T.J. Keane's Pub


Of all the scary, generic Irish joints in a city full of scary, Irish joints, this one may be hands down the most depressing. Nestled on a block dominated by trinket shops and porn DVD palaces, Mr. Keane’s bar & grill is nothing more than a temporary home for the criminally intoxicated and The European Idiocracy. After getting the boot from DVD Heaven for fondling the merchandise in an unsavory way, your typical Keane’s patron comes next door to drown his sorrows in a pint of whatever will make that cheap suit he’s wearing not feel so much like the cotton/poly blend that it is. In walk the stork-like German parents–tow-headed spawn in tow–searching for a typical American meal of boiled potatoes and cold buffet chicken wings. Little do they both know that their lives have just become meaningless and sapped of anything that once resembled hope. Such is the strength of places like this. Life-sucking properties aside, we just can’t excuse the pure lack of anything redeeming about this pit of despair. Ooh, we do remember them having a few Smiths songs on the jukebox. More reason to want to hang yourself. [MF]

783 8th Ave.