We've spend the past 10 days in Boston (Pronounced: Baw-stun). Yesterday we picked up our brothers from the airport and made our way to Haverhill (Pronounced: Hay-vreal), which is about 45 minutes from Boston. It took us about 2 hours to get there with traffic and Taco Bell stops. Upon arrival, I walked the bitterly cold streets in search of a little bar called The Peddler's Daughter, which I went to the last time we played Haverhill. I drank a small bottle of Cisco on the walk, to keep me warm. Not worried about any law enforcement folks, seeing as Cisco bottles look more like salad dressing that booze. Upon my arrival, my glasses fogged up and I asked the barkeep for a shot of Jameson. The whiskey battled the bum wine for my taste buds. Neither won, they just sat together disgustingly in the cuts and bumps on my tongue. I ordered an IPA to get the taste of everything out of my mouth. I ordered another shot to get the taste of everything out of my head.
No one in the entire place made eye contact with me until I locked eyes with a curiously dressed fella. He had on some sort of a visor and a yellow polo shirt. Behind him was a great big sea of green, well kept grass. He had a great big following of equally ill dressed worshipers. They kept their distance, however, standing feet and sometimes yards away from him. Making sure to keep very quite any time he was in concentration. When I realized that the most interesting thing in the bar was the giant flat-screen television tuned to a golf tournament, I had one last shot, payed my bill, and had a smoke on the way back to the show.