The best place in America

�The best place in America though is the liquor store. As you waltz into one, mindful of the heavy, unyielding, swing-door thudding against the wall (it never does that's another story), you'll be greeted by a rather sober, bright voice 'how can I help you?' You see this old man, wisdom pouring out through his ears; that's the ear-hair. When it is gray, it makes you look good. He would adjust his old-style horn-rimmed glasses and flash that tobacco-stained smile at you. You'd just mutter 'Rum...', for you are transfixed by the bottomless, bounty that is in front of you. The brash Jack Daniel's. The stately Red Label. The exotic rums from the Caribbean. And oh the wines. Go ahead, and touch that Jack. The ribbed exterior is misleading. What's inside will turn your life into a fluid mess. But then again, we all love to play with fire. We are turned on by the excitement that danger offers. The rush of blood and the hair standing up. The burst of energy from the southern reaches of your spine that explodes through your neck and your ear. I know. Go ahead. Ask him how much the Chianti costs. He will never tell you. 'You like wine?' And you will nod 'yes'. 'Let me show something better.' He will say.
Never fall for it. Don't be fooled by his lazy elegance. He is the master con man. How else can one keep his cool, knowing that his merchandise is obliterating families, giving people courage... To commit suicide that is. Ah. Such is life. To each his own. And all that shit, but don't fall for that blue girl.
You will actually heave a sigh of relief when you step out of that liquor store. The door swings shut. The door-chimes sing a sweet good-bye for a few seconds. And bling! The roar of automobiles speeding on the road invades you�(Excerpt from a mail I wrote to a friend. Friend, hope you won't mind)

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