Mostly, I think that it would be a great idea to name a band after them: Poison Pears.

If you want to get in trouble with the law in my neighborhood, get utterly soused in the middle of the day. While running the dog yesterday, I saw a guy swerving back and forth on the sidewalk. The next street I went on, a man and woman yelled to me, "Have you seen the drunkard?" I stopped and told them I had. "He passed out on our lawn. I kicked him off, then he went across and passed on on that lawn over there. Then he went and pissed in the alley."

Then I saw the police car pulling up. The guy of the couple walked up to the car and repeated all of the guy's crimes to the officer, then the manhunt was on full-tilt. A few minutes later, I saw the cop car down another street, joined by a paddywagon.

What a shitty way to kill a dude's happy hour buzz.