Kathleen

Dirty, dim, squatting in the soft neon glow of Atlantic Center, this cash-only local hole is as cheap as the lipstick on its patrons, yet as charming as the kitschy striped awning protecting its butt-heads. Free popcorn sates said scrawny, starving Brooklynite performance artists. You’ll find someone to go home with, but the only thing you’ll hit is a wall when she shares with you her new spiritual exploration of the imperialist-fascist-capitalist gulag that is Atlantic Yards. Music by Bjork.