Tool Box - Imagine a dark, narrow space occupied entirely by people who either can’t get a date or gave up trying long ago. In such a place a crabby and statuesque bartender with his arched brow and pursed lips warms up to the non-regulars only after he’s downed a few martinis of his own. Patrons spend hours ogling the overly-eager undergrad who’s role here is part bar back, part youthful enchanter who frolics like a wood nymph before a ghostly forest of men. Such a place, the Tool Box, exists on New York’s Upper East Side and has for the past fifteen years. Often drawing horny little devils from near and far for its rumored cruisey downstairs, don’t be entirely fooled. This basement with its orange walls, office furniture and porn video screen, is more depressing than sexual and has eerie qualities that could have been taken from a waiting room scene in a David Lynch film. But despite all of this, the Tool Box has a neighborly charm unlike many places; people know each other’s names and often they don’t want to be bothered. In it’s own strange way, it can feel like Cheers for gays.