Todd V. Wolfson
Johnny Cash drank alone. He sat in the corner, smoking cigarettes 'til yellow-fingered, sipping stiff fingers of well whiskey, wearing some black. Probably some boots. Cash, he'd be right at home at the Mean-Eyed Cat, not even because the bar's name is an homage to some of his lyrics. Cash knows that drinking alone makes you look intellectual. Elusive. Mysterious. On Mondays, you're looking at Frito pie (best eaten alone). On all days, you're ordering from a tough-looking bartender who generally remembers what you're drinking. It's nice here. Even if they say it's mean.
