Toms Place

Rock Creek. The canyon. The beastly road. The beautiful bar. I'll take the drinking hole! The one time in lust filled mountain poetry I succumb to booze is at TOMS PLACE! Here I find the gallant walk between heaven and hell. Where the people are heroes of the highway. They carry long stories from the Mexican coast to shitty L.A. to Lone Pine to Toms. We all carry the Eastern Sierra heavy in deeds of bellowed hymns longing strong to northern wind. To a lesser lay, to the spent seas, to a weaker land. That's why we come to Toms Place. The owner has an uneasy piss about her love. The bartender have prose from 40 years of hardened winters. The waitress is our favorite person of the mountain. You can't go wrong with a joint seeped and soured among fishing souls in the woodwork. Angry old residents still pissed about the one that got away. And strong cocktails poured by antiques. This is truly my favorite haunt of the Sierra...RW
www.sierrastrange.com
STAY STRANGE!
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