One of the things I love about my bar is its ability to chameleonize from a rock-and-roll dive bar to a wine geek tasting post to an annoyingly elitist art world clubhouse to a fashion model/coke whore hang to a gay bar to a bridge-and-tunnel frat party, sometimes incorporating three such incarnations in a night.

His ride on Bold Lancer started out just like he thought it would. The bull bucked straight out of the chute and slowly came around to the left. Clay remained in position, forward on his bull rope, spurs raking the bull’s side. It looked as if it was going to be an easy ride, albeit a low-scoring one. Bold Lancer had other ideas.

[…] an older man, attired in gray, with hair to match, was busily engaged at one end of the room packing a quantity of small cases into a larger one, and continuing to hold converse with himself by means of the monosyllable “yes,” differently intonated, at intervals of half-a-minute, “y-e-s—y-e-s.”

The King your brother is now hard at hand, Meete with the foole, and rid your royall ſhoulders Of ſuch a burden, as outweighs the ſands And all the craggie rockes of Caſpea.