And so it was on the first day of 2012 that I found myself inside a bar that had called to me on many occasions. Yet until now my soul had not been ready to heed the clarion. I speak of course of Vieni Vieni Lucky Spot -- and a more gay and frolicsome establishment I know not of. In short, the joint is a shithole. A glorious, glorious shithole.
I covet any of the last remaining true dives in this city, and by passing them by time and again, saving them for "later," I suppose I am making some vain attempt at their preservation. It's like a kid who saves all his Halloween candy all year, or a housewife who never burns her cinnamon-scented candle in the shape of a duck. Many a time have I walked past the Lucky Spot and peered inside, and many a time has a patron beckoned me in with a "Hey! Where ya goin'?" I felt their pull but never gave in. Not even when I saw a man at the bar with long, gray, curly hair and a top hat who was quite obviously the father of Slash.
But this is 2012, and I only have so much time left to enjoy life before the Mayan Upheaval begins. It is time to eat those Fun-Size Snickers and burn those wicks. On Jan. 1, I went inside Vieni Vieni Lucky Spot.
If New Year's Eve is "amateur night," then only the true professionals go out and get drunk on New Year's Day. If you are belly-up to a bar and inebriated on this day, then you need to admit that you have a problem and your life has become unmanageable. Only a power greater than yourself can restore you to sanity. But thank god the people at the Lucky Spot were going to wait at least one more day to quit drinking...