. . . to a cabin down below.Recently I was convinced to leave a perfectly nice Upper East Side house party to pursue an elusive bar in the East Village.
We arrived at the supposed address to find a greasy pizza joint. I was confused and disappointed. And drunk.
"Fear not," said my gallant companion, as he picked up a surreptitiously mounted phone and conversed with a mysterious entity. Who was he speaking with God? Oz? Who ever it was suddenly opened some kind of trap door, through which we descended into a cozy, candlelight bar full of attractive people. Fun times ensued.
Its a bar named after a Tom Petty song, how could it be lame?
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