It’s Ladies’ Night at the Shriveled Gun, but none of the women who used to come around here do anymore. Lauren and I are the only ones sitting at the bar. We are freelance theater critics who spend most weeknights in cramped, black-box performance spaces where the walls sweat. Once a week we have a girls’ night out, take a break from watching actors play other people and instead watch real people play themselves. This Manhattan bar, which used to be trendy with its bad lighting and punk-rock vibe, is the perfect place for it.