By Amy Silverman
By Olivia LaVecchia
By Monica Alonzo and Stephen Lemons
By Chris Parker
By Michael Lacey
By Weston Phippen
This she does, to which our limey pal replies, glancing at Jett's funbags, "Aaaar, lesey am ooovinerefrrmnework, anyearsagoo. My, oovegotasmashin'seto'bagpipes!"
"Hay-sus Christie, this is like an original Star Trek episode when Scotty gets morphed into some alien life form," I whisper to Jett. "Like they say: America and Britain, two countries divided by a language."
The Englishman moves on to some of the other lovelies present, uh, chatting them up. We ease up to the bar to talk with bartender John Marinick, who's been with TT's for the last couple of years, but has been coming to the bar since it opened nine and a half years ago. Marinick, thirtysomething in a cap and sporting a beard, tells us all about TT's ghost.
"It was a few years ago, and we were all sitting around here one Saturday afternoon," Marinick explains. "About eight of us watching Mad Max with the sound turned down. All of a sudden, the volume lowers on the jukebox for no reason, and out of the TV this voice starts yelling at us, 'Hey, you cocksuckers! You motherfucking cocksuckers! Do you know? Do you fucking knooow?' It was frightening. We evacuated the bar, and then the sound came back up on the jukebox and went down on the TV. We looked at the wiring of the TV, everything. But we couldn't figure it out."
"Ooooh, creepy," mutters Jett.
"But that's not all," continues Marinick, gravely. "Shortly after that, there were other small events, and the owner Brad Henrich found a glass of stale beer up there behind those bottles on the shelf above the bar. He eventually discovered that one of the former patrons had left the glass on the bar when he went out, and was hit and killed by a car. The previous owner put it up there in honor of him. So we refilled the glass and stuck it back up there. We haven't had any problems since."
"Forget Star Trek," I say. "This is more like Scooby-Doo."
Sobered by Marinick's tale, we wander outside, where we see a couple of gals talking, one of whom could pass for a young Ava Gardner. But Ava waves us off, as she's shy. So we talk to her friend, a hot, zaftig honey named Janet, whose family owns a couple of restaurants in town. After a prolonged discussion of Janet's expertise in fellatio (she has had some lucky boyfriends, or so it sounds), she tells us a joke to help us get over our ghost jitters.
"So, this tourist's walking through St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York," says Janet. "And he sees a head pop out of the confessional, and this priest says, 'Hey, you, come here.' So the tourist walks over to the priest, who says, 'I need to take a dump, can you take over the confessional for me?' The tourist says, 'Take over the confessional? I'm not even Catholic!' The priest says, 'Don't worry. I've got this little book with all the sins and their assigned penance. All you have to do when someone gets in the confessional is ask them their sin, and tell them their penance.' So the tourist says okay, and the priest goes off to take a dump.
"Not long after that, someone comes into the confessional, sits on the other side of the screen, and says, 'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned . . . I have committed the sin of anal sex!' The guy looks all through the book, but he can't find anal sex anywhere. So he sticks his head out of the booth, sees an altar boy, and waves him over. 'Hey, kid,' says the tourist. 'Tell me, what do you get for anal sex?'