Back in the day there were art bars—the Cedar Tavern, Max’s Kansas City, Fanelli’s—but I’d be hard pressed to name a bar in New York these days where artists rub elbows (The Pencil Factory?) Also, artists don’t punch each other in the face anymore, which I suppose is sort of a mixed blessing—no one wants a punch to the face but I bet it would be fun to see an artist just punch a critic in the face at a bar. But if you put yourself in severe debt going to grad school, there’s the legitimate worry that you might ruin your career if you punched someone important. Best not to punch, really. Also, the philosophical stakes in the art world just don’t seem high enough these days to warrant a punch.

But even though there’s no real art bar in New York, there’s a comedy bar and that bar is the Peter McManus Café. It has delightful green booths. It has crazy old ladies. It has cops and other middle-aged men with moustaches. And then it has a bunch of young comedians.

It’s not as lame as it sounds.

I’m there every Tuesday night.

But, my God, it’s taking so long to complete this last “Sexual Intercourse; American Style.”

I’m throwing a party when it’s over. You’re all invited.