The King is Gone

1993. The Village Idiot. The real one on First Ave and 10th street, or so. The one where the floor was so dirty that whatever pants you were wearing were automatically ruined by the beer and assorted other nonsense on the presswood floor 'splashing' up on you. With owner Tommy, and bartenders Liliana and Natasha buying shots for everyone and then sometimes passing out on the bar themselves this place spawned a ton of NYC wannabees (the only worthwhile being Doc Holliday's). It's 4am and the lights are on: you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.

Order a water. I dare you . . . .

"Once, when I had been drunk for several days, Shirley decided she would make it physically impossible for me to buy liquor. I lived about eight miles from Beaumont and the nearest liquor store. She knew I wouldn't walk that far to get booze, so she hid the keys to every car we owned and left.

But she forgot about the lawn mower." - Mr. George Jones