“Thank you. It’s such an honor to be here, you guys,” says Rachael Lampa.

“I don’t want to go down [to St. Paul], man, get shot with rubber balls,” says Adam. “I have to work tomorrow. They’ve got me chained to the radiator here. They only let me out to make your drinks.” He winks at the chef, who is walking behind the bar and carrying a plate heaped with fried pickles. The chef pauses momentarily to watch Rachael Lampa, who is singing a second song, entitled “Blessed”:

I may never climb a mountain so I can see the world from there. I may never ride the waves and taste the salty ocean air.

Or build a bridge that would last a hundred years. But no matter where the road leads one thing is always clear.

I am blessed. I am blessed. From when I rise up in the morning till I lay my head to rest. I feel You near me. You soothe me when I’m weary. Oh, Lord, for all the worst and all the best I am blessed.

The chef drops the pickles and heads back to the kitchen. “The voice of America, man,” he says, walking away. “The voice of America.”

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Justin Peters is editor-at-large of the Columbia Journalism Review.