Lucky Dog, Moonshine, and Balloons.

Brooklyn never sleeps.   The bars close at 4am, sort of, and buses run through the night picking up wayward drunks who can't find the train.   At the heart of Williamsburg, Bedford ave., sits a small opening with a patio  able, maybe, to fit 7 underfed people.  Inside you'll find the Lucky Dog, a  misplaced wild west saloon, started possibly by accident, with a Brooklyn tint.  The bartenders regularly pour free drinks,  the owners bring breathalysers in to the bar on a somewhat regular basis (When they themselves are shit-faced) and scold the workers if they blow double 0's, the New York smoking ban seems to be optional - the owners strolled in with a pair of cigars hanging out of their lips - and the bartender will regulate the old jukebox, not the digital type, by typically throwing quarters at people and telling them to play anything from Weezer or AC/DC to White Snake.  The bartender then proceeds to start singing and dancing to the song with theatrical flare.

This quarter flinging monster, half-viking, half-kitten, is Moonshine;  Moonshine is never sober, never stops smiling, and if I were to stalk him home, I'm sure he probably doesn't sleep because he is too busy building magical sky-castles with rippling muscles while toting a long blond haired wig.  The man is magical.  It's obvious from the layman drinkers' perspective, but on a more professional level several awards from the city of New York hang above his head for "best bartender ever-ever"  or something like that.

The Lucky Dog is called such because it accepts doggies.  So imagine a drunken hole packed with an insane staff, regular shenanigan having regulars, quarters and other things floating blissfully through the air, all while a half dozen or so dogs crowd around your legs - Lucky Dog.

On a calmer day, I got a chance to meet some of the staff, Moonshine included.  I sat with them outside on the patio during their smoke break and asked them what the owners were like, how they liked working there and living in Williamsburg.  Moonshine was particularly chatty, and we soon discovered that we had both been present at Burning Man that year.  If you were at Burning Man, you were sure to see the endless string of balloons floating through the air with no decided destination.  At night they formed an eerie string of LED lights that seemed to mysteriously wave through the stars.  No one knew where they came from, although it was obvious they were based somewhere, and they seemed to roam around the skies of the playa with no limitations.  Either they were very fucking long, or their base was moving.  Neither would have surprised anyone really.

Moonshine ended up being part of the responsible party for these balloons.  Nothing  really, for a man who forges flying castles with his bare hands, I thought.