You’re standing in a dark Downtown alley. Way off-grid.
You’re facing a sort of ominous black door. You have a choice: to enter or not to enter.
Guess you’d better just play it safe, go home and go to bed.
Or maybe go on in and find The Lash—a crazy, broken, artsy bar with just a hint of an Irish accent (the proprietor’s a musician-son of Irish pub owners), soft-opening tonight.
Basically, this looks like a bar that survived the apocalypse—a trifecta of spaces filled with geometric seating, a distorted disco ball, weird angles, raw granite... and a recurring shattered-glass motif throughout. Like somebody picked up the place and dropped it. Hard.
Once the night gets going, everybody’s dancing to punk rock (the place is named after a certain Pogues album), and the dancing will not be stopped... unless maybe you get thirsty for a Dark and Stormy with shaved ginger or a Murphy’s Irish Stout. Then you might stop for a bit.
And maybe retreat to the stadium-style benches with your alluring new artist friend, the one with the green eyes and the side of her head partially shaved. You’ll talk about deep stuff, like what you’d do if the world were ending tonight. And how the answer is probably... have another couple of random Irish beers together.
Or go back to her loft and check out her cat paintings.
You’re facing a sort of ominous black door. You have a choice: to enter or not to enter.
Guess you’d better just play it safe, go home and go to bed.
Or maybe go on in and find The Lash—a crazy, broken, artsy bar with just a hint of an Irish accent (the proprietor’s a musician-son of Irish pub owners), soft-opening tonight.
Basically, this looks like a bar that survived the apocalypse—a trifecta of spaces filled with geometric seating, a distorted disco ball, weird angles, raw granite... and a recurring shattered-glass motif throughout. Like somebody picked up the place and dropped it. Hard.
Once the night gets going, everybody’s dancing to punk rock (the place is named after a certain Pogues album), and the dancing will not be stopped... unless maybe you get thirsty for a Dark and Stormy with shaved ginger or a Murphy’s Irish Stout. Then you might stop for a bit.
And maybe retreat to the stadium-style benches with your alluring new artist friend, the one with the green eyes and the side of her head partially shaved. You’ll talk about deep stuff, like what you’d do if the world were ending tonight. And how the answer is probably... have another couple of random Irish beers together.
Or go back to her loft and check out her cat paintings.
