Square Ice, Round Glass: Why I Write 'Tales From The Barstool'

    The wealthy sit on their thrones and think they'll be there long after they're dead.  Their olive crowns will be talked about for generations.  Meanwhile the poor show their glamour in their second-hand clothes and smoking habits.  This city has a great divide, to be sure.  Whether you walk through the doors having partied in your penthouse off Broadway or looking for a partner to spend a short night before your third shift, we all walk in with bloodshot eyes.  We all seek the same drug.  The flavor is what sets us different.  The poor man sighs heavy and shouts an order over the second track.  He drinks a third and sits back.  He listens.  Same as you, same as me.  The rich man takes the high seat and follows suit.  You won't always know how they start talking but someone will.  And all of a sudden the barriers break.  No one talks wealth, just the absence of enough.  They speak the same point of views.  Everyone becomes level.  One word and one drink turn to several each.  The divide lives on in the streets but it's hard to stay above when everyone is seated on the same barstools.