I was in New York City. Place of overcrowding, and cynicism, and stink. The largest city in America.
It was the night before a friend’s wedding, and I had time to kill, and the only thing I could think to do was go to this bar to find a Boulder poet girl’s long lost father. All I knew was he was last seen drinking there sometime in the 80s, he might look kinda like his daughter, and his name was O’Neal.
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