Ludlow Bar


Seriously, what the hell is going on here? Where did the guys with the spinners and the women with the nameplates come from? It’s like I went to the lower east side and Long Island broke out. Is this what “club kids” are like these days? If that’s the case, I should stick to work and home and just skip anything and everything in between as I’m scared to run into any of these people in the daylight. The scene here was beyond horrific–it was, like, subterranean horrific. The women had some sort of G.L.O.W. thing going on and the guys were living HBO “America Undercover” debauchery documentaries. It was like a frat party gone terribly awry, complete with drunken grinding, sloppy making out, falling, yelling, fighting and all the other positive aspects of male testosterone issues. The space is low-ceilinged and oddly divided into two pieces as if some deranged architect cleaved the bar to separate the drink from the mongoloids. Unfortunately I couldn’t share any of my snotty comments with my friends, as anything that left my mouth was instantly gobbled by “It Takes Two” or some twelve-year-old Black Sheep song that was being played at high enough volume to make me almost forget paying a billion dollars for a lame beer. [MF]

165 Ludlow St.