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A Special Edition of The East Village
Deafdateday Mash reruns barnacled Valu-Jet into cultural backwaters. The next two hours are missing and unaccounted for. But oh, how, howling, I'll have labeled Ringo Starr an unacceptable spokesperson. I'll have imagined tweezing the clown noses of aging Budweisacres naming spots on the Blarney Cove bar for grey reflections of a face. I'm as drunk (with power) as a calendar. It's between Humanite and Gladiator, with the hopping mad gloves off and eyebrows resolute mittens clipped not even sinisterly to the nipples. Maybe I'll go for a walk. Are there unexplored cruxes out there? The Minister Louis X Disco Laundromat and Raw Batter Bar promises a memorious eyecup. Hither hipster bindis. Molted fingertips anneal to the nullities of corners. Quest for the separation of goo and grease. While bah-bah bachelor attempts to sell his still unread Bob Woodwards. While types U and I survive for weeks on the listings' registration marks. The even-numbered streets go east.