The Americana Blogger
He buttons his Pointer Brand chore coat as his Red Wing Boots trudge forward in a march of stylish solidarity. The wind blows hard against his bushy beard that smells faintly of an expensive cologne named after an ancient Indian burial ground in Oklahoma. Yet, it fails to muss his perfect side part. Tonight, his ride is not the vintage Ford Bronco he always wanted, rather the Brooklyn-bound L Train. But in his mind, he is on the prairie, stoking an open flame in the friscalating dusklight, about to get laid by a busty blonde on a genuine Pendleton blanket.