There is a bar in the East Village that diligently carries the torch that so many others have let extinguish, where  kinda transient, tatoooed patron types collect their paltry earnings and hand them over in exchange for cheap shots, or better yet, glory. Cheap Shots is one of those simple,

I’m on my Saturday morning death bed, fighting pyloric valve spasms wrestling with last night’s beer fumes that are trying to escape to the light of day.  Keeping me company are memories of guys drinking from pitchers of Yeungling sideways and chugging roided car-bombs, appropriately called “Truck Bombs” in a