Too much to tell. And I'm too tired to tell the least of it.
But it was wonderful. Over the next few days I'll be posting Tripple memories from more fabulous comics and good friends. Here now, for those that missed it, is the brilliant eulogy written and peformed by my immensely talented friend, Bryan Tucker. <-- Yeah, that bio there, while impressive, is horribly outta date.
By Bryan Tucker
Ye Olde Tripple Inn, which was a staple of the lower to mid-level New York comedy scene for almost two decades, will die soon. It was almost 40 years old and lived in Manhattan.
Ye Olde Tripple Inn is survived by its nerdy brother Ye Olde Sprint PCS Store and its whorish sister Ye Olde Poontanegery.
The Tripple was born in the mid-sixties when a run down sports bar mated with a public urinal. In the 70’s, the lively tavern was conveniently located across the street from the famous Studio 54, so that people who had spent most of the night on a coke-fueled three way in a VIP room with Grace Jones and Truman Capote could end their evening eating lukewarm potato wedges served by a 50 year old Long Island woman in a tank top.
Soon, the Tripple became known as a performance space that was ideally suited for comedy. With its rowdy unforgiving crowd, three blaring TV’s and a dartboard frequented by bitter impulsive drunks just inches away from the stage, there was no better place for a theater of the mind.
The Tripple Inn gave many great comics some of their first stage time including Lewis Black, Rita Rudner and Jim Gaffigan. But it also gave many terrible comics their first stage time too. Not just amateurish. Bad. Comics that would be upstaged by Terry Schiavo. Comics who prove over and over that Einstein’s theory of Relativity was true because they could stretch ten minutes into an unbearable eternity. And to these comics I say, wait your turn. Susie will put you up very soon.
Over its long life, the Tripple had its share of great moments when stars like The Beatles and Liza Minelli graced its door. But it also had its share of lows. In 1995 the Tripple caught a bad case of Promoflobia – a condition where it would routinely break out in hundreds of cheap cardboard promotional signs from beer companies. In addition to the hideous appearance, this tragic disease would also give the Tripple delusions, like making it believe it was St. Patrick’s day in July.
But the Tripple was not always so shabby. There was a time when it was fresh, pristine and new. A time where it was warm and inviting. Unfortunately, that time has faded from memory long ago, so that now you can’t even picture it as anything but ancient and ravaged. Perhaps a more concise analogy would be: Think of the Tripple as you would Elizabeth Taylor’s pussy.
Despite it’s appearance, the Tripple has a special kind of magic for all of us. It’s the only bar in Manhattan where I left without my pants. It’s also the only place I’ve ever hit on a dude. Those are just a few of the sweet memories that all of us have, and we wouldn’t want to get booed off stage anywhere else. Tripple Inn, Godspeed.