I wrote for three hours the other night about ex-lovers and the closing of numerous Gap stores in New York, while I drank whiskey and beer at the Parkside Lounge. In a suprising turn of events, I was disturbed by only one person - a woman, at that! - the whole time I sat there.

She was pretty wasted, I guess. She talked to me quickly, giving me her pat conversation starters. I thought maybe she had an Irish accent, and she was in her mid-50s. Her hair was short and styled like my mother's, and I knew that brown wasn't her natural color.

"So, you are y'meeting someone here or are y'here by yourself?"

"I'm here by myself," I said. I continued writing in my journal.

"I suppose I shouldn't ask if that's business or personal you're writing there." She smiled at me. I was certain she was seeing double.

Again, I mumbled, "Personal."

I turned away and kept writing.

About fifteen minutes later, I could sense she was reading over my shoulder. I thought that was pretty rude, so I faced her and gave her a look.

"So do y'have a boyfriend or a husband?" She was slurring a bit.

Ask that to a girl sitting in a bar on a Friday night alone, writing in her journal, and you'll be sure to make friends right quick.

I said, "I'm sorry. I'm really just interested in writing right now," which is something I've never said to a woman before, except for maybe my mother.

Finally she left, stopping to chat with the bouncer. She didn't want to leave, I could just tell. And then three regulars came, two older guys in their 60s, and a younger guy in his 30s, and their faces all read alcoholic. I briefly imagined they were all blues musicians, so that I could give them a safe, non-judgemental place in my mind. I watched them quietly drink and drink out of the corner of my eye, and they noticed me scribbling away, not looking up too often.

And then, I suppose, we noticed each other noticing, and then left each other alone. I wouldn't think too much about what they were doing, and they wouldn't engage me in conversation. I felt very safe there. One of the men even went so far as to pull the remaining stool in our corner of the bar, which blocked anyone from standing near me. I had a little haven of my own, even when the rest of the bar was packed.

The manager stopped by and chatted with me for about ten minutes. I enjoyed meeting him. He has a doo-wop band; he thinks doo-wop is making a comeback, and it just might very well be, even if I'm not aware of it. He books all the acts there, from experimental noise shows and hipster readings, to stand-up comics and drag shows on Sundays. He clearly had a vision, which he shared with me, "We don't tolerate people who have no tolerance."

There was a nice vibe in the bar. I wouldn't want to be a regular there, but I wouldn't want to be regular at any bar. Being a regular means being a drunk, and there's no two ways about it.

I saw the manager again last night at 7B.

"Well," he said, "You just hit all the hip places in town, don't you?"

He told me he had checked out my work website (which had a cute update today, if you didn't see it yet), and that he liked it. He also found our corporate sponsor TiVo intriguing, which made me laugh. Who ever thought corporate sponsorship actually worked on the web?

I was giddy after I saw him. For some reason, it felt like the ending of a short story to me.

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