Tonight we eat hunks of steak at Cowtippers. Bikers, bears, dykes, and freshly-painted pretty boys sit hunched over patio tables, feasting on red meat.
This is not Steak and Ale.
On the way home, we pass another carniteria — Fat Matt’s Rib Shack. Next door, an upscale dry cleaner offers hand-washing of garments. Their sign says, “Hand Washing.”
“They wash hands,” Clyde says.
“Convenient,” I say. “Ribs get messy.”
Tonight we eat hunks of steak at Cowtippers. Bikers, bears, dykes, and freshly-painted pretty boys sit hunched over patio tables, feasting on red meat.
This is not Steak and Ale.
On the way home, we pass another carniteria — Fat Matt’s Rib Shack. Next door, an upscale dry cleaner offers hand-washing of garments. Their sign says, “Hand Washing.”
“They wash hands,” Clyde says.
“Convenient,” I say. “Ribs get messy.”
I'm a husband, mystic, writer, media producer, creative director, tinkerer, blogger, reader, gadget lover, and pizza fiend.
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