There was always something in his mouth. If it wasn’t a paint brush, it was a wooden pipe. If it wasn’t a wooden pipe, it was a punchline.

Under the right conditions, you could witness all three in the span of mere minutes.

Kirk O’Hara and First Friday go together like Roosevelt Row and hipsters. He set up for the evening in front of The Lost Leaf bar and gallery, a staple on Fifth Street, and began to paint.

Soon, people stopped. Stared. Some even whipped out their phones to take a picture. Kirk O’Hara wasn’t Kirk O’Hara anymore.

He was Paintmouth.

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