Joanie Underwood was a regular at downtown’s City Tavern. And when I say “regular,” I mean regular. She didn’t go in twice a day every day, but most days she’s did. Once at lunch. Then she’d go home to warm up, as a bartender told me today, and return in the evening. She had her own glass, a green goblet from which she drank white wine (I think it was white but it could have been rosÃ©). I never talked to Joanie, but as a much-less-regular regular of the City Tavern, I espied her regularly, always in the same seat at the bar. So when Joanie died, they glued her green goblet to the bar top, a fitting memorial. Except today when I went in for lunch, I learned that on a recent Thursday night some “drunk-ass 2o-something-year-old punk” intentionally broke the glass at its stem. He was summarily tossed out. To the punk I say: I hope you enjoy boiling pitch and the taunts of devils. Ya bastard.
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