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I keep signing contracts with companies from Beijing I have this heart inside of me that wants more than I can earn  she’s out there  somewhere  this isn’t about  me    drinking beer    today was one of those days  where it feels like you’re awake for 1,000 years  the heat and the hangover are enough to drive a man insane    but it was last night when I saw her, some festival out on 2nd Street.    my brother had invited me. he’s my Theo.    the grandiosity in my brain as I’m waiting for the subway, drinking a beer in a  can in a black plastic bag.    here we go. it’s hot. and all the people are consumed with  themselves. that’s fine.  where is she? where is my brother? I​ toss the beer in a trash can.  the sun is beating me down, all weekend: the beer, my drug, I’ve been writing,  wait.    —this isn’t supposed to be about me.    tents aligned. I’m walking north. sweating. I call him, my brother. “where are  you?” “I’m up by the tent with the big bottle of whiskey.”    “fuckin A!” “Bry” “what?” “the whiskey’s fake.”    (there’s no such thing as fake whiskey.)    I find him. he finds me. we go to the bar. when we get there, I notice that he  walks to the other end of the bar and I remain where I stand, waiting.    then I see her. she’s got glasses on. skinny. black hair. dark hair. I like dark hair.  she’s working hard. I like that too. wait. wait. this isn’t supposed to be about    me.    I walk up to the bar, she’s there. ready and waiting.   

“Iron Maiden!”   she’s staring at me. not saying anything.    “Iron Maiden!” I’m repeating myself, louder. she smiles and nods. YEAH, I CAN’T  HEAR YOU YOU DIPSHIT. THIS IS A BAR. WHAT THE #%!# DO YOU WANNA  DRINK. CANT YOU SEE IM BUSY.    you see, I fall in love very easily.     and  I  say  whatever  comes  to  mind.    I order two beers: Yuengling and a hoppy IPA.  she brings me both, that’s her job. she smiles. she’s wearing glasses.  smitten.  I am.  a stupid  fool.    I return to the booth. and a thousand galaxies remain. in her eyes. I study my  brother as he kisses his girlfriend  goodbye.  we’re sitting there with two other ladies. and I can’t stop thinking about  her. the girl in the Iron Maiden  t-shirt.    after finishing my two beers, and doing my best to ignore the other two  females—she is there again. the girl in the Iron Maiden t-shirt. does anybody  notice her? she’s so skinny. I’m alarmed. the shirt is a cutoff. I can see a tattoo on  the side of her stomach. what about all the bravery in her heart that goes  unnoticed? I can feel the way she expands and opens up to me doofus and all,  hello. yes. I’ll have another beer. she smiles. she smiles. she smiles like ten  thousand suns. she looks good. she looks so good I could explode. I notice  however the other women in the bar. and they are prettier than her. but guys are  dumb. they do not hold doors for beautiful women. I watch them buy shots  where they dump black liquor into cups of Red Bull.    and then   

they walk  away.    the prettiest girl in the room. ​how do you walk away  from her?    I am dumbfounded, waiting there. as the girl in the Iron Maiden t-shirt hands me  another beer.    she smiles. again. those glasses. that shirt. there are so many things to know  about her. and that’s why she is the most beautiful person in the room.    nobody else really notices her.    what about her? does she have good healthcare? does she have a boyfriend? is he  good to her? why do I care? I must be the biggest buffoon in the whole bar. who  the hell am I?    you know. the hours move like glue sticks. it’s humid. more women and men are  walking into the bar. women of all kinds. women sitting at the table with my  brother and I. women in knitted shirts. what the fuck? it’s like 90 degrees.    women in dresses. a woman with a sash: IT’S MY BIRTHDAY BITCH.    okay.    what the fuck?    I go to pay my tab. it’s time to leave. why delay and dwell on the inevitable? she  hands me the white paper. she keeps smiling at me. grinning. ah, but she’s so  beautiful. in the moment. that’s everything.    I think about how weird it is that I could be smitten  with a girl  just coz of the t-shirt  she’s wearing.    in the moment. there she is.  —too beautiful  for  words.    the glasses. her smile. her, working hard. nobody notices her.  but I do. I do. 

I do. oh. jesus. fuck.  I do.    my heart swells.  I leave her four bucks instead of three.  all the rest of everything else is static.  I can’t help it.  we leave, my brother and I.  so long.  wavy arms.  bellybutton.  a big grin.    in an Iron Maiden t-shirt.    maybe  the most beautiful  woman  in all of  Philadelphia.    and nobody knows it.  nobody knows it at all but  I.    get me?    nobody  at  all.    goodnight! goodnight, you  dreamboat.    I never got her  name. I never  asked.    some writer  I turned out  to  be.   

ON UNREQUITED LOVE, WHICH IS A PAINFUL SYMPTOM OF THE HEART    on an empty stomach, this will be hellacious and simple  I’m no longer hungover, something that can last at times for days  and then I’ll get eight hours of sleep instead of staying up  painting  drinking  rousing in my shorts, dancing recklessly in my kitchen    what’s up with that kid?​ I can almost hear my neighbor  thinking  at those times—does he know that I lie  awake  in the mornings  hoping  and  wanting to be loved  like anyone?    like the flowers in the garden at 8:37 in the morning on a  Tuesday  in August    (I almost wrote ‘July’, but the month flew by and it’s gone  now)    sipping this hot black coffee  remembering things that get stuck in between my ears  what gets me outta bed in the morning is  a good title, a good line, a new poem  I know the sun’ll be shine-  ing down on the bricks, the rowhomes  (and yes, I know I made a mistake)  they’re working on the house next to the apartment where I’m  currently living  and  this  makes  me  think  about  the ocean  which  is 

about a  day’s  drive  from  my  window    and I miss her  I really do    like the one time, I got back into the city—from New Jersey  after a wedding  I sat there in a sports bar, the Eagles were playing up on  the screen  and I saw her there, in a wedding dress  beautiful  and  one of a  kind    I felt like I were burning up, crackling with these flames  as the waitress handed me a plate of greasy food  to fill my gut, it fixed my hangover  and I didn’t really care about the Eagles game, I merely was  pretending  to    that proposition, what if she left me hanging?  what if I left her before she could break my  toes?    I left the bar and all the people in love  swallowed me  whole    I wrote her  a love  letter    I was always the one who’d had  too many  chances    DUDE 

DUDE DUDE  how many  times  do I have to  tell you?    why won’t you just go  away?    and  I  slept  like  that    under  the  moon    she’d told me before  that I would find some-  body great, and it was  her, damn it    it was her, the  whole  time    so  I slept while  she found  somebody  new    I sighed.   



I was sitting in a Japanese restaurant  waiting for my miso soup  it was supposed to cure my sour and dry stomach  the rain was coming down and the crowds were scurrying to get safe  I’d been looking for a Vietnamese restaurant, somewhere in Chinatown  the words were ready in my mouth but I was hungry and I couldn’t be bothered  even though I was laughing to myself, knowing that I was succumbing to  somewhere beyond myself, I couldn’t pinpoint it    still I knew the hot broth and chicken and noodles would cure me temporarily of  my ailments    I had words piling up inside of me and without food I was a useless creature, I  nearly felt lost, pulling out my phone, HELP—HELP ME  and it led me to another closed restaurant    so you see the Japanese soup hadn’t been my first choice  but I liked Chinatown in the nighttime rain  and I was the one nobody really saw  unless he pulled out  some money    I sat and I ate my soup, knowing that it was late and I had another meeting, albeit  brief, with Beijing    I slurped the hot soup as a couple next to me complained  about their order not being ready on time, speaking in turn to the waitress and  waiter, all in Japanese, as the soft lighting in the restaurant and the rain and the  night all made me feel better    the heat had been killing me  and something else    something else in the back of my brain, I couldn’t figure it out, I just kept trying, I  kept doing what I had to do    going to class, no, I don’t want to write it, I was supposed to be teaching students,  students who spoke French, Mandarin, Cantonese, Spanish—I spoke a redundant  South Philly dialect, kept to myself, just wanted a room, a pair of headphones,  maybe a Vivaldi symphony and some fucking crayons    a case of beer and a fridge full of food, some whiskey in the freezer   

I was a dolt dingbat  dumpweed  I was harried with time  infinity  like a rock around my neck  the  soup was  good  but I had hoped for something  better    a Japanese woman walked into the restaurant, in yoga pants and Gucci shades  wild hair  it was almost orange  she immediately gave off this air of everything that was all about  her  and I finished my soup and espied another white gentleman  airing out his thoughts, a camera on his table, the reflection of the mirror behind  him    I paid and left  goodnight brothers and sisters  I walked to the subway in the rain  a guy down there asked me to take a subway card for two dollars  “what? I don’t understand”    “you hand me the two dollars once you get on  the other side”    I explain to him that I don’t have any cash  and I realize that Market Street is insane  and underneath City Hall is a no man’s land  people are ruptured in their spleens, hearts and guts  all around the most important building in Center City  right? right?  right?    and I realize this poem was supposed to be about a girl from  my past  when I was out in Colorado Springs  lying on the floor in a room with lights  and books and a radio  I was waiting to hear back on a love letter, I think   

that’s what started everything, really that’s what started all of this  it wasn’t the realization that I was good at writing research papers in high school  thirty minutes before they were due, no    I wrote love letters for a few years  before I understood what it meant to even want to be a writer  some bullshitter with a drink and a crapshoot, a shot in the dark  I was going nowhere  but love  that was really  something    so I wrote these love letters, or I lived on luck and love  and like I said, I was in the middle of the country, nearly out of  my mind  all those books going right to my head  like Rimbaud escaping to London or to Paris  like Ginsberg in Manhattan, staring out at the skyline  like Bukowski drinking whiskey and smoking a cheap cigar  I was staring out a window that wasn’t mine to stare out of  and she told me that my letter, it was  nice to hear    “I’ve been feeling invisible lately, so this was really nice”    I read those words  over and  over again and that’s when  I got off my  ass, packed up my shit  and zoomed, heading straight for  the east coast    I was fucking stupid  I was in love  I was in love with her  shit    I didn’t stand a  chance.   



I live in this black neighborhood and I’ve noticed recently how white people are taking over—my people, I think  but wait  I’m of Italian descent  and I know they’re living somewhere on the other side of  Broad Street  and when I’m walking around the neighborhood, say I’m carrying my  laundry  two black women sitting on the stoop, two doors down from me  I see their braids, their rocking chairs, their long-toothed joy at  my reckoning of their attention, Hello  Hello, I say to them, and they smile or they don’t smile and they nod  going back to whatever they’d been talking about before I  intervened    I think about them, not cautiously—just trying to see the world through  somebody else’s eyes, the one lady is always out there, rocking back and forth  I wonder about her and what she’s waiting for or maybe she’s not  waiting for anything    and when I walk in the other direction, another black woman is sitting there out  front of her house and quite often she calls me baby and she always asks me  how I’m doing, which, to be honest, is more than my mother asks me  not because my mother is working most of the time but because my mother is a  worrier and she’s afraid to express herself openly in public    you see, I’m just a skinny white boy from Jersey  but here  in this neighborhood  I’m learning more about expressing myself in  public, I mean just common conversation y’all    I laugh at my own serene stupidity  now I ask her if she wants a beer    “I can’t,” she tells me, avidly annoyed  because one Hello is enough  and the second time around is different than the  first, so I let it go at that    they have girls and boys that run around in the neighborhood  and sometimes they’re wild, and sometimes they’re polite as  hell, much more polite that I can understand when I’m far away in 

my own mind, walking out into the unflinching sunshine some kind of gibberish going on in my head    “oh, I didn’t know you made paintings”  “hey, baby, where you going?”  “hey, handsome,” an older woman says to me, she’s wearing a  headscarf  and sometimes at night, “hey, hey, where the party at? where you  goin’ with all that beer?”    I laugh and walk away  I laugh too because I don’t know what else to say  what if I lie down with a black woman? so what?  so what if she calls me “baby” or “love”?  so what if she frowns? ignores me, doesn’t care  I walk on, thinking about it    and one time, as I was minding my own business, a black woman who’d  just opened a store around the corner caught me walk-  ing by, and she asked me outright HEY CAN YOU HOLD THIS BOX?  uhhh, I said, sure  JUST PUT IT RIGHT OVER THERE  I put my laundry down on the cement, laughing  then I took the box and I placed it on the ground, yes  I was the nice white boy in the neighborhood  harmless  there must be something wrong with me, but no  I just want to see something different than  the white suburbs, there’s a certain kind of  nothingness  there  where nothing  really  happens, but boredom sprawled through the days of  white wives spending their husband’s money  or scanning their cell phones for arbitrary lines of being trendy and fashionable  while a million light-years across town (at least mentally) speaking of trends,  most of the women I see homeless on the streets, they’re black  and their hair is wretched and their teeth are missing  sometimes they’re barefoot  they’re usually unsound of  mind    and where do they go? how can they get  famous? where is their 

White Knight?   I wrote this poem because a black woman made me cry  she wrote a poem that made me cry  she was strong  she was strong because she had to be  she didn’t have a choice  while some women go into their twenties drunk and picking from eight different  phalluses at once, it seems like university students in Philadelphia, ones who ain’t  white, they must become adapted to a world that can and will  pull the trigger on their  love  and in a matter of  moments  their whole world  can be destroyed  this sadness  ringing  in my ears    while white women play in this sandbox of eternity  I know some black women who just can’t make it  unless    well, unless what?    I think I’m dreaming  is this  really  true?    somewhere along the way, we have made women who ain’t white believe in  themselves but society has also made them into something else, I can’t even say it    the earth is diseased  but I want to, I really want to  respect  your  opinion    everybody struggles  but a young black woman’s poem could make me  cry    while a rich white woman who has lost her sense of 

struggle turns me inward  and  makes me  want to  walk  away—forever    there are no tears in her tragedy, the problem of  not having any  problems    what the fuck do you really know  about  anything?    and that’s what gets stuck inside of my bones  stuck inside of my head    I’m in love with a black woman, what if  I couldn’t say it  aloud  in public?    I’ll be  sitting  there  listening  to her    and what she doesn’t know is  she  changed me  she changed my life  and  how I think  they all do  and  I suppose  I’m being  unfair  to them  to everybody    but this morning, I nearly cried 

from the poem of a young university student, a black  woman    she’s worried about losing some-  one to violence, unbecoming  just because of  the color  of  her skin    like it matters  in the dark  I’d do anything  for her  or  maybe  I never  will    maybe  I never  will at  all.   


I wrote this title in a notebook on my desk the other day but a lot can happen during a day or two or three  and even though the music remains the same  sometimes it’s time for another beer…    and it feels good tonight even though the days have been hot  hot  hot  too hot to stand    and I was gonna write about remembrances of friends  fighting  with their ladies in  parking  lots    but that was days ago, like I said  and what I’ll write about now (while drinking new beer)  is the feeling I got when seeing her name again  in  my  email  inbox    I wasn’t ready  I wasn’t  ready  for  it    and that’s how it happens, I guess—just when things are finally going well  they might even be going better than that, and somehow  they always know, you know  what I  mean?    and that’s when my heart exploded into a  million pieces, it was gruesome, totally    so I opened that fucker and she  told me that she had moved to a foreign country (I won’t say  where) and that she wanted to know if I had a bag  some fucking bag 

that didn’t really matter to her, it was a ruse—she wanted a  reaction    maybe she was lonely, just for a  moment    maybe she was tired of the same thing  maybe nobody was paying attention to her    what she didn’t know is that I’d been waiting for  that  email  for  quite  some  time    and I was ready for it, I was too strong  think of it: a bag that meant nothing to her  two or three or four years ago  and now?    she wanted to know if I had it, even though she knew  I didn’t, I wouldn’t, what the hell?    women were crazy, or maybe just  her    oh, hell  they always sense these things  and I wrote her a letter in response  it was a good one  where I had to erase the part where I said that  I loved her and  I always would  no  I couldn’t say  that    what was she jealous of?  why reach out to ​me? ​of all people, I assumed she must’ve had at least 11 to 14 ex-  boyfriends    why me? 

this shook me so working in the heat, the measly AC-unit from the wall  keeping me going in the madness of everything burning, for-  ever    I thought about going out to the art museum  to clear my head  but down in the subway  I changed my mind  instead  I went to get a bowl of pho for real this time  and I sat there eating it, enjoying the true air-conditioning  thinking about her, shit    as I was finishing my soup, stomach wretched, the heat  getting to me  the drinking  the writing  making money  I had enough  problems  the map on the screen on the TV across the room  I had enough  fucking  problems    my brother messaged me: my rock, yes  he was like a reminder in my phone  don’t forget yourself, h ​ e seemed to say    and I paid and left and laughed to myself on 11th Street  went to the grocery store, I had things to do, I had things on  my mind  like anyone    I needed some good food  I needed to stop worrying so much  couldn’t I drink less? couldn’t I turn the earth around?  what was going to happen to  all of  us?    it was like a hole had been unleashed in my head  and everything pouring of it now engulfed me  in a strange and 

easy peace    I was finally at peace with  myself    why did she  want to  ruin  it?    I wouldn’t want to  do that to  her    I walked with the bags  trying to forget it  but  somehow  I couldn’t    I remembered those arguments  in parking lots  I remembered her saying that we should just  call it quits    she was confusing and she was confused  nothing was ever easy  except  fucking  her    and even then, well  shit    I guess I’m getting sentimental  it must be the beer  it must be Fall Out Boy’s fault    the lonely always wanted to find  me  they came to me when they were hurting or  when they no longer wanted to be  alone   

where could I go? where could I go when  I was lonely? where could I go when  I no longer wanted to be  alone?    nowhere!    nowhere at all    ...I carried the groceries to the  subway and it was still hot, hot,  hot, and the city burned, sweating  like a thief    I’d made so many wrong turns  all day  I’d felt trapped  but I was grateful for realizing  myself    that was everything    and when I got off  the subway  I saw her    a girl I’d slept with  and never talked to    again.   


man I put everything into  my writing  and every time I walk past the MAB paints on South Street  I think about my past  for whatever reason  there’s a couple on Broad Street, on their porch  I see a laptop and a few bottles of booze  it’s hot, I’m sweating—I keep walking    everything is doing its best to pull me under  I get back to my apartment with my street smarts  and it feels good to see my paintings all over the  place and I switch on the AC  wating  for some-  thing  poetic to  happen    but there’s nothing to  say    I get on with my life  in the morning, I hear from my  brother  and  he sets me straight    so I do my best to forget the walking home  from class out near the Convention Center  and the walking down into the subway  around Walnut and Locust and South and Lombard    AYE    that’s where I used to see  HER  and it’s also where the MAB paint(s) resides    I kept walking  and then it’s Friday (after another call with  Beijing, an invite) 

what would I do if I were to move  half-  way  across the  planet?    I slept  woke up  early  my brother  messaging  me  at  6 am    okay    I want to finish this  conversation    so I get up and  the sunshine  blinds  me  through the  windows  in the  kitchen    and that’s enough to  set a  man  on  fire    because the rest of every-  thing else is  just  too  much  to  recount    I went through 

so much    just to  get  here    all I wanna  do is  take another  shot  and  drink  another  beer    and  get on  with  it    the writing  life, oh  fuck    I sacrificed  a  lot    just like any-  one    just like this  earth    just like  any-  one    just like  this  earth    just like  anyone. 



it’s like a harpsichord, hot to the touch I’m awakened in my room by the morning  there’s a painting drying in my kitchen, the oils on the floor  I wrote a poem, I know I wrote a poem—I just can’t remember what it  was about and I can’t remember the painting, either  I’d drunk too much whiskey, paired with the four re-  maining beers in the fridge  I needed to stop by the bank because there was a security breach  so I had a new card sent out to me and lo and behold  it wasn’t the right address, I had done that on purpose for  so many years    after six years, the bank had my address and phone number  correct    I had done my best to avoid that truth for the past  six  years    and this morning (after spending an hour on the phone with them yesterday) I  headed out to the bank, strolling leisurely underneath the sunshine    there were drug addicts out on Broad and Wharton, sitting at the  bus stop, smoking a bowl  and I could see all the way to City Hall and there was a ruptured inter-  section with mounds of dirt and they  were almost finished with the new grocery store, just past  Washington Ave. (I can remember coming back from one of my wild  western bullshit trips, and walking all the way from Snyder Ave. to  Chestnut from 27th Street, sweating, and there was nothing, it was  BARE, at the midsection of South Philly and Center City)    everything was  changing    I kept walking north  and I saw a guy with his coffee  cursing at him-  self because he hadn’t realized that  he was going the  wrong  way   

it was hot, hot and humid I zig-zagged to South Street, getting to the bank,  doing what I had to do, talking with a teller on a little screen  and then I went into the grocery store with my cash  (I wasn’t thinking about her)  I bought some chicken, spinach, sweet potatoes, tomatoes, a cucumber, then I did  a figure-8 and nobody noticed    I got some water too  and I walked home, carrying it all  the sun was hot  and the city was alive because it was Saturday  but it was relatively quiet, I guess  there were a lot of people down  the shore, still  I hoped, secretly, and to myself  that  I wouldn’t see her  I knew that the odds were against me  whatever  that  meant    really, there was no chance of  her being in the  city    so I zig-zagged again, making it  back to my apartment  switching on the AC,  sweeping the floors after putting the groceries away  and showering  and feeling good    then I waited in the rain for  my parents, my brother and his girlfriend to come by  I talked to my neighbor  I said Hello to my neighbors  the rain came in buckets  and I felt peaceful on a Saturday, sitting down with people  I loved, with people ​I love    there was no past tense, like previous lovers used to recount  and that didn’t matter anymore, there was no time for  bullshit 

I listened and I felt good and I was present the beer was good and the food was too  everything was fine    I wasn’t thinking about politics  death  bombs  taxes  no  I wasn’t thinking about  her    somebody brought it up though  or  maybe I was the one to bring it up  and  there wasn’t really  much  to  say    love comes  and  goes    and the love that stays, that’s the best  the love that remains  like the gray hairs at the sides of my mother’s head  or the veins in my father’s face  they are alive  and they have been  for  quite  some  time    and I am their  offspring    one of four  boys    consummated  with a  kiss 

I keep going I keep going  I  keep  going    and I’ll drink more too  after we all leave the bar, eventually  I go down to the liquor store  to  get  my usual case of  beer    to overcome  the night    to keep writing to  you, to no one at  all    just this crazy  art    to keep writing  about  love    finding it  losing it  seeing what was in front of my face, all along    I listen to Mozart, type these words  drink beer  on a Saturday  night    I’m not thinking about  her, I’m not think-  ing about  anything  at  all.   


the sun has  high hopes  for  everyone.    so—don’t  fuck it  up! 



I didn’t really have a choice let me say that  I didn’t have a choice to let you go  you left me before anything else could happen  you were afraid  and so you left me with these images of you in my head  I can see your smiling eyes  when I’m out on the street  I notice the shape of your face and I tell myself that I miss you  there’s something about your nose, mouth, chin and eyes  nobody else looks like you or when they do, I realize that nobody else  will ever be as beautiful as you  with that towel wrapped around your head, coming out of  the shower  we’d just made love  and you  were singing  Bob Dylan shirt  telling some kinda stupid joke  I’m lying on the bed, happy and you are smiling at me  with your hands on your hips, shaking  we’re both laughing  and it was easy like that for a while  but there were others too  and they had longer legs  they were better at certain things than you  I liked the intelligent ones, but they were harder to find  and I missed one who was kinda like a hippie  only she got calloused on her soul from all the dead-end hours  working a job she hated―and it’s strange  because I just wrote this long poem, about 2,500 words  and I had just taken a nap  because all the senseless drinking was driving me through to the end  of August—the end of us  I don’t really see you anymore, I don’t see any of them  and I won’t  because  I don’t want to  but  I still think about them  this mark they’ve left upon me  like they’re beaming at me  when I’d been rubbing their back, their stomach, their hair 

this feeling good in each other’s company that was all that ever really mattered  to me    I wanted to say more  but you never gave me that chance  you pushed me away  why?  I’m fearless, not afraid of your love  or at least not now    but back then  what were you  afraid of?    was it something I said?  and what did you need  from me?    I couldn’t understand it  and I still don’t    why love fails  maybe  there isn’t any reason  for it    maybe  you were meant to be this lasting image  in my head  blue eyes  green eyes  maybe you’re shaving your legs  while I’m lying on the bed in the other room  the shower running  some other place where  we’ll never be    some other life  you and I    we’re madly  in love   

forever   and that’s all  I really  give a shit  about    your love  your love    a stupid grin  this stupid, corny poem    I had to  I had to let you go. 


The Girl in the Iron Maiden T-Shirt (and other poems of unrequited love)  

I wrote these poems during a week in August 2018. I added some drawings and one of my paintings. A girl at the bar was wearing an Iron Maide...

The Girl in the Iron Maiden T-Shirt (and other poems of unrequited love)  

I wrote these poems during a week in August 2018. I added some drawings and one of my paintings. A girl at the bar was wearing an Iron Maide...