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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]
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