But I also feel drawn, moth-like, to Lulu’s because it’s comfortable—not in a Rosemary’s, “y’all are my family” sort of way, but because nothing is expected of you, and you in turn expect nothing of Lulu’s. It’s just dark enough inside where no one can see your distinct features and you definitely can’t see theirs. There’s Big Buck Hunter, but judging from the screams of rage and defiance that disturbed Leanne and me watching the Oscars, no one’s particularly good at it. The bartender may become your best friend and pour you rounds on a raucous Friday night, or you may think she hates you on a Sunday before realizing she’s secretly on your side as she turns the volume on the Oscars up. You may look around the bar and find that the grungiest among the crowd actually really love a good awards show. Almost as much as they love free pizza. Which is, after all, why you’re here. You’re here for cheap booze and free pizza, and that’s a beautiful thing.
113 Franklin St., Brooklyn