I’ve always had this irrational fear about coming to this place. I’m not sure if it was the lurid tales of Julia Roberts and her mysterious boob-holding contraption skanking it up to the fourth straight playing of “Sweet Home Alabama,” or the fact I had waited in line (something I’ve sworn not to do) there twice without a resulting invite inside. Either way, I still hate Lynrd Skynrd, and I still don’t wait in lines. I guess it was a blessing, then, that there was absolutely nobody waiting outside the door at 2:30am the morning a party I was attending decided to head downtown to this faux redneck joint in the Meatpacking District for a nightcap. As most nightcaps go, this was a long one that involved five or six PBRs and possibly a shot or six of Jack (and, amazingly, only three spins of Skynard’s other barnburner, “Freebird”). The fact that anybody famous hangs out here is just a testament to the fact that celebrities are just like you and me–only dumber. If I were famous, I’d hang somewhere with just a dollop of class or decorum, and not a joint with Bambi nailed to the wall. Luckily, I’m in no way famous, nor do I have even an ounce of class, so this place suited me just fine–although there’s no way I would ever step foot in this bar sober. Smashed, it’s all a hee-haw party of a place, but sober this joint would make me want to heave all the way up from my retarded cowboy boots. So, let’s review: line+sober = bad, no line+drunk = good. In any case, you may want to bring along a walkman or iPOD in order to avoid the hideous music selection and vapid conversations being had by the starfuckers packed like sardines into every nook and cranny, but on the positive side, you may want to also bring along your appetite for cheap beer, high decibels and terrible bed spins. [MF]
859 Washington St.