Let’s start by saying that the Bleecker Street Bar is in no way, shape, or form a dive. It doesn’t wreak of spilled booze and puke and the bathrooms are so nice that irritating corporate chicks use them in gaggles without screaming or commiserating about just how wretched and disgusting there are. When you have vaguely business chicks hanging out after work, you’re going to have the bland dweebs that love them on hand also. Or is it the other way around? Either way, the point is, no self-respecting drunkard should ever set foot in Bleecker Street Bar unless it’s out of desperation. And desperate were Whitesnake and I tonight.