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This place was a total
drop-in. Meaning that I was walking around with a small group of guys,
had slightly dried out since our last drink and decided the joint
looked interesting enough to drop-in for one drink. Entering the thin
space with the high, curved ceiling and low lighting seemed pleasant
enough, though it reeked of Euro thump-thump crap or ambient acid
jazz and world music. I couldn't quite decide. It turned out to be
a hookah bar (so, Middle Eastern techno?), though no smoking apparatuses
were in evidence that evening. And it was in fact late afternoon or
early evening, so the lonely bartender sat there playing some bored
bartender game on her phone and a pile of swizzle sticks. Enter the
annoying posse. I ordered a Stella Artois and settled in for a temporary
stay before moving on to our next, more interesting location. But
it turned out said bartender--who tended bar in name only--was clearly
so bored that she decided to open up to us about her young life and
even more robust sexual habits. Huzzah, we have the perfect catnip
for a quintet of aging drunk guys. Needless to say, one beer turned
into two, which finally exhausted at three when her stories in fact
exhausted all the positions of the Kama sutra, all orifices and every
back issue of Redbook, Cosmo and Penthouse letters. Spent, and reasonably
sure we'd been conned into tipping well on two more rounds than we
had originally planned on, we exited into the swirl that Bleecker
street always is secure in the fact Falucka would disappear like the
mirage it was, never to be visited again. [MF]
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