I have stopped by my new watering hole. The barmaids name is Rita. Her cleavage starts so high up it could be a mid 80s Tony Danza haircut with a cavernous parting symmetrically juxtaposed by two hillocks. It seems like the criterion for a dive bar barmaid is to have vocal chords marinated in loose gravel with nicotine stained lips with lipstick that looks like it was applied in a darkened basement with only a naked light bulb for illumination. The labor camp ditch like furrowed wrinkles only add to the dive bar approval in her physical resume. Only a man in a John Deere wife beater howling in accordion with a passing fire truck breaks my concentration.