Bitter.

The Leopard just had one of those long nights where you suddenly feel a little hopeless. You know - those evenings that morph into the darkest hours, where you’re lying in bed staring at the ceiling and you think about all those bad decisions you’ve made in life, loves that you lost and those heart crushing regrets, regrets, regrets.

I think this was all spurred on by listening to MeShell N’degeocello’s album, Bitter. It’s one of those records where one lover is pleading to the another in that starkly naked, almost unbearably vulnerable way. On songs like “Fool Of Me” and the title song, It’s almost like we’re listening in on a very intimate, private conversation between two lovers - literally sung in whispers. What makes Bitter especially penetrating is that N'degeocello takes on both sides, and looks at relationships without judgment from all angles.

In the way, it’s what keeps the music from feeling completely tragic. It’s saying that things are rarely what they seem. You begin to realize that yes, you made mistakes and sometimes you royally screwed up, but hopefully, your basic intentions were honest, if not thoughtful.

But still you still have wake up and go to work.

She's Not Depressed, She's Drunk

The Leopard decided to go for cocktails the other night at the creatively grungy Art Bar, a notorious spot in the West Village known for its dank innards, worn furniture, and 1000-year-old beer smell.

Still, the place has its earthy pleasures. As we settled in at the bar for a bit of light conversation, in came a blond middle-aged woman who sat one stool away. I could see her heavily made up face clearly over my friend’s shoulder. She began to make jittery movements like a junkie and looked increasingly anxious. She greeted the bartender broadly, and seemed to want to engage her in conversation, but the server stoically declined to socialize and dutifully poured her a drink.

After gulping down her straight vodka, she grinned at me a few times in a creepy way. I didn’t want to encourage her so I looked away. A few minutes later, she began to quietly sob. Pretty soon, the sobs became moans, and then the moans became full-out bawling, complete with running tears and streaking mascara.

My partner and I tried at first to ignore this noisy, pathetic spectacle but she went on and on, obviously vying for attention. Soon the bartender intervened in a sympathetic yet stern tone, “You’re disturbing our customers. Please leave. Look, Your drink is on me." The woman was so overcome with emotion she couldn’t speak, so she simply scooped up her things and left.

Whenever I walk past that place, I always wonder. What was she crying about? A lost lover? A tragedy in her family? Her own alcoholism? Most likely, I’ll never know.