16,179. ZOE GETS MALIGNED

ZOE GETS MALIGNED

'When this place was great, I wasn't cool. Now, I stand

here on the sidewalk beneath the bar's neon sign. United

we stand, or divided we fall. I never know which it is. I

used to sit in this bar and try to stretch one drink over an

hour and a half because it was all I could pay for, the one.

I'd basically be sitting there, hoping someone could catch

sight of me, think me interesting enough to but a drink for,

and come over. It usually always worked. Biker shit, back

then, attracted people. Like maybe I was a murderer...'

-

Other times, I'd tell someone I was a writer waiting for

my agent, Irwin Schwartz, but he was late, and I was

doing stand-up on the side. Stand-up, on the side, get it?

It's funny. That too would usually get me a drink, and 

then I'd say I knew Mark Knoepfler, who'd be coming

back in about 20 minutes with a date. In so many ways

it was more fun being a stupid outsider making up stories.

-

There are a lot of people here I don't know. It must be

cool having a bar to which writers come, because then 

at least it gets written about. Right? I used to joke too,

'Nobody comes here except Tibetans.' But of course I

meant Tribecans, which party of NY this is.' They'd

laugh. If they heard me  - there wasn't that much else

to do. A lot of things have happened to this city, and a

lot of great places have gone under.' Another guy came

over, and said he lived on Duane Street. He said the bar

was more 'populist' than it was 'posh.' And then he said

'no writers come here; just journalists; but hey, are they

really 'writers? For real, man.'

-

'He's a nit wit, let him be. Everybody thinks this is a big

celebrity place, but the reality is that it's really just the 

best neighborhood bar in town; small and dingy some too.

The tourists come in here, thinking to see celebrities. So

I bring some in, for nothing. They drink for free, but they

tip the place, and the girls too, and the wait-service. Not

regulars, but I make them almost that. Then the idiot

tourist types keep coming in, or back. You can always

tell. They walk backwards, yet somehow hit the wall in

front of them, while gawking.' Paulette somebody, with

earrings on the size of business cards and a rhinestone

cross dangling from around her neck. Think she was 

Jewish? I wonder. Half blue hair, and a twisty hat.'