Word: saloon
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Bartenders everywhere are pensive skittery. At the Moon Shadow Saloon in Atlanta, they are showing Three Stooges tapes on Monday nights. Elsewhere in town there will be no more "happy hours" at Copperfield's until the games come back on TV. But this victory for temperance will not be celebrated by churches everywhere. "We are very disappointed," says Father Douglas Eberly, rector of the Episcopal Church of the Redeemer in Mesquite, Texas. Through selling nachos, hamburgers and hot dogs at the Cowboys games, his congregation has raised $60,000 toward the construction of a parish hall, which parishioners call...
...more limited, and the sound varies from fuzzy to static. The door man at Jack's is often lentent with IDs, and this is key in a state where you have to be 20 to drink legally. (Keep this criterian in mind before setting off for some highly recommended saloon on the other side of Boston...
...went on a rampage. They overturned garbage cans, tore down company-owned fence and fired shotguns through the windows of their company-owned trailer homes. In the town of Parachute, 15 miles from the Colony site, men piled into O'Leary's Pub and the Old Bank Saloon, where they drank, pounded on the tables and broke into fistfights. Others, gathered in small knots outside on the streets, simply shook their heads and sobbed. Said Ron Ramsey, 29: "Exxon dumped a bomb on us. Where do we go from here...
...word around the corral is that with his new novel, Nobody's Angel, Thomas McGuane rode into town, swung open the doors of the saloon and single-handed transformed the saddleworn clichés of Western fiction. The irony is that McGuane's fifth novel is his first set in the West. The Sporting Club, his debut, occurs up in Michigan, Hemingway country, while his best novel, Ninety-Two in the Shade, takes place in Key West (again Hemingway turf), where McGuane lived and worked. Although McGuane, 42, moved to Livingston, Mont., in 1968, he has not mined...
...musicians are not at all faxed by the less-than-rollicking atmosphere in this very ordinary Somerville saloon. Down in front of the stage, the people who've just got to move to the beat are failing about, but no one comes close to bumping into anyone else. Guitarist Roger Miller blasts out thick, distorted chords, one piled on top of another for a sound that is at once 1969 techno-pop. Sound man Martin Swope stoops over a mixing board near the back of the dance floor, recording Miller's efforts, scrambling things around, and then feeding the whole...