Fuzzzzzzzy. It’s how my head feels. After a shot of Nyquil to sleep last night, and an absolutely crazy week at the part-time job- which almost feels like FULL time- I needed the aid of medicine to calm my racing mind. As a result, my clarity is off this morning and the fatigue overwhelms me. I agreed to go in early, which may have been a mistake. Short staffed, an influx of complaints, and not enough time to tie lose ends has forced me to deal with similar issues I once dealt with in the merger of one company to another. FUZZZZZZYYYYYY.
My blog isn’t about that though. It’s an escape really. Lately, I pressure myself to get it done. It’s taken the enjoyment out of it and made me more robotic then anything else. My focus obscured, by the forces around me weighing in and certainly affecting the clear head- BUT on to my blog.
The first of the bars I visited Wednesday was PJ Clarkes. It’s well known through decades of wear and tear from a once rugged neighborhood to a yuppie one. The place is next to an enormous postal facility and the aged exterior, I’m sure attracted those who could use a drink after work. Frank Sinatra and other famed people have been through its doors. They still keep this very interesting “vestibule” opposite the front bar whose shape reminds me of an old diner- stained glass ceiling with old coat hooks outside and giant urinals in. Frank commented on the size of these urinals that were indeed huge, but I’ve seen the same elsewhere in the city- McSorleys included. It was purchased by a group of investors in 2002, which included Timothy Hutton, Phillip Scotti and George Steinbrenner.
The place looked long and extended back from it’s modest bar at the front. The bar was THICK. Opposite the bar was the men’s room (what better place to put one?!) and another bar that sold t-shirts. I arrived about 11:45am and the place was already packed. I found a spot at the bar and about an hour later it was wall-to-wall people for lunch. I didn’t have time to look around, but did get involved in a conversation with a guy a couple of stools down, who waited on his friend. He was from Santa Fe, New Mexico and worked in investment banking. He was originally from Riverside, New York and was to leave for home Thursday. He told me about the comparisons in lifestyle- how out West was more laid back and your dollar went further and also how many people built retirement nests out that way. I overheard something like 100,000 investment bankers in New York City- always seemed overwhelmingly competitive. He told me you might pay the same cost for a studio in New York as a beautiful 2-room place in New Mexico.
We talked about art. I knew Georgia O’Keefe lived in Santa Fe and there’s a museum there of her work. I’d been to Albuquerque and seen only a small portion of the city when I was on business. I heard about the balloon festival and he told me of a place called Taos- where many in the entertainment industry make homes. I’d also heard of this place through a fellow writer I met at a Writer’s conference- one FUNNY Texan who had written a comedy with a HILARIOUS title. He invited me out there and was the last standing with me and one or two other writers at the bar of our gathering. It seemed only a handful of us, were really drinking, but his company was the best. He was fuckin funny.
The guys friend showed up and looked like Timothy Hutton; he sat next to me at the bar. They spent time catching up. I went quiet, listened, took in my surroundings and ordered a “Cadillac burger” on account the singer Nat King Cole who said back in the day, they were the “Cadillac of burgers”. It was delicious with my several Boddingtons and hit the spot. I hadn’t made my way to the back to look, because the place was filled. I missed my window of opportunity and decided it’d be in my best interest to move along around 1pm.
I must mention a guy prior to my visit named David Bernal- a fellow writer. He’s in the process of writing a children’s book and works for Cipriani- an enormous dining hall used for only the most elegant affairs in New York. Kings and Queens have visited and partied at this place- the ceilings are VERY high and its décor is old New York- chandeliers you can only imagine at Cinderella’s ball. I happened in there because I recognized the name and I could see only some of the beautiful interior from the street. It’s on 42nd. near Grand Central. He was at the door when I entered. I told him what I did and we talked- he told me he was on the same road. Sometimes it happens like this- a conversation out of the blue, which enlighten us. Something you fall into with no intention- a great gift. He had a degree in molecular science!
I passed a place called the Perfect Pint on Third Ave around the upper forties. The name was imprinted on a Guinness pint glass and looked about 4 stories. I could see a misting fan on the top floor. It blew mist on to what looked like a little Irish village from the street. It caught my eye and also my camera. I was SO tempted to go in and have a pint, but moved along to PJ’s instead. I marked it for a future visit and you’ll find it in my picture folder in Best Bar Wednesdays.
I hopped on an E subway when I left P.J Clarke’s JUST in time to find out I got it in the WRONG direction. I went to Queens! Ely was the first stop, so I turned around and followed it back to Spring Street where the Spring Lounge was. If I’d taken the 6 train it would have left me a block from the place- the E left me several LONG blocks away. I walked it and entered the modest surroundings of what was once known as the Shark Bar.
The Spring Lounge was a small place at an active intersection of streets. What made it fantastic were the earthy surroundings and the monumental views from the HUGE windows that overlooked the street. The bar had a shark mounted behind it- a hand crawled out its mouth like Thing from the Adams Family. There was a picture of Humphrey Bogart behind the cash register and the bartender was another writer & singer. She had a bubbly personality and good sense of humor. The bar had one older patron when I arrived who was most likely a part of the EMDS group, a society the bar relishes with its 8am opening- the “Early Morning Drinkers Society”. I asked the bartender how to become a member, to which she supplied, “we open at 8am- if you’re here before noon- you’re a member.” Kinda liked that.
There was another shark mounted on another wall- a quote beneath which read, “Life is short- drink early”. The opposite room had a few tables with a barred window. I wasn’t sure if that was to keep the riff-raff out, or the riff-raff in. There was some modest furnishing with old pictures around, but there were plenty of different beers to choose from which included those “oldies” such as Schafer & Pabst Blue Ribbon. For volume of drinks measured on shear space- the place was a winner: plenty on tap, plenty in bottle and a few oldies for good measure.
I was tempted to drink a Schafer. I think it was the first beer ever offered me by my Dad at a co-workers home back in the 70’s. The guy had a moose head hung above his fireplace and an enormous pond in the back with plenty of fish, painted turtles, frogs and snakes; a boy’s paradise. My father drank with his friend next to the pond in one of those old nylon fold up chairs. He took a sip, leaned back, and rolled down the hill right into the mud with his Schafer: one of those memorable moments and my association with the beer. My only question was if I could handle one of the gassy beers in my belly. As a mature beer drinker, I worried about the affect on my digestive track. I pictured loud and putrid farts as they filled a subway car filled with people…..I declined the invitation for the $3.00 beer, but was egged on by a guy named Mark who drank them next to me. He told me of several places where I could get great deals which I’m DEFINITELY in need of.
I had some talk with fellow drinkers. I spoke with two guys who came in from New Jersey. They were from Wall and joined later by two beautiful women. We’d talked of travel abroad and some other things, which escape me now. I had a few other words with the other side of the bar. Having a small bar is good like that because you can really talk over it without yelling. The bartender was also interesting and contributed to our talks. It was like a family. Small places unite the masses on shear space.
Near the end of my tour, I look back and see how I’ve deviated from the contents of the book. I always read about the bars prior to the visits, but with that in mind, I make little comparison on the facts stated herein. I take it, absorb the aura, the people, the drinks, the lunch, the neighborhood and explore my own subconscious through what a friend of mine once called “the filtered cheesecloth” of my mind. Recollections combined with present and past, to draw conclusions of my own character. Maybe it’s the fact wherever we visit in life brings us that much closer OR further to the idea of what life is about. Maybe the conclusion is not a conclusion at all, but a discovery at the root of what makes one themselves. Really, we are no one without the people around us, and even if they’re someone unfamiliar, they can profoundly affect us. Large windows for “people watching” lead to a better understanding of reaction, allow us to glimpse into how we are like or unlike each other and no place better than the window view from the Spring Lounge. So I’ll finish this blog with a poem I wrote many years ago- another favorite of mind titled Woodwork:
Woodwork
The guy you’ll never know sits beside you
He says interesting things, has big dreams,
But he’s just another guy,
Alone.
He looks for someone to believe in him.
He searches for that person endlessly, sidetracked by everyday life.
He sits, drinks, thinks, and lives in a place only he can dream.
He’s the guy you’ll never know.
He sits next to you,
Talks in a “grand” way,
Because he believes, one day his life will mean something
Here; you unknowingly bear witness to something.
He’s the forgotten conversation
The structure behind skyscrapers
An ordinary guy; a dreamer,
A man who sees his life as a wheel, which helps others turn.
Sometimes he loses sight,
But there are always others who guide him back,
To the guy who will always be;
The guy sitting next to you.
It’s incredible how things come full circle. Next week is the last of the bars, one with great history and one with an ominous past: Whitehorse Tavern. Hope to see you there.
Steve
Funk Thunder.
How about this weather?
It’s the opening question for any conversation with a stranger. It’s a muggy ninety-degree day and supposed to reach one hundred. There are storms expected later so, I brought my umbrella and a bag to protect my book. On the platform I sat in full sun and squinted to read beyond the reflection in the white pages of my book. Sweat accumulated around the black exterior of my T- a shirt which reads “Raconteur- 1) a person who excels in telling anecdotes, a story-teller.”
Have you ever thought to compare life to the weather? We do it all the time in one way or another- cold as ice, dog days of summer, he snowed me, she came in the room like a hurricane, etc. It’s as unpredictable that’s for sure. The dark gloomy skies before that broadcast- BEWARE, next the storm hits- beats you up, then the sun shines and you’re on top of the world. What I’m fascinated by is our ability to speak to one another, relate similarities, and compare each other by experiences, joys, pain- bonds forged by simple talk. Have you ever had such a wonderful conversation you never wanted to leave? There’s no knowing when or where that will take place, but it does. Sometimes it only takes minutes to realize; you think, “here’s someone I could really talk to, understand, listen to- enjoy.”
I’ve had a couple of moments like that on this tour; people whose stories lit me up. I could talk to a parking meter, have a conversation with a box, see words in the clouds, but my best work comes in the presence of “salt of the earth” people. Ones who get by with a smile on their face, conquer negative forces around them and live to tell about it- appreciate what it is they have. Crippling blows harden you and humble you too. It’s all in your reaction to them, which helps bring you through the FOG,… and then there’s the weather….
Recently, I spoke with a gentleman who over the course of a decade lost his wife. She’d suffered from Cancer. From the time of discovery, it went from bad to worse and ten years later she’d lost her battle. The pain of such a long drawn out death can’t be measured, and there’s no way one can compare unless of course they’d had the same love and suffered the same agony over time. The only way to fight the cynicism of such a traumatic event is hope.
I don’t remember how I was taught to be so blindly optimistic, perhaps it was my experiences regarding mind over matter. The only thing I could say in such a conversation was: Life is a balance- there are good times, and bad times. The only ability to heal through the bad times is to have had enough good ones to look back on- they guide you through. You take Memories for what they are, and you look to the future for the hope of experiencing something like them again. Without hope, you get nowhere.
My parents always lived that Zen like philosophy. They’re rich with experiences, moments they look back on, in their old age. The company of each other keep them moving forward. They’re eighty and eighty-three and married 57 years. A family friend as a teen told me they possessed the secret to life, and I never stopped believing it. It’s a bright and shiny day…. And there’s the weather…
I received an invitation to write a poem for a NYC publisher. My poetry has always been sporadic, but since I’ve started my tour it’s been nil. I’ve been in such a HAZE that I remembered my hearts been buried below my highly active mind. The multiple projects have kept my brain busy and have dominated my functions. The heart has been “on hold”, but this little reminder allowed me to see the need to take time to let THE DUST SETTLE, reopen my chest and rediscover the organ that’s been kicked to the side. Powerful poetry means unison between both mind and heart and lately it’s been an internal tug of war with victory given to the brain.
Excitement starts with a new venture. Persistence is needed to nail down the long-term projects, so Best Bar Wednesday Blog Series- roared like a lion in February and will shortly phase out in July like a lamb. Worn down by the routine. A few wise souls can and do give meaning to the words, especially when they see the suns bright rays through the storms, the fog, and the haze
But again, it’s all about the weather.
Thanks for reading: The Story of P.J. Clarke’s & Spring Lounge tomorrow. See ya.
It’s 5am Saturday morning. I’ve pasted my own deadline of Friday night to get my blog written. It’s been an insane week full of stress at work with a shortage of staff, a new computer system in place, customers who have little patience at waiting, on top of my blog project. The need for funds has forced me to add more hours to support my Blog project, which now draws to a close end. It’s a death in a way, precisely what I expressed a few days ago. There always comes an end to any project, despite how difficult it becomes to let go.
I arrived on my usual Wednesday with two bars not seemingly far from each other, Pete’s Tavern and Parkside Lounge, both Downtown. In some quick morning research, I’d found a rough walking route- Broadway. The order of the book was Parkside Lounge and then Pete’s Tavern but the opening varied- 11:30am Pete’s opened, 1:30pm Parkside and the 3:30pm train (my goal): made my order switch.
Pete’s Tavern is close to Union Square- the place I’ve enjoyed for many years. Old Town Bar is also close by, one of my favorites to date. I’ve always imagined myself as the kind of guy who’d sit in a pub- tuck myself away in a booth with either a pen & paper or a laptop and write. I’ve always preferred pen and paper for first drafts, especially in that kind of environment, but in the interest of time, I think it’d only be prudent to do it directly from the laptop. I may need to grow an umbilical cord for the bathroom, or change to part camel. There’s no place better than an old dark environment to get the imagination to run. As a novelist, consistent visits to a NYC place may be necessary and a place may revolve around the ending days of the Best Bar Wednesday Blog Series Tour- thank you Jef Klein.
Pete’s Tavern is a wonderful place and the book gave me a good background. Another writer, Richard McDermott, enlightened me after our meeting at Bridge Café. He’s a history writer, and has extensively researched the Bridge Café, Pete’s Tavern, the Ear Inn and a few others. He was kind enough to send me some research on Pete’s, which I’d read before my visit- thank you Richard. I’d also been told by fellow creative Glen Liberman about the bar he’d been to before. It seemed everyone but me knew about the place. It bills itself as “the oldest continuously operating drinking establishment in New York City, opened in 1864”. The place has a beautiful plaque in honor of it’s roll in literature and it’s contribution to the mind of the novelist O.Henry and his creation “Gift of the Magi”; a classic in literature, and Ludwig Bemelman, creator of the children’s story “Madeline”. Again we cross paths with Bemelman- his artwork adorns the bar named in his honor at the Carlyle Hotel – an earlier visit on my BBW Tour. He’d designed the walls of the hotel bar for payment of residing there.
Pete’s Tavern has that fine old décor. Dark woods, brick work and Victorian booths, like Booth 3 in which O. Henry supposedly penned “Gift”. What struck me is it sat empty until about 1pm. I intended on sitting there, but was torn between the bar and the booth. I prefer a place I can “Scoot” out of, and a booth is a commitment. The chairs were high backed and prevented others from looking over on to what you do- so writing I’d imagine was perfect here. The Booth had a few letters written by O.Henry framed in the back (you can see on our blog pictures). The area was great for seeing the coming and going of visitors. It was said he’d go there to listen into conversations in hope of inspiration.
The tavern has a virtual who’s who of the entertainment industry on every wall- movie stars, a president, sports heroes, you name it. From the front to the very back were pictures from the present to the past, from James Dean to Frank Sinatra, most of them autographed. It’s a wonderful place to sit and absorb your surroundings and they played music straight out of the Beat generation. There were a few TV’s and two back rooms that I only peeked at. The marble of the stairway to the bathroom was worn to the comfort of thousands of feet. I don’t think anything can really describe something, which has traversed time under such heavy foot traffic like a bit of Europe in America. A place I could be comfortable in for a long stay.
I ordered their 1864 ale, and stuck with that. It’s made specifically for Pete’s Tavern and was pretty damn good. It had an “old” feel to it. I don’t know exactly what that means except it creates the aura. Like the Patriot collection made by Samuel Adams years ago which duplicated recipes from 1700’s America- a set of 4 beers- one which actually tasted like buckshot. The bartender brought me the beer; I took a few pictures, and sat back down for a “think”.
I watched some men come in and sit towards the front. Every now and then I’d hear tough talk, a “fuckin this, a fuckin that”. The manager sat in the back and waited to seat people. He watched the sports game on the TV. Another man sat at the opposite end, and ordered a meal. In front of him stood an old comical sign which I’d taken a picture of- gold font on a black background that read, “How to live on $15 a week”. It lays it out as follows: Whiskey & Beer at $8.00, Wife’s Beer & Brandy $1.40, Groceries –on credit, Rent- pay next week, Mid-week Whiskey $1.50, Coal- Borrow neighbors, Life Insurance (Wife’s) .50, Cigars- .50, Movies- .60, Pinochle Club- .50, Hot tip on Horses- .50, Dog food- .60, Snuff- .40 and poker game- 1.20 totals- $16.40 – AND at the end it states, “This means going into debt, so cut out Wife’s Beer & Brandy”. It was one of those signs of yesterday which will never return. I heard on the news yesterday women have surpassed men in practically everything- through a article in some world-renowned magazine. Two men to every three women graduate college, more women are in middle management than ever before and some other information which points to men being the inferior sex. A discussion took place on how this happened and attributed the move in use of brain over brawn. A manufacturer driven economy- industrial revolution- needed physical strength to support its foundation, and when the economy turned to a computer based service oriented system, women excelled. What the woman on the interview said, was the role a man needs to play must revolve around communication. Agreed- I MUST say.
I ordered a hero special, which was about the same price as a beer. The bartender treated me to one, and my total bill came to about $25.00- I’d already bypassed a weekly allowance back IN THE DAY. I grabbed my check and hustled to Parkside at almost 1:30.
East Houston seemed a lot longer than I remembered it. I passed Katz Deli, an area I was familiar with, and continued into unknown territory. I’d passed Ave A, B and C without knowledge of the cross street- the neighborhood changed. It looked more “ify”, graffiti on the walls, people on the street hangin, and some questionable buildings. I found a school crossing guard and asked her if she knew where Parkside Lounge was- she didn’t speak English, only Spanish. It STILL drives me crazy how someone can come here and not learn the English language. If you’re going to be an immigrant here, you SHOULD learn the language- no if and or buts. When living in a foreign country, do as they do- its part of the respect of one’s nation. If you live in Spain- learn Spanish, if you live in Italy- learn Italian, if you live in the US learn ENGLISH. At this point, I could get into a whole conversation on the battle of immigration and border control, but I have WAY too much to say about that so let me continue.
When I arrived at Parkside Lounge, I knew I’d been there before. Several times I’d seen my friend Jefferson Thomas play in the back room. It was a small intimate place, with a pool table and very music oriented. Posters advertised who was going on when, and even a keyboard of tile surrounded the sitting area. The bartender, Josh, a tattooed young guy, looked more like an artist than a bartender. I went in there enthusiastic, with recognition of the place. I ordered an unfamiliar beer that I didn’t like at all. I had $14 in my pocket and that was $6. I felt I had to force it down regardless of its taste.
My father made me eat things I despised. Growing up around our house waste was NOT an option. My brother and I always ate like “birds” as my parents used to say. With their rationing as children, and use of all food, it disgusted my father if we didn’t eat what we were given. We’d heard things like people starving in Ethiopia and do you know how many people that could feed?? I’d excuse myself to the bathroom with cheeks loaded like a chipmunk of food I didn’t like. I was once forced to eat green beans and vomited. Only then did I get, “he doesn’t need to eat green beans from now on.”
The point was well taken, as I got older. I still have problems with waste, and after I worked in a restaurant, I took on the same disgust on how many just fritter away food, like a wealthy commodity when there are so many starving in the world. I’ll rarely waste beer, unless it reaches the point of brain altering health or a vomit throwing stomach.
I ordered a Negra Modelo after that and had some conversation with the bartender. He asked me if I’d like a lime in my beer, which kinda took me by surprise. I’d never heard of a lime in a dark beer before. We talked about it, and he even included it in his autograph in my book- “No Limes in Dark Beers”. He told me about the World cup and how they had a big contingent of Hollanders there. We talked about a trip to Amsterdam, and he told me of his Oktoberfest to Austria. Made me think about the trip.
A place like Parkside is more a evening spot with good music and vibes, there’s no place like night time in New York City. In the background the music was punk and most of the stickers on the bar reflected it. All around the place showed urban music- funk, punk, rock & roll. It was known to be one of the hot spots for new live music. An afternoon visit to Parkside lacked people, but to me, that’s part of the attraction in the day. I had two beers, and left content.
One note I’d taken and placed in my book that morning was Insight from the Dalai Lama calendar for July 14th, 2010- it read, “This human body is a precious endowment, potent and yet fragile. Simply by virtue of being alive, you are at a very important juncture, and carry a great responsibility.” It’s with that thought I’ll leave you to think- like myself on how to proceed with your day.
Only two weeks left- next week it’s PJ Clarke’s and Spring Lounge. There is sidetrack adventure still untapped- a trip to Coney Island with Jefferson Thomas which I need to somehow slip in before the summer is over, besides I want to shoot a freak.
Have a great day.
It’s not a subject most people talk about, in fact, I’d say it’s a topic most people avoid: death.
Death always fascinated me, not for the act of death, but the purpose and meaning it gives to ones life. I’ve read many articles, which show ones perception of themselves after a near death experience is changed. Some become more religious, some go from bad to good, most change their attitude, and still others claim to be unaffected.
I woke up thinking about the purpose of life. On last night’s episode of Deadliest Catch, admired and loved skipper Phil Harris died. The episode was a piece of artwork- done respectfully and with deeper purpose. The sons fought while their father lay in a hospital bed, their flow of emotions like a tornado. We see moments intended for only family members, as if we the audience have grown to be one- explosive moments and tender moments. Phil asks for forgiveness for not giving a better childhood to his sons, one he felt he could have made better. A clearing of conscious, a moment made right, by those sacred words- “It’s ok, I love you”; as the older Harris comforts his father. It’s a scene all to familiar to those who have lost someone close. We’re fortunate to catch this inside glimpse and when I watched “after the Catch”, the cameraman made it clear- every story has a beginning, a middle and an end- tonight was it was Phil.
I think what made it all so clear was his cognizance of his demise. The fact he knew his time was done, the fact he’d reached the pinnacle of his 54 years of life and wanted the cameraman to capture it- a man who went from Captain of a crab boat to famed personality of Deadliest Catch. It was his earthly way of showing others that when your time has come, you make amends, forgive and ask others to forgive you; in the end, family and friends is everything.
One of the toughest moments for any human is to face the death of a loved one. It profoundly shapes you. When I mourned the people of the Trade Center tragedy, I only recognized the scope when I faced the wall of remembrance, something I talked about only a few blogs ago. The thousands of fliers plastered on the side of the Armory, asking anyone who had any information to contact listed numbers- thousands. There was a flier for a father written by 5-6 of his children, his baseball cap attached along with pictures of the family in better times. He worked at Cantor Fitzgerald, the financial firm at the top of one of the buildings. The artwork was part hope, part realization, and all sadness. His age was about my own.
I’m not sure how long I cried that day, but sometimes grief walks a path of it’s own. I couldn’t go down there until 6 months after it happened. My memory burns with moments like that. I proceed with caution.
I was pooped on by a bird in 1998. I know that sounds funny, and in retrospect it is, however, my end almost came because of that shit. Over the course of a week, I suffered symptoms from a 106-degree temperature, to extreme pain breathing, and coughing up blood. Before I entered a hospital stay of two weeks my wife dragged my one year old daughter away at my command. I couldn’t convince her despite my academy award winning as they hooked monitors to me in the emergency room. Details aren’t important, but not long after I’d recovered my thinking changed. What-IF I had died? What would I have left? What could I have given her- scribbling, poems, writings, and a little money?
I met a 72-year-old artist at a flea market maybe a year later that contemplated these very issues. His art was extraordinary, his personality charismatic and his mind preoccupied with this work- something he believed would be the only legacy of his existence; the only contribution he could give his children. We had a beneficial relationship- he supported my writing and poetry with enthusiasm, and I supported his artwork with the same. We both respected and admired each other and our positions towards life and death- it worked its way into those early conversations and changed me. On Sept 11th, he was one of the first to call.
I suppose my desire to be a writer came much earlier, but these uncertain events solidified my position- I had to make a difference- not to a company whose memory is attributed to whoever is on its payroll, but mankind. It sounds, “fairy taleish” and perhaps it is, but I’m a strong believer in hard work, persistence, and low-key harmony.
I had an old cemetery in my neighborhood as a kid. My friends and I grew up going to the ghostly haunt late at night. I lived 11 years next to one, and found peaceful walks necessary in the turmoil of every day life. To see funeral processions and the fragility of humans is a sobering reminder. Our lives are finite and a walk around the cemetery reminds one why life is valued and how one person can affect another.
Death isn’t about one human life ending, it’s about all that surround one’s death living. Pain and suffering is inevitable, but how one is rounded can’t dismiss it. Life must include death, as well as death includes life.
Pete’s Tavern is today’s stop. O. Henry wrote “Gift of the Magi” there. A story about a poor young couple that for Christmas sacrifice something very valuable of their own for each other. Their sacrifices cancel each other out, but in doing so, it’s realized that moment is the most valuable thing one could give. He wrote the story in Booth 3. Parkside Tavern is 2nd on the list because it opens at 1:30pm. I only know the music there is supposed to be great in the evening. It’s always about the mystery.
More details to come, Friday night.
The subway wasn’t hot as I thought. I grabbed an uptown express, which dropped me at 72nd. There’s an enormous statue of Giuseppe Verdi when you exit. The Mannes College of Music and Julliard- the famous music school are also close by. P & G Café was originally 279 Amsterdam, but I was fortunate to have looked for it on line and found it had a new location as of a year ago at 380 Columbus & 78th Street.
The original P & G was established in 1942. It was a family business which was named for the initials of the founders sons- Pete & George Chahalis. The book said it had real character with graffiti and a mural, which had been covered up with the exception of part that remained on the back wall. From the on line article, they had difficulty moving the neon bar sign above the place because of water damage. It was a sore topic for the bartender I’d met. He’d worked there for the past ten years before the transition and after.
He just opened the place and I was the first into the downstairs bar. He served me a Sam Adams Summer Ale, which was pretty perfect for the hot day I’d already experienced in my short walk. The heat was already getting on his nerves- the fans blew on full in several areas. He started a conversation with me right away, and started to relax a little into my stay. Charlie, the bartender, was one of these really down to earth sorta guys. A guy who had a very interesting past- a guy who worked in security in the 1980’s and protected plenty of the early dance musicians- stuff I listened to in my youth- Lisa Lisa & the Cult Jam, Shannon, Salt & Pepa- a virtual who’s who of dance from the 1980’s. He was filled with stories of parties here and there, champagne & drinks for free, VIP’s and lists on which he was placed: A charismatic guy who lit up when he talked of those times. He talked of the old P&G and how much he enjoyed the clients, the money and the old time visitors, the regulars who would never show in this neighborhood, only about 6 blocks away.
Even though the new place was bigger and there were a few more rooms to hold pool tables and a music room, the dynamics had changed. This neighborhood had people with attitude and the politics between family and business were typical of those with money. The LAST place women would want to be seen in was a bar and many in the area had kids- obviously, a no-no for afternoon visitors. Where once he made money from those long established down to earth daily clients, he now made a portion of what he used to. He was also upset about the fact there was room, and what was once cozy and looked busy with 5-10 people, this place would scatter them and it’d appear empty during the day.
I’m sorry the original place was closed, but I was happy I still had this soul who transitioned to the new place. He was elected an award some years ago for being the best bartender and I could see why. It was his sense of humor. It’s like I told him, many come to bars to have a drink, get rid of some misery, talk-have someone listen, and try and find a laugh. If you get a cynical bartender or someone who has no desire to even BS with you, what’s it worth anyway? I know many times I’m lookin for that genuine laugh and I’d found it here- once we got past the heat and shitty things which bothered us.
I found my drinks went down clean, and I did my share of listening. I’ve always loved storytellers, who have interesting experiences, a worldly view, and a damn fine sense of humor. I’d found one here, that’s for sure. Charlie was probably one of the most amiable bartenders I’ve experienced on my tour. He talked to me about a security gig he had an opportunity at getting, and I hope he gets it.
I’d drank probably 3 drinks when first guy showed and disappeared into a back room. Two other guys came in- one had an accent and seemed to me to characterize the neighborhood- general yuppies. One raved about Cambridge and England to the other and sounded more like he was trying to impress either his friend or the people around him (which was only me and the bartender). I shook my head and Charlie went quiet, until another couple of guys came in who knew him. They talked about basketball and Lebron James. He didn’t miss a beat, started spinning stories about this and that, every one with a glow in his eye.
The time passed quickly. It was difficult to leave the place, but I knew I had to get downtown and time ticked. It was already approaching 1:30, and I hadn’t even hopped a subway- remember I had to get back to Penn by 3:30pm. They didn’t have food, which finalized my decision. I’d have a bite at the next place, sweat off some of my buzz- and MOVE along. I had him autograph my book and it just so happens he makes an appearance at the original P&G in a photo, which made it even better.
I hopped the express back downtown in a fraction of what it’d normally take. I exited at Chambers street to catch a local, but decided to “foot” it to South Street. I had to head to Broadway, turn down Fulton and follow that to South Street. It was fairly easy, but it was HOT and it was CROWDED and I was buzzed. I felt vultures’ overhead, I felt the heat off the blackened tar cause hallucinations of more and more people… WATER…. WATER…..
I eventually made it down to the water after a couple of distracting sites. By the time I reached Paris Café, I was ready to burst- not from a malnourished belly, but an over nourished bladder. There were signs ALL over which read- “Bathroom for customers ONLY”. I sat down at the bar with only one thing on my mind- I’d order my beer- and rush off to the bathroom with all the urgency of a medic to an old aged home. The bartender noticed my Thomas Edison T-shirt and commented about his visits to the Paris Café back in the day when he set up the first centralized power station on Pearl Street. He had a great brogue – but lets face it- when ya gotta go URGENTLY, you can only see one direction and conversation isn’t it.
After a breath of relief, the bartender had turned his attention on the many visitors to the bar. The large screen TV’s played the Cup and there seemed to be quite a few sports fans in the place. I took in the beautifully ornate bar.
The Paris Café has a great amount of history associated with it. Diamond Jim Brady and Thomas Edison used it like a home away from home. Celebrities like Annie Oakley and Buffalo Bill Cody, appeared in the early day- Teddy Roosevelt was a regular when he was a police commissioner, but there were also the criminals with it’s proximity to the Fulton Fish Market- it became a hang for the mob. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kids, Murder, Inc kingpins Albert Anastasia and Louis “Lepke” Buchalter used the place as a base. But like the P&G, the neighborhood changed.
The Fulton Fish Market, in the same location for 200 years, was moved to the Bronx, and employees that were once in excess of 5000, are now down to 2000. Many of the old warehouses have changed into lofts and condos, which of course brings more residents to the area. According to one of the mail men interviewed for the book residential deliveries were probably up to 20,000 from 3,000 years earlier. No longer fisherman, but financial types-bankers.
In New York, neighborhoods change- locations change and they change quickly. The one good thing about most of these bars I’ve visited are they’re pieces of old New York that remain in one of the most vibrant and ever changing cities in the world. Nothing excites me more than being in a place which has grown character through the years- has stories of the many who have passed through the doors- the stains on the walls, the old décor which was there when those who saw it years earlier, saw it with the same eyes as I. History is like that- generations and generations experience things in their lives which change them, or make them who they are. They might not be the exact same, but their reactions could very well be the same to how you react to the stimulus around you. We’re not so different from our ancestors. Times change and our reaction to the stimulus around us is based on the time we’re in. Even though we’re different now than then, everything is relative. Being a human, is being a human- love is love, pain is pain, sorrow is sorrow and they are facts which are always consistent (of course there are more, but you get the idea) Our reactions have most likely been experienced one time or another in centuries past- in different times. What I’m trying to say is there is a straight line which every human taps into, and it comes with being in the right place, speaking to the right person, observing your surrounding and interpreting how it is it effects you. Why else would I be in a bar?
Oh yea- drinks……
I had a ENORMOUS Swiss burger with my white beer. Ketchup and fat dripped all over my fingers, down my chin. The insides slid on to my plate and the pickles fell out one side of my sandwich as I dislocated my jaw to take a bite. I felt the bar was watching me pig myself up, but I wiped after every bite- both my lips and my fingers. DAMN was that thing sloppy, BUT it was worth every morsel!
When I’d finished, I was TRULY finished. FULL and feeling nothing but immobility, my mind raced. The time was 3pm and I had just enough time to get back to Penn Station for my train. The timing was impeccable, if I don’t say so myself. Sure, I would have enjoyed a few conversations at that point, but there was no topping my talk at P&G. I was content and ready to board the express. Everything from there was smooth as silk. I nodded in and out of sleep on my train and got home a little after 5pm.
Next week my visits will take me to Parkside Lounge at 317 East Houston Street and Pete’s Tavern at 129 East 18th Street. Thanks again for reading. Catch me if you can.
Steve
Why does the media push for emotion? Reaction?
People want to see what makes people squirm, how people explode when they’re boxed into a corner, how others deal with uncomfortable issues. It’s why some people watch hockey games for the fights or the car races for the accidents- it’s the danger. It’s sad to say, but we’ve become a nation of voyeurs- we want watch people pushed, see how they deal with situations and themselves. A thousand years ago crowds watched gladiators in the Roman Coliseum for entertainment; and now we have TV.
“After the Catch” is a program that sits the Captains of crab boats aired on “Deadliest Catch” to discuss their season and what transpired. They also bring on members of their crews and face them with film footage- facts- they’ve been able to share. Since Phil Harris passed, the producers still air film of him (Philisms-wisdom & philosophy from the Captain) and lets face it- the pain is still raw. Freddie, one of the Cornelia Marie’s deck hands worked with Phil for close to 10 years and was emotional as rough and tumble guys go. Jonathan, co-captain for the Time Bandit, got up and walked out of a discussion. Sig turned out the lights in the captain house when he found out. No man wants to show his vulnerability for the world to see.
In this sit down discussion, the men gather around a round table with beer, in a bar, music to the side and screen behind them. It’s informal, and reminded me of what I visualize as a Native American Pow Wow’s where different tribes met in a teepee to talk about differences between their tribes, disputes, the land, the weather, the effects of outside factors on home lives and come to resolutions, solutions for a better nation.
Today we’ve become members of a fractured society; each member fighting for themselves. No longer in a “group think” or larger unit, but small “me think” groups based on individual units. Families are split by not just distance, but time- divorce rates are high, neighborhood kids stay inside instead of playing out, and there now lives the expectation that all things should be handed to them on a silver platter. People need to be politically correct and we end up tip toeing around everything we say so as NOT to offend another person. Regardless of what you say or what you do, you’re going to offend someone…..
There’s a general perception today that men should be more caring more nurturing. I’m not denying this should be the way it is, but in the course of 100 years society expects to go from men who have internalized their “soft sides” to being out right open about it. Over thousands of years, men have grown and been brought up not to be soft and to be strong, hide those emotions and vulnerability to others, and only share with family and close friends. It’s not that those emotions aren’t there- they’re hidden, to keep us strong. It’s like we’ve been brainwashed, disarmed by the creations on which our world has grown in 100 years.
Women are strong, they always have been. They have gone through thousands of years raising families and multi-tasking, its no wonder they’re great in business. Over millennia they’ve been the “sensitive” ones who children look to for comfort, to heal wounds, to instill values they need to blend into society as adults. This was the tradition, and over the course of the last century the world is different. Transitional.
A comment made by the producer that bothered me was something like, “but the woman in Nebraska needs to see the emotion”- my answer is Why? Some business is off limits and tapping into the emotional psyche of a guy who grinds 80 hours at a pop- I don’t agree with. Certainly, there may be a need for communication to open up couples or parents, but via a TV show? At what sacrifice? The sacrifice of position as captain of a crab boat?
I had a very sobering look into the blue-collar worker years ago in the shadows of the Trade Center collapse. I’d gone down to the site to absorb the impact and found myself in a bar close by. Many of the ironworkers were there fresh from the site. A few played pool, a few bull shitted at the bar, all with drinks. The bartender was a woman and after a few beers I started to talk to her about the well being of these guys. She told me there was a facility on the site, which had psychologists to help them through, but she told me, “do you think any of these guys would go to them? NO. These are hardened men and what they see, they’ll take home with them. You can tell them, but there not gonna go. They’d rather play pool, drink- they’re not gonna talk to them about their problems- we all have them.”
Uncomfortable issues need to be brought up- over beers, with friends, with professional help, whatever it takes. Really, it’s all about trust, respect, integrity and understanding. Facts are facts, stamp out rumors, bring it to the table and work it out. HOWEVER it’s done.
Let me step from my soapbox……
I plan to hit two bars today in opposite directions- one on the upper West Side, the other in South Street Seaport. They’re both off the 2 & 3 Lines and I have a train from Penn at 3:30pm. Timing is essential and the heat is supposed to top 100 degrees, which means the subways will be a bear. If I’m lucky, they’ll be no mechanical breakdowns. I might even get a cool breeze off the water at the Paris Café. I’ll split my thirst between beer and water. Suppose it’d be prudent to have some food too. About now I’m thinking of an ice cone.
I stepped from my air conditioned office today into 100 degree heat, then into an even hotter car. I wound down my window to get out the hot air, cranked the air conditioner and drove home.
During my ride , I listened to a song by John Cougar Melloncamp- “Rain on the Scarecrow” which hit me. Occasionally, thoughts merge with songs or readings, or circumstances out of our control. There’s no helping HEAT and today, I’m thinking of the farmers.
I wrote one of my favorite poems during a HOT… DRY summer when I drove through water restricted farm fields in New Jersey. From my car, I witnessed a farmer as he plowed his field. The tractor kicked up mounds of dust as it dug through the soil and dead fields. I thought about him- about ALL farmers and how they rely on the weather to make a living. I wrote in my car driving 65mph to work in one swoop- my ceiling caving in, all windows down- no air conditioning.
I won an editors award in 1994 for that poem. It was in one of the few books I actually purchased because of my love for it and those rugged people who give their lives to feed not just themselves, but us too. With that in mind, and the Grapes of Wrath (thank you George Steinbeck), please read on. Thank you.
The Farmer
Ominous skies,
Lethal to touch,
The Vehicles blades-
So sharp.
Day after day, the time passes by…
Nothing is said
Their eyes they itch,
Their hands they burn,
Their partners they weep,
The weather so dry…
How volatile a life can be;
How mother nature can rule,
So strong.
A sweep of her hand: DEVASTATION
And they cry…
I exited Penn Station on Seventh Avenue. Normally, I cross-town immediately, but decided to go South. I passed my former workplace opposite a funky clothing store called Pan Zai. The place always had the funkiest clothes with many hip-hop clients in its base. I was fortunate to hit a string of good lights that continued my journey straight down to the Fashion Institute of Technology (F.I.T.) . I observed my surroundings and found two stores almost opposite the place- one called BRGR- a place made from grass-fed beef and OMG- the jean store. With such abbreviations, it made me wonder what communication has become in the time of speedy technology and faster and faster talk: Abundant in the language of today’s youth over the phone as they talk between each other couch to couch. I’ve seen one person opposite another talking on their phones rather than face-to-face.
I attended a friend’s final art exhibit in New York in the early nineteen nineties. One painting struck me strongly- a man and a woman sat in opposite rooms, each on a computer talking to each other- a room away. Both appeared to be married and chose to pick the computer to communicate. As a poet, it led me to wonder what happened to their love. How the sake of physical attraction was no longer needed or wanted. How does one enjoy emails more than face to face or body to body interaction? When I first started to work in my newest position, I was told not to call but to email for answers. I was never that kinda guy- I prefer to know people by talking to them. Sure people probably hated me, cause if I didn’t get an answer then and there, I’d go find them. Isn’t THAT customer service- getting answers? I don’t always conform to social parameters, but back to my story.
My walk took me to the same block I’d been several weeks earlier, where I visited Peter McManus and a place called Il Bastardo (how can you forget that name!) There was a beautifully decorated Thai place that had an open front (see pictures at www.myspace.com/funkthunder - under Best Bar Wedsnesday picture folder). I took a menu, and finally crossed town on 20th. Street. I had no intention of going down any particular street and just found one whose light turned at the right time. As I crossed the avenues I came face to face with a giant church of my past- I shouldn’t say church really- it was a Goth Club, back in the day- The Limelight.
The Limelight, in its heyday, was a dark gloomy JAMMIN club. It was built inside an old nineteenth century church, complete with stained glass windows and eerie secret passages that took you to the outer edges of the place. It now existed as the Limelight Marketplace- a high-end group of stores…. Talk about being upset. I mean from dark Goth to a rich, high end stores. I walked into a bright and springy front. Funky stores for the rich and as I walked through, I felt eternally sad. I mean from a place of worship, to a sinning earthly club, to money making materialistic play place. I’m still not sure what to feel about it really. When I’d finished taking pictures and absorbing what feelings remained, I headed back to 20th street where I found a group of Union protestors, making a ruckus outside what they dubbed as the cheapest contractor- Bernini Construction Corp. Laborers Union 325 named him as the worst contractor in New York and New Jersey. I can’t remember what the hell they yelled, but they had the two giant rats out with probably 30 protestors who chanted behind an intercom. I picked up a flyer and watched from a distance. I mean I needed to get to my location.
I arrived at Old Town Bar & Restaurant just after 11:30am. The doors were wide open and invited me with huge hand written signs that ranted about their spiked lemonade. Other signs raved about the freshly caught Little Neck clams from Long Island. This place had an aura of old New York; a giant mahogany bar with aged booths opposite, giant old mirrors lined the back bar that reflected the many bottles, old steins sat at various locations; and the one in front of me had two monkeys climbing a vine. The ceiling was a “crackle” between brown and white paint. I was the first there besides the bartender and a barmaid. There was a picture of Jackie Gleason toasting the bartender in one frame and next to him, on the other side of a lamp was one of Art Carney- the Honeymooners, drinkin at Old Town. Now, if that doesn’t give you a feeling of down to earth people, I don’t know what would. Pictures of Liam Neeson were above, all autographed to the place. The walls were filled with all kinds of interesting photos and posters. I took a picture of myself with the reflections of the mirrors.
After my first lemonade went down with the least bit of energy, I had another and thought about the money in my pocket- would I stop here, or would I need to charge it? Would I stay, or would I go? I thought of the opportunity of getting here again, the same opportunity I justified many times before and if it meant a couple of bucks extra on my charge… well…. could I have a problem?
I sucked down my third and made my decision rashly to go straight to the credit card, I’d order lunch- a chilidog, which was given rave reviews on the menu. I penned, quickly under the influence, the time was right and it was the first time I’d found myself through my journeys actually taking out paper and writing. Here is a spontaneous excerpt:
“What makes today different than any other day? I forget. There is no need to remember the what-if scenarios or the possibilities of this that or the other thing when you drink. You can put a mind at peace, you can’t put it to sleep in the tonic which makes those buzzing receptors crazed with emotion and soul; put them to sleep… it’s why I sit at a bar before noon. They say every writer has angst in one way or another, and I’m no different. It’s sunny, its beautiful, and I’m here trying to find peace- peace of mind. I’m not looking for friends. I’m not looking for conversation in a bar that appeals to me- a bar where I’m comfortable- like an old shoe. Jackie Gleason bumped fists, Art Carny had his share, and I’m at a mahogany bar alone… and happy. No thinking of what-if, no thinking of what could be, no thinking of anyone else but me…”
I later write, “I could see myself in this quiet place, writing and pressing my emotions as quickly as I write now- completely content. There is no other joy, or no other need to explore anything but the HERE & NOW. For now, it’s 12:20 and I have plenty of time till 3:30 where I need to be in Penn Station. I think to myself there will be a day I return to this bar, with my book and my cover, with a signature to hang on the wall next to Frank McCourts. There will be a day I’ll isolate myself in a booth here and write. I could be happy here regularly, I could be myself.”
I can now reflect as I write this. It is places like this that make me strive for success: a couple of blocks from Union Square and an ideal location. It has motivation in spirit, aura and the food WAS good. I’ve been looking for a place to write, a place in the future and I may have found it.
It was around 12:30 when the lunch crowd started to enter. It’d be shortly after I’d leave – a $20.00 bill in my pocket and a future expense left to pay. I knew Grand Street intersected Broadway, so I walked there. There were plenty of good sights South of Houston. A textile place from London had two enormous old Singer Sewing Machine displays from floor to ceiling and a giant loom. The streets were packed and the clothing was light.
I observed on Grand Street cleaned up fire escapes, some graffiti, an old police building, and a beautiful view of even further downtown. I found Onieal’s Grand Street Bar on the corner. The décor was clean and modern with a line of martini glasses on the bar – the tip jar was full of dollar bills. It had a small room for sitting in the front and a bar down the backside. The ceiling was old and seemed freshly carved with heads. There has been a bar on this piece of land since the late 1800’s, even Teddy Roosevelt (police commissioner 1895-1897 & future president) had drinks here. I definitely WOULDN’T say it had a manly feel to any more. The place had a definite woman feel to it. There didn’t seem to be any men behind the bar or in the front room. In fact, the place seemed pretty packed- packed full of women.
While I sat at my bar chair 20-30 women walked in from a “Sex in the City” tour. The martini glasses all had cosmopolitans in them. I had in front of me two containers, which held lemons and limes, shaped like breasts- and nothing seemed more obvious to me that THIS was a woman’s bar….
Now, I’m not a big Sex in the City fan, however I’ve heard they have a loyal following. They’ve filmed here clips from the show, it’s a bar called Scout. Here I was drinkin a beer in a crowd of what appeared to be very attractive rich women, who were here and gone in a matter of a half hour with their tour. I couldn’t have felt more unprepared-EVER- and they drank their high flutin drinks. Perhaps this wasn’t my kind of bar- I felt I needed a Mercedes to be here- outclassed by the furniture, muted fabrics and high-end liqueurs.
I did strike up a great conversation with a native New Yorker, a woman who I neglected to get a name from. I told her what I was doing, showed her my book and she seemed interested. She’d visited many of the bars on my tour. She was a T.V. producer- working with mostly commercials- we talked of pharmaceutical companies & cosmetics and where I saw excitement, she saw the one thing everyone see’s when they’re in their own job- a tough day to day grind. She was there to relax, but her time was limited before she was to meet her girlfriend. We all have things to do, and I outstayed her, and then disappeared after my 2nd beer to walk the streets.
The bartender told me the C or E back to Penn was on Spring Street. When I turned west to get to the station I found the most INCREDIBLE store called The Evolution Store. It was an eccentric store with odd things for sale that included skeletons of various kinds, bugs & butterflies in shadowboxes, minerals & gems, taxidermy of all sorts- birds and African wildlife, even a zebra skin on the wall. The place has been there for 17 years and was definitely a place I’d go if I had some cash. The website is www.TheEvolutionStore.com for anyone who has a genuine interest in odd things.
At Spring Street Station I had enough time to snap a picture of tile art when I heard the subway. I spun through the counter and jumped on to the E as the door closed. I arrived with plenty of time to spare and patiently waited in Secaucus for 40 minutes, but all in all, I’d arrive home just after 5pm.
Sometimes having no money (or little) pays….
It’s a gorgeous day, I’d say almost the perfect day weather-wise. After three days of grueling humid, ninety plus heat; a mid seventies day is wonderful.
I trucked my son off to summer camp at 8:30am. It’s his third day. I was told yesterday he was bored in the afternoon because he couldn’t participate in pool activities (2:30-5:30 daily) and felt for him. One kid splashed his cast (broke his arm 1 month ago), and with the hindrance, his activity is limited. Mornings, he seems to be fine.
I brainstormed for something to keep him occupied during this boring time. I was the master of self-entertainment as a child, whatever was around, I’d utilize it – create something to do. When Shane was little I had a whole class of kids (age 5) on the playground putting pennies on their elbows and trying to catch them- showing them how to stack them and catching the bunch; If you’d seen all the pennies flyin you would have laughed. I must have lost a dollar’s worth, but it was all worth the entertainment. I remembered Reggie, the homeless guy who made instruments out of pipes, buckets, iron grates and everything around him on the street and the light bulb went off. Since Shane hasn’t had the ability to practice his drums, I thought he could drum. Smacking the sticks into cement, tree trunks, whatever makes sound- experimenting with sounds and tones… that’s entertainment AND practice. Besides, I think there’s a fascination with drummers that might attract others who play instruments, attract others in general. I placed his sticks in his bag and told him my thoughts- he liked the idea.
Later, I thought there is more than one way to use a drumstick. There is the swordplay, burying it in the dirt, and a whole bunch of other scenarios occurred to me… I’d have to hope for the best and NO I didn’t suggest it- that’d just be asking for trouble. Fortunately, his behavior is good.
I woke my daughter out of a deep sleep to be Cinderella. Despite her tired woes, she needed to spend some time to help clean the house. In a few hours, she’d be at her best friends birthday party for the full day, and once again the “clean up” would be back in parental hands. Once again, I’m lucky to have another responsible child, so for now- I keep my fingers crossed. It all starts early, everyone- if you don’t hammer it into them as “littles”, you can’t correct poor behavior later- take my advice and nip it in the bud, if you don’t, YOU pay for it later.
I evaluated the bills this past weekend and overestimated the funds. Over the next few weeks we’re forced to live with little money. I’ve lived from paycheck to paycheck before- definitely nothing new, but it’s forced me to put a serious cap on Best Bar Wednesdays. I’ve banked out $20.00 and made myself a vow to tighten the straps of self-control. Ten dollars per bar- most likely one drink, possibly two. I left a message with JT about abandoning the trip to Coney Island until better funds were available. Being shore side with nothing would really be painful, so I told him perhaps he’d enjoy a scenic Manhattan walk.
The two bars scheduled today are Olde Town Bar on 18th and Oneil’s on Grand Street. Both look like places I could sit for hours with drinks, engage in fascinating conversation and lose myself. Olde Town had its share of literary types through the years, which included Frank McCourt (Angela’s Ashes). His book jacket is autographed to the bar and framed along with other signed jackets. The place is close to Grammercy Park, and Union Square. I printed out a map of the streets to guide me from one to the other. If you’ve read, you certainly know how easy it is for me to get lost in the labyrinth of streets down THAR.
No bells and whistles, no hullaballoo, just a gorgeous day for a walk and an early planned departure- if only I could make a living doing this.
Tomorrow- the really story of Best Bar Wednesday- Olde Town Bar & Oneil’s; see ya then.
Yesterday, I went to an Uncle’s 75th Birthday party in Brooklyn. The whole trip from my place was foreign except down the Palisades Parkway and West Side Highway in Manhattan. The advantage of taking this route was you have a plethora of things to look at then getting stuck on a highway in Staten Island and having nothing but people cuss you out. The party was very close to Coney Island. Recently, I said my friend Jefferson wanted to get me to there to drink at a bar and I’m even MORE likely to go there in the future because of several things my cousins mentioned 1) The Freak Show, 2) The Freak Bar 3) Shoot a Freak and the other attractions which continue to exist like one of the first roller coasters aimed to scare the shit outta ya- the Cyclone.
Well I’d heard of the Freak show, which I believe includes people who stick skewers through their faces, in their bodies and such, and a whole host of other odd things. The Freak Bar was a place that only recently celebrated the anniversary of the movie – THE WARRIORS- a movie about street gangs fighting over turf, which I believe takes place in Brooklyn. The Last- “Shoot a Freak” is precisely that, the place gets a homeless guy, or someone who they probably pay a good cent, dress him up in padding and he dodges back and forth between barriers while you try and shoot him with a paintball gun. I practically fell over laughing as I thought of a Bugs Bunny cartoon where Elmer Fudd or Bugs is in a giant pinball machine bouncing from one bumper to the next. If you ask me, that itself is worth the ride.
When I arrived home after my exhausting day- yes, driving in Brooklyn and finding a parking spot is stressful- I sat down to watch Doctor Who. I’ve never really been a fan, but lately started to watch more recent episodes. Last night involved Doctor Who going back in time to meet Vincent Van Gogh on account of a demon he saw in a window of Van Gogh painting. Essentially, the episode was about the demon inside the artist that no one sees, except in this episode they interpret it- allow you to see the demon, but only in the worlds of Doctor Who and his assistant.
For those of you not familiar with Van Gogh’s work, he was one of the most talented painters in the world, except he suffered many mental issues- even checked himself into an asylum for a period of time. He painted from his soul and barely sold a painting his entire life, being supported by his brother Theo largely, he made his way through the hard lives of people- painting those who portrayed the working man, people who suffered in poverty. He was generations ahead of his time.
I realized I hadn’t been to a Museum to see paintings in some time. For me, it’s very necessary to indulge in art and feel the emotions set forth by the great painters. I hadn’t done it for to long, and it’s left a hole, which needed to be filled.
Years ago, I had a great relationship with a painter I felt was a “living” Van Gogh. We became friends after I’d met him in a fleamarket peddling his paintings. I was so taken by his work (powerful paintings of homeless people, seafarers, whimsical sculptures) I had to see more. When I visited his home, his work BLEW me away, I actually wept- the first and only time-at a painting. I learned about this wise old soul, who suffered as a homeless man, grew up in Jersey City, and fought a tough life; who painted… He was influenced by Pablo Picasso but self taught and painted like no one I’d ever met- till this day. He was NO outsider artist, but a true GENIUS, generations ahead of time- like Vincent Van Gogh.
I purchased work of his over a decade ago, tried to even help him see the success he should have long gained by now, but we’re both temperamental artists. I’m a poet, who wrote the same way as he painted. We’re both highly emotional and explosive when it comes to the passion of our work, but we respected one another and could speak about practically anything. It dissolved because of issues that aren’t important here, but I’ve always maintained and will go to my grave knowing Pietro Barbera is the undiscovered Van Gogh of modern society.
My whole dank and dark mood I’ve been in for the past few days was stripped after Doctor Who. I discovered I was stagnant; dwelling into something I had no control over, but must continue till completion. I missed the philosophical conversations which filled my world with wonder, gave me the ability to create something from nothing and give me reason to move forward. I missed the SPARK.
Two weeks ago a couple of small bears were chased up a tree near my kids school. On Friday night, there was a doe and a fawn that feasted on the clover in my front yard. My yard has become a wild sanctuary in which young animals roam; groundhogs, squirrels, chipmunks, blue jays and now a baby deer. It’s like the Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom in my very yard. I thought how wonderful it is to be close to nature and close to New York City, and how truly lucky I am to be able to do what I’ve done so far; be blessed to wake up and do it again.
Funk isn’t always funky bad…. Most of the time funk is funky good.
Steve
Funk Thunder
PS-Check out previous blogs on our “Best Bar Wednesday Blog Series-MANHATTAN” for a little entertainment- spread the word….
Irony is what I’m about. The fact I was to visit two bars that were polar opposites was a good thing; one a “Spit & Sawdust” pub, the other a high end hotel bar which during the 20’s was the site of a literary group called “The Round Table”- like King Arthur’s literary knights. In circles the Algonquin will always be at the top of the destination charts for literary history. For Salt of the Earth people- it’s Molly’s.
My adventure started with a good walk, as it always does. In ninety-degree heat on the steamy sidewalks of New York’s streets and avenues I felt like a protagonist I created subjecting one self to the harsh elements. Extreme heat or cold brings out the soul, a grand appreciation for simple things too often neglected- an air-conditioned room, a furnace, a glass of water, a hot chocolate. Nowadays, gadgets, toys, and the necessities they’ve become spoil too many people. My neighbor in New Jersey used to drive her kids to the bus stop every day even when it was only 5 minutes to walk. Abundant resources lead to waste. Time really should be about essence; it should be a mandatory for kids to experience their surroundings instead of being in front of computer or video game, but enough of my preaching.
Molly’s was located on 3rd avenue between 23rd & 22nd streets. I decided to walk cross-town and NOT down Broadway, but Third Avenue. It’s easy to retrace steps, but I wanted something different. I hadn’t eaten breakfast and thought one of those bagel carts would be a good thing, but then I thought I should go straight for the pub to have a liquid meal- a Guinness. How many Irish places DON’T stock Guinness?
Building facades from the early part of the 20th Century fascinate me. The details are truly amazing and my walk took me past some interesting ones. I’d come across the Armory, a place I hadn’t been since 2001 when pictures were posted of the thousands missing from the Trade Centers. They called it the wall of remembrance: they littered the walls. There’s a giant eagle, which overhangs the center door from Third Avenue. It says in old script 69th Regiment and has all the glory of an old military establishment. A few fatigued guys stood outside and the presence of a military hummer on the side street made me think it was still military. In 1913 an important art show that revolutionized the American Art Movement took place here and it still continues. There was a plaque which read: “This plaque commemorates the armory art show of Feb 15, 1913 which revolutionized the American Art Movement by bringing to national attention the new art forms of Native American and modern European painters and sculptors and honors the artists who organized this historic event on this site.” I’ve read about this show and I think it might have had to do with the introduction of the Impressionists to the United States, but I’d have to check my facts.
Next to the building was another period building with early South Western influences, like Georgia O’Keefe meets Diego Rivera. There was a cattle skull, rattlesnakes, horses and Native American motifs. A woman named Annie stepped out of the building for a breath of fresh air. I looked like a tourist from Michigan facing the sky she said, so I asked if she knew anything about the building. Turns out it was a prior headquarters for the International Ladies Garment Workers Union which became very powerful in the early 1930’s. (I once owned a 1911 Union dues book from this organization and researched a New York event called “The Great Revolt” and the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire of 1911 in which over a hundred mostly immigrant women died.) Annie told me only architects or tourists seem to have an interest in the design on the building. The building was one of three the architect built in New York: one on the upper West Side, the other unknown. When I told her I was from New York she thought it strange-I found out she was from the Bronx. I thanked her for her hospitality and continued to the other side of the street where a wall mural with four incredibly intense faces on brick attracted my attention. They were three-dimensional and out of wood fastened by masonry screws.
Third Avenue is densely packed with bars, pubs and restaurants in this area. At the corner of 22nd was a place called the Lyric Diner. It was open 24 hours and I thought what an awesome place to shuffle myself away after a few drinks and write. Two businesses down from the corner was the humble black and white front of Molly’s Pub & Restaurant Shebeen (Irish for unlicensed establishment or private house selling alcoholic liquor and typically regarded as slightly disreputable)
I opened the door to a dark wood bar with old pictures. There were quite a few men already at the bar that watched the World Cup. Some gathered to face the American game deep inside the bar and the others faced the opposite flat screen that aired the England game. It was a critical one for the US- one which against all odds would take them to the next round. Now, I’ve always liked soccer (football as the Europeans say) and I was glad to be there- no place better to watch the World Cup than in an Irish pub.
I made myself comfortable and watched the England game from a sharp angle. Most people knew each other and I felt respectful NOT to go looking about. I knew little about the cup and spoke even less. During my second Guinness the USA scored it’s winning goal in the last few minutes of the game. An enormous roar filled the bar, clapping abound – I smiled and joined in. It was my lucky day as I watched USA advance to the next stage. After the game, a few people left the bar and left open seats deep inside the pub. I relocated to the opposite end where I started to probe the back room, absorbing the old photographs, the poet’s pictures and quotes, the Celtic jugs and various décor, the sawdust and the selection of liquor on the shelves. It’s here I’d eat fish and chips.
When I visited my family in Liverpool as a teenager I was taken to a little chip shop somewhere in Birkenhead where fish and chips where taken directly from the fryer dripping with oil and put in a REAL Newspaper to eat. It was delicious, fresh with malt vinegar.
My fish and chips at Molly’s were fabulous, spread with tarter sauce and malt vinegar-so much so I mopped up every bit. Jimmy, the bartender treated me to a drink. I just sat and listened to chatter, something I hoped would bring me inspiration. On my last beer a man in business attire sat next to me and ordered a coke. He told the bartender how he’d lost his job a year ago and had 3 job conferences set up today 8:30, 10:30 and 2:30. It was discouraging news and by this time I’d already started to fall into my own funk. The dark surroundings lent me melancholy ways. I thought at this point, as much as I should chat with the guy I needed to protect my already fragile persona. I listened and thought of the economy and how tough it is out there and what it must be like to be middle aged (he must have been about 50) and dealing with unemployment, especially with societies technological advances. It must make employers more selective and older people more difficult to accept in business. He ordered a burger.
Already, my mind was loaded with my own angst and juggles. The drink didn’t seem to help much and outside the heat was simply oppressive. I’d started in on myself about guilt, and how I thought in the best interest of all, it’d be better I was home.
Days like this I felt like writing- not experiencing. It was a way to get away- a damn cheap way to better myself and clear my head; instead I’d have to remain caged up, protect it until I could free myself later. I hadn’t talked to the guy, I’m sure he could have used a pick me up conversation, but I internalized, which can at times be necessary.
Most people know my enthusiastic side. I’m very much an optimist and like to think there is a better side to everything, but I do hit lows. It’s not a long process, I can usually bounce back pretty quickly, but I have my moments. It wasn’t long after the realization of goin downhill that I had to get to the other bar- a more upscale and expensive bar. I was more likely to be myself here than in a fine pricy place like the Oak Room, but I had to carry on. I left.
I’d walk uptown, on 3rd avenue to 44th and walk across. The heat made me want to retreat to several bars along the way, but I held out. Called my pal Jefferson to tell him how much he’d dig Molly’s and we talked about a place he wanted to get me to in Coney Island, a place I’d love. He gave me a little enthusiasm as I envisioned a seat in some strange place along a Coney Island boardwalk in the summer. I thought about a side trip next week to this drinkin joint with him- something different- no plan.
I’ve been the Algonquin a few times before, but I’d never seen the Oak Room. It was a secret room with an entrance in the back of the lobby; a concierge showed me a quick glance. New York magazine called the Oak Room New York’s best cabaret. In 1989 Harry Connick, Jr. was recruited to play there before he made it big. I understand there is a writer’s table installed in the lobby to encourage new writers, which I somehow missed. As it happened, the Oak Room was closed after they played their last show earlier in the month. Their cabaret series returns in September in the small and cozy place. There is way too much to say in regard to its history, but I’ll leave you to read it for yourself.
The Blue Room was the bar directly behind the Oak Room. There was no one there. Hirshfield drawings filled its walls. The drinks are expensive, and the World Cup played the next series of games. I continued to drift deeper into my funk, until my mind just seized- cluttered with everything but my main mission.
There was no freedom, no open air to breathe, and no joy, just stagnant and stale beer in which I swam. I thought to myself, why do I bother? I thought there must be a deeper meaning; I feel it as each day passes. I was reminded about “being in the thick of it”, and how the city is as necessary to my persona as the sight of my third eye. Vision is sometimes lost when everything is piled high. I once had an ego, which deteriorated long ago and the pieces I constantly pick up. I remember failure.
I heard Franklin’s Tower by the Grateful Dead this evening and just downloaded the Very Best of the Grateful Dead so I could hear some real strong memories- reflect. I rode the express train into the station of indecision and walked. I wanted to walk, I needed to walk and eat some hot wings before I returned home.
It’s Friday, and I just applied for a full-time position with my company.
It’s 9:15am and there’s a little voice inside my head that repeats over and over, “this isn’t right”- the voice of guilt.
My kids have a half-day at school and my youngest has a play date till 3pm (don’t think I’ll EVER get used to the word “play date”). I know damn well he’ll be taken care of but there’s always the what-if scenario I’ve discussed in a prior blog. What-if the mother can’t pick him up from school and I need to get him?
Before I quit my job in the city eight years ago, my wife called me in a panic. I was in Times Square shopping for a gift and she was going to rush my son to emergency because he couldn’t breathe. I ran for the train from Penn Station to my home and arrived 1 ½ hours later- he was maybe one year old. It was one of those pivotal turning points. What-if there was another emergency? I needed to be closer. I was sickened by my new job after they cut both my salary and health benefits after a merger, to the point it wasn’t worth the commute any more. What would you do?
Last night, I watched the “The Deadliest Catch” where one of my favorite captains Phil Harris learned of his son’s addiction to prescription pills. Phil was lucky to survive a blood clot that passed through his heart and was prescribed numerous medications, which included painkillers. Despite the issue, he returned to his boat, the Cornelia Marie, to fight not just for his business- but all his men. Last week, he went to get some pain medication and found his son stealing them. They had harsh words- but the argument was smoothed over after the truth was told. The son told his father he was an “Addict”. At the end of this episode, in safe harbor, Captain Phil was found face down in his cabin; he’d suffered a stroke.
Phil Harris, a man respected in the fleet, was one of the beloved captains who have been there since the beginning. Rumor had it he died this season. We know Phil was no angel- he had his share of trouble- but he was a responsible father. He brought in money doing what he did best and was able to teach that while his sons grew to fishing on the cold Bering Sea. He’ll be sorely missed.
No one holds the reigns of guilt, worse than the driver. Every person deals as best they can with their issues- parents and children suffer from them; we all do. I saw as a young man how it was manipulated to get things done to the benefit of those initiating it. I distanced myself from it, and hid it well. There is a toll it takes both mentally and physically- especially as you age- there will always be something, but as a parent it’s a whole different matter.
When I went from a full-time working father to a part-time father/creative/mother & job worker I felt the children to be my responsibility. I adapted well, but I have personal issues I’ll always have. I freely admit, I’m my own worse critic and imply a harsh criticism to my own self-enjoyment. My “Best Bar Wednesday Blog Series” was an exercise to expose me to different environments and pressure me to write regularly. I thought I’d enjoy it and I do (apart from the regular money spending) for the solitary time, the conversation, and the ambiance. Perhaps I’ve become selfish; perhaps I’m not as good a father as I could be.
Some parents toss their children to the side and ignore them completely. I was lucky to never have felt that pain. I was born into a very loving family. There are so many out there that lack a childhood where touch was involved. They say statistically that every child should be touched lovingly by their parents constantly- a pat on the head, a kiss, a gentle push- and a genuine emotional bond will be formed in their early years. The lack of such, traumatically affects them.
Guilt is a powerful thing when used without abuse. It’ll allow a young man or woman to make a clear discussion between right and wrong. Early moments profoundly affect our lives, but understanding and communication of it are the first and foremost tool for acceptance. Compassion is necessary and leads to a good basis for critical decision making- the broader the understanding, the more compassion- the more logical the decision- the ability to channel it correctly- the better.
I heard this morning a song by Crowded House- “Weather with You”.(see here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uIb6I8gtgtw ) We all search for solutions. Sometimes there aren’t any, but the better you know yourself; the better you can handle hard times and weather the storms. We reflect on times with such voice, it brings a comfort to others who feel the same. Music comes from the soul and every sense we maintain can be found there. Never forget its power.
Steve
Did I say my train rides were supposed to be about bars?? Let me leave that till tomorrow when I discuss my adventures at Molly’s, the Oak Room, and NYC. On deck next week- Old Town Bar & Restaurant & Onieal’s Grand Street Bar OR a side trip to Coney Island with musician Jefferson Thomas.
Old haunts are especially good places for inspiration. My best bar this week was McSorleys, I was in my early twenties when I first visited. I distinctly remember the sawdust-covered floor as a young man, something you might see in old England or Ireland- once used to cover spilt beers and spit which caked the floors. A spit and sawdust pub is defined as a dirty and untidy pub, not modern in any way and lacks what one might consider today as attractive. I like to consider a place like this perfect for the poet- a place to be absorbed into the heart of every writer, a place stripped bare of pretences and materialism which plagues the credit card rich American.
When you walk into McSorleys, you see age. The old furnace still used to heat the place, the old carved tables, the mementos behind the bar and on the walls, the bartender who wears a white apron and the man who takes orders in his outfit of gray. You see layers of dust that line relics and aged yellow papers in frames from decades of cigarette smoke. You’ll find more than your share of history; there’s even an original wanted poster for John Wilkes Booth for the assassination of Abraham Lincoln STILL mounted behind the bar. Granted this WAS an all male pub up until the 1960’s where men could go and share stories, drinks and plain debauchery. Lets face it, it’s not the sort of place you’d take your first date or find a woman saying, “Ooooooo what a lovely place”.
McSorleys serves only two kinds of beers- a light and a dark. When you order, you get two 8 oz beers (an imperial pint) which eventually leads you down a road of not knowing HOW much you drank. Every Christmas for the last nine years my buddy Jefferson Thomas gets his friends together for “International Biscuit Day” there. We fill a couple tables at the front, probably between 10-15 guys and do some serious bullshitting and drinking. Last year, I wasn’t there but I did get this lovely text message on totals which till this day I’ve saved, “2009 totals are in: 256 beers, 800 dollar tab w tip yesterday. An all time record.” – In some ways I was glad I wasn’t there. I just hand everything I have to who ever pays the damn thing.
The one year anniversary of 9-11, I joined Jefferson and our friend Tom at ground zero for the reading of the names, we moved from there to McSorleys on Tom’s recommendation to toss back a few. We found the place PACKED with firefighters from all over the nation- those who helped our great city in a time of serious need. We sat in a far corner and drank quietly in their midst. It was an amazing scene, where all these souls drank and shared, and drank… man did they drink. Anyway, we were invited in by a firefighter to enjoy and bullshit. It was a momentous occasion, a humbling fact, to see all these men who poured their own lives into New York by way of this horrific event.
Not one of us walked away without this grand appreciation of how great a nation we live in, and how lucky and honored we are to have people like this fighting and supporting us. Never take for granted you can speak your mind. You MUST remember-the sacrifices, which are made to let you do that. When you see the insides of McSorleys, the guts of the place, you see not just an old flag mounted on the wall, but you see Presidents, sportsman, policeman, you see people of the highest character- you see REAL people. The inspiration of the place led me to pen a poem in an isolated corner titled, “Sawdust fills the Floor”
In the book under McSorleys I underlined, “The Most important thing in a bar is people.” A few beers after I arrived, I opened up to a guy from White Plains, a place not far from my home. I found out he had a good friend down the Jersey shore, very close to where I grew up. He talked of bars like Donovans in Sea Bright, Bar A in Belmar- many bars I’d been familiar with in younger days. His name was Gary. It’s only at places like this I find that kind of down to earth guy. We had a good conversation, I had him sign my book and I was out shortly after to my next destination- Milanos bar.
The address was on East Houston in the vicinity of the Bowery. I didn’t think it’d be that far, so I’d walk. I’d eventually meet Houston and figure out which direction to go.
The walk was sketchy. I don’t remember much of the scenery, but I did pass one of my favorite places Katz Delicatessen, one of the oldest Deli’s in Manhattan famous for it’s clients and the scene in “When Harry met Sally” where Meg Ryan fakes an orgasm at a table with Billy Crystal. See here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F-bsf2x-aeE - all at Katz. I also passed a beautiful mural on a steel door that I took and finally arrived at the place.
Milano’s was small. They played the World Cup on a TV above the doorway and a few guys surrounded it. The bartender was an Irish woman with a thick brogue. I had only $10 left- enough for a Guinness. I sat right in front of a great photograph signed by some of the greatest Yankees ever- Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, Joe Dimaggio and Casey Stengel. I took a few pictures, which littered the walls. It had a good feel- small with a few tables in back. It was dark, which of course I liked and like I said- plenty of photographs. It’s changed since the picture in the book; cleaned up. I got up, walked about, looked at details and sat down again. They didn’t serve food, which by this time I was dying for (liquid lunch), so my decision was made on account of my stomach. Not much to say about the place, after only one beer I had little to say about the World Cup, so I’d move on to a place I could use my credit card for a meal.
Katz was the opposite direction. I continued up the street until I found a Cajun place called Acme Bar at 9 Great Jones. All I thought of was Bugs Bunny cartoons and Acme products funny enough on Great “Chuck” Jones Street. Their menu looked interesting and when I got in, they had a nice bar with that New Orleans feel. I had a last beer and something with chicken and spice for dinner. All I kept was the receipt.
I was fortunate to get the express at the junction- the ONLY one and I arrived home a little after 6pm. Not bad- three bars, a good walk, good drinks and a nap was icing on the cake.
Next week, I visit Molly’s Pub and Restaurant, Shebeen on 3rd Ave (sawdust and all) and the polar opposite- the Oak Room at the Algonquin. My trip will be on a delay due to an early dismissal (schools finishing) so I HOPE to get through them both. Thanks for reading and cheers!
How is it we define mission? Everyone has one, only more people define it by goals: to better themselves, better others- but are all goals achieved? Of course not. When one is set, it should be achievable- slightly out of reach- but with genuine effort be obtained. All contribute to the mission, success or failure.
My mission when I started Best Bar Wednesdays was to simply follow a pre-established order of bars as stated by the book, “The History & Stories of the Best Bars in New York”- visit each one and have an “experience”. The experience could take the form of a historical reference, becoming friends with strangers, the discovery of holes inside myself; it could be of any form as long as it became an experience.
As I close in on the last dozen bars, my obligations have increased, my funds have dwindled, and time limits have been strained, I find an alteration to the plan must be found. Time has shortened, adjustments necessary. No mission has ever been completed without adjustments and a question rises, “at what point do you abandon a mission?”
The answer is never. You can change, re-adjust or put it temporarily to the side, but you can’t quit. You plug away- over and over like an obsessive fiend until one day you find it’s complete. It’s no easy matter.
When I was in college I studied in a psychology course: motivation and morale. It was taught be a German professor who was here from Europe to give recommendations to the school. He deliberately made himself a teacher to see how students would react to his teaching methods. The students taught the class as he sat to the side like a psychologist with his patients. Your job was to thoroughly go through two chapters in the book, support the subject with case studies and know them backwards and forwards. The result would be a paper on your understanding of that topic and would be 75% of your grade, the other 25% made up of your teaching method. As you were up there, if he saw any sign of your not knowing what you were indeed talking about, he’d rip you apart- humiliate you.
The first day of class he asked me why I bought a Ford Mustang. I gave him some lame answer about it being economical, so he called me up to the board and further drilled me. “List the pros and the cons”, he says. I wrote maybe three under each. I was rather shy in college, so you can imagine how horrifying this was especially for the first day with a bunch of strangers. He sat on the edge of the room and grilled me for the next 20 minutes in front of everyone until he came to the REAL reason I bought my car- “to pick up women and listen to loud music”. I asked to sit down and remembered when I approached my desk; how everyone had their heads sunk low to avoid further questions. Half the students dropped the class by the next lesson.
It was a harsh lesson in realism. I’d never been humiliated like that, but would never allow it to happen again. I’d be prepared for that class, no matter what else pended in others. Bottom line was I learned more there than anything else in school. I’m sure if you went back and asked other “survivors”, they’d remember it the most.
It’s those people who pick themselves up, brush off the shit, and move forwards who succeed. There are always alternatives and when your back is up against the wall, it’s your mission to find the escape- not quit- but find another path. No one respects quitters. Think outside the box and when the pressure becomes too much- walk. Walking is great therapy- redirect, redefine, reclassify, revise then return. Pressure passes.
Originally, one bar a day allowed me to take a complete picture. It gave me time to utilize my senses, observation skills, engage in conversation and not abandon it too soon- but as with life, time is often defined by limited moments.
The New York Minute squeezes as much as possible into every minute of every day. Fox Five used to present a series of shorts all in one minute- it can be done. I call my minutes New York Minutes because going forward I’ll push more into each moment and include more than one bar. The total length of time will be cut and hopefully the bar bill also- a better solution for the long run. In the end I hope to have something to say, when I see the big picture. If not, I have a hardcore belief that Nothing is ever for Nothing….
Open Eyes are what make writers and artists truly magnificent. They absorb their surroundings, see that which others neglect every day and use their life experiences to explore their methods of expression. Without open eyes, you have monotony- boredom- and oppression.
Best Bar Wednesday shapes itself every week. It’s never the same, there is no plan, but to visit a single bar, have the experience of the décor around you, enjoy a conversation and take from it something which will enrich you. I always take from it perspectives I may never have noticed- and sometimes it pays in more ways than one.
To attempt to catch up with my weekly bar schedule, I’d planned on two bars this week: Marion’s Continental Restaurant & Lounge and Peter McManus Café- both downtown. I reached the city on the earlier of the two trains and decided, like I did once before to walk the opposite way. I’d heard rumors that Marion’s had closed, but had no intention of NOT going, after all, rumors are rumors- I like to see for myself.
I walked across town towards Lexington where the green subway lines take you down the East Side, closer to the Bowery. I passed one of my favorite museums- the Morgan and took a picture of its magnificent side gate. The place used to be the home of Robber Baron- J.P. Morgan. I always recommend a visit to its library. It’s typical of the lavish time period with enormous red velvet curtains and books from floor to ceiling locked behind ornate bronze & glass doors. He was a rich man and avid collector of books, which include some of the most important books in literature and history- Shakespeare & the Guttenberg Bible, practically anything you can think of. I understand the library is closed for renovations now, so should you be in the area, keep that in mind.
I walked down Park Ave. towards Grand Central Station. It was in the shadow of the place where I’d come upon a profound art exhibit, all bronze plaques laid into the concrete called “Library Walk”: each one the combination of writer’s quotations and symbolic pictures which complemented them. When you put together two disciplines and shape one picture, you get a foundation- an interpretation that builds a larger picture. What might stand-alone is enhanced with the beauty of the other discipline. Sometimes it doesn’t work, but in this case it’s perfect. I took pictures of every one- blessed to have been recommended this walk- it was the highlight of my day. I wrote a poetic verse this morning, one line per picture in the order on which I stumbled by- a spontaneous “ditty” which came as clear as the walk. Look when you have a chance. (All pictures are located on our music site at www.myspace.com/funkthunder Under Best Bar Wednesday Pictures)
On the opposite side of Park, was another building that had plaques also; each one represented a building in New York. I took a few of these, but felt architecture should be left to the buildings around you and not plaques on the street. You’ll also note a few facades I took for the beauty of early twentieth century construction. I had a conversation, which revolved around that and today’s lack of building art into the creation. Granted there are those who might take the time to create a piece of artwork from a building, but they are too far in between. Most want to just slap it up, make their money and move on. We need more Frank Lloyd Wrights in the world.
The walk downtown weaved between Lexington & Park. The day was overcast and light raindrops pelted the skin. A toss between a bus and a subway left a short subway ride to Astor Place where you exit to the site of Cooper Union. The Bowery starts there. It’d be a good place to look for 354 Bowery the location of Marion’s.
The neighborhood didn’t look great. The Bowery was always known to be like that, think of late 70’s CBGB’s (also located on the Bowery further down). Marion’s write up said it was established by a Hungarian Swimmer who freed herself from the oppression of Hungary in the early 1900’s. She made her way to New York after time in France, and having exotic looks as a model, she did well. She opened a small storefront on the Bowery and had many famous guests from the 1950’s forward. In 1973 she closed the place, had 3 kids and settled into Belmar- a Jersey town I’m VERY familiar with (grew up by the shore). In 1990, one of her sons reopened the place- a no-nonsense kinda place fit for its location. My only complaint was the rumor was true - the place had been shut- replaced by a Mexican bar called “Hecho en Dumbo”. I had to drink a beer there- a Kelso Nut Brown Ale- just for the hell of it. The place looked hellishly different than the pictures in the book. It had grey wood surroundings, like you’d see in Nantucket- wood worn by the sea- on the walls and the ceilings. The bar had what seemed to be a slate finish. On one end was 5 4×4 pieces of grey wood held by rebar that protruded from the wall. Each one held candles obviously lit at night. There was a selection of Tequila and various other beverages behind the bar and seating in the back. The ambiance was good and the menu looked good also. Very different than what I imagined, but nice nonetheless.
From Hecho, the weather worsened. Light rain got heavier, but still worth a walk to the next place- Peter McManus. On the way, I crossed paths with next week’s stop- McSorleys Ale House. It’s a place I’m very familiar with and a place you can only get two small mugs of beer per serving- light or dark. I HAD no choice but to have a “Dark” there. True, I am to visit there next week, but I cheated- JUST had to go in- the place is history. Now, the Bowery is distant from Seventh Ave & 19th Street- LONG blocks, but blocks of great interest. Rain was just an inconvenience and it wasn’t that heavy, so you plod through.
The area between 4th street and 20th street is probably the most foreign to me. I only recently went down there to visit Corner Bistro. It was a very neighborhood area, and perhaps it’s why I never ended up there much in my past. I probably passed within a stone’s throw of Corner Bistro and by the way- they do make a FABULOUS burger…
I arrived at Peter McManus just before the downpour. I walked in and sat at the corner of the bar. There was a woman there who was visiting from Chicago- a designer. The jukebox played Ziggy Stardust and a series of songs, perfect rainy music for a perfect melancholy day. I ordered a chiliburger and a Guinness. My friend- Patricia ordered some beer and we talked.
The place had old photographs on the wall, a small backroom and an electronic game next to the jukebox. The wood was dark and too the mood set by the played music; I suppose there are times your insides need to be ripped inside out and in a dark bar, on a rainy day, with a few drinks under your belt- well, you might just get that. Granted my company was great- even did a cool picture in my book- but the music… that sets the tone.
The burger was delicious and had it not been for the woman from IL, I might have been out of there much faster, but the conversation was good- philosophical. Designers have a way of the world, artists who can observe, who like I said above are disciplined in ways I can only think to write.
I fell into a hole of depression with every note, so you could say the music drove me out. I did little to rectify it with a few bucks I could have easily put in the jukebox, but let it rule my emotion till the point I needed to be free. I stepped out into the rain with the designer who decided to join me to the next. I could read a large sign a few blocks down called “Il Bastardo”. It had large red awnings, with no windows, but an open frame that overlooked the avenue. It had shelter with tables protected under it’s name. The bar was big; it was quiet and the selection plenty. It warranted a dirty martini, my company ordered a martini also. There was fascinating skull bottle which held vodka, so I said give me that in a martini….
He said, “I insist you try it first.” The bartender poured a small glass, I sipped it and gritted my teeth. “Didn’t want to give you a martini of that, we like the bottle.” It tasted like something you’d find on a pirate ship back in the middle ages, something to grow hair on your chest and grow holes in your stomach.
The martinis were good. The rain was plentiful and it was quiet. Reflection takes place in places like this and it’s like I’ve said- rain provides the stimulus for writing. Patricia told me about Chicago and the many beautiful sights there. She told me of working crazily and getting a well-deserved break. She told how she once lived downtown years ago and how she loved New York. She told me about the responsibilities she had and how she sometimes wished she had the opportunity to be free like the early days.
Responsibilities come with age. We all have them at some point in life and although they can be tough, our weathered selves prosper in ways we never see at the time they’re there. It’s only with refection can we see what things actually mean after we go through them. You can never tell when and where the meaning will come to you, but it does. It could be an obscure thought, it could be with a thick coating of paint, it could be with the loss of a head full of hair, but it does come. As long as you can escape temporarily, and resume the position with a new perspective- you grow. We all wish to escape the chains of responsibility, but we know reality is the balance- balance is the goal and the goal is completion. Live rich inside and all around you will prosper.
After the Bastard, I mean IL Bastardo we parted ways. I walked to 23rd Street where the world famous “Hotel Chelsea” is. It’s known for the many creative spirits who have resided there. I’ve always dreamed to write for a week in that place, work on a novel and be influenced by not just the surroundings but the aura of the place. Some of the people who have stayed there include: Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin, Patti Smith, Leonard Cohen, Arthur C. Clarke, Mark Twain, O’Henry, Jack Karouac, Tennessee Williams, Dylan Thomas, Sid Vicious (killed his girlfriend there), Robert Mapplethorp, Larry Rivers, Allen Ginsberg, several Titanic victims because of it’s proximity to the Pier- it’s seems a never ending list. There is always artwork in the lobby and I read transients are limited to 24-day stays only. I think that’d be enough time to jam out a book- no?
Tours of New York last for hours and hours for the wanderer. There is always so much to take in, to toil over, so much at your fingertips. One place to best end a journey is the library- not the one which serves high priced cocktails located on the East Side, but the Public one. A lovely monument made of marble that sits on top of Bryant Park. A little piece of humanity in which anyone can walk through it’s spinning doors- a wealth of knowledge bound by covers that seem only now limited. A time where electronic devices replace those beautifully bound volumes of worn paper, a time where newspapers future is uncertain, and bankruptcy seems inevitable because of Internet access and easy news. What is the future of America’s Libraries? Will society replace the public library with their own personal computer and neglect the contact with it’s own species? Will people be willing to communicate with one another, if they can sit back eat, drink and wipe drool from their mouths on a comfy couch? Who really can tell- but I can tell you one thing- I’ll miss the smell of freshly cut wood and aged paper- there’s no replacing a good scent.
Thanks again for joining me on Best Bar Wednesday. For next week- McSorley Ale House, a source of inspiration, history and damn good drinkin.
It’s been two weeks. Hard to believe.
It’s always been difficult to have a routine that stops abruptly. Anyone whose been reading knows last week, Best Bar Wednesday was cancelled because my son broke his arm. He only returned to school this week and must get through half the summer at summer camp with a cast- no easy matter for a nine year old. The summer has already taken a turn.
I watched the news yesterday morning on the crisis in the Gulf. It made me think of a wedding we’re to attend in Longboat Key (Gulf of Mexico) scheduled for September. As the horrible disaster continues (they say the spill is as large as Florida itself) it made me think of the disappearance of pristine white beaches. Realistically, three months from now, crude oil or clumps of black will end up on the beach. Think about the absorption of that same oil filled water into the atmosphere and instead of having “acid rain” , “oil rain” would contaminate important crops and foods from the South. We already know about the poisons to the sea life, birds and shrimp beds. They said the Gulf Stream could carry it around the tip of Florida and up the East Coast. This is all without the probable hurricanes which could churn it up, absorb it, and drop it all over the region. There’s a lot to think about for the long term.
They compared the handling of Hurricane Katrina to the handling of BP’s Mess and there were more people who thought there hasn’t been enough done for the BP incident. When you think about it, Hurricane Katrina was a catastrophic event which occurred only over the course of days, and we’re now over 50 days into the oil spill and the stuff continues to fill the waters. It’s plain scary. I’m sure anyone who ever thought of off shore drilling has to really re-evaluate their position after this.
I plan on two places today- Marion’s Continental in the Bowery and Peter McManus Cafe at 19th Street. I’d forgotten to send an email to the Best Bar Wednesday crew, which is just as well, I could use a little solitary time to get my thoughts in order. I did some improvised music this past weekend on the porch in a dark setting with MJV which may make a youtube video some time in the future, but that’s up in the air. I visit a beer festival this weekend with my buddy Brian in Pennsylvania. The world is spinning and I want off. I want to rest under a tree like Rip Van Winkle and sleep- wake with long white hair and a beard and greet a new world like a little boy.
What-if??? It’s the primary question we writers ask ourselves. What if I fell over a tree root and found the edge of a treasure chest? What if I was in New York and a thief stuck a gun in my face? What if I went to a bar and a stalker thought he was me? Fears and contemplations play on you, but as a writer, I see it as a benefit. The twists and turns aren’t anything new, but when you use your abilities and channel them constructively- all can benefit. You take anxieties or personal issues and vent them away- keep them from eating YOU away where they can possibly explode into a negatives which could do nothing but hurt you or those around you. Everyone needs a channel, to keep sane and level headed.
The conductor sneezed… what if he had swine flu? How many people could he infect? Think of Typhoid Mary- the woman who worked in food preparation and what she did to a population in Europe. One thought leads to another, and that leads to something else. Occasionally, they sync in unison, then you mix a little feelings in there and you have a soup which tastes absolutely magnificent. The creative process is amazing- the influences, the thoughts, and the scenarios. What if I never started Best Bar Wednesday, would I be better off? I’d certainly find better ways to utilize my money instead of self destruction (lets face it too much drinking does have a negative aspect). The thought leads me to a philosophical quote my funk brother used in our song “E”- “It’s not easy being great- one must destroy then create”- a road to destruction in sorts, stripping ones self- taken to an extreme, brought back, rebuilt, recharged and forward. An enjoyment which became a job, a demand, but it does come to an end.
I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before, but the painter Gauguin would spend an entire day painting and erase what he did; time after time building on the stains of his earlier work. A symbolic metamorphosis built layer after layer. A torturous process which probably made him wonder if it was worth it in the end, but only he could tell personally if it was. I think it was, every moment we build on top of another, establishes a foundation on which we grow- BUT without the process, we lose touch with our core beliefs. They get misplaced amongst the every day clutter we live in.
The secret to life is exactly that- bonds wrapped tightly in our soul, our core. Those that lead us to experience the world in a new way; solidify us to be fully aware of our surroundings- the effects of them on us and us on them. Encounters with people that benefit parties on both ends.
Learning is a lifetime activity.
When you’re forced into a diversion from daily activities and pressure you’ve grown used to, motivation falls wayside- at least temporarily. I’ve taken a step back from my normal routine of overindulging and writing about it, to caring for the injured, making up work (the p/t job) and realigning priorities.
Mighty Yang- grand master funk creator- comes to visit tomorrow. We have loose ends which have been pending for months due to our distance and inability to get together. The tracks we’ve done for the next CD have been stagnant, some in need of fine-tuning, all of which I hope to get done this weekend. We feel good about the CD. There are a few last minute tracks I want to run by him which need the Vella signature (guitar & electronic sound). It totals 14 tracks if all goes well.
Art means so much to me, and the poetry of a good picture for the artwork is as important, even MORE important than the composition of tracks. I leave that to one absolutely incredible designer, a visionist, better than anyone I could have imagined working with. My vision is the result of people around me, and when in the company of such personalities, it does nothing but enhance my own. It’s a win win situation. With that said, I can only hope to get the right photographs for her to work with. Our weekend will contain music creation and photography. More hasn’t been realized yet- the CD label, the back cover, the inside, and the other little details. It’s no wonder many bands fall by the wayside in the creation of a CD- coordinating, agreeing and getting it done is no easy task- that’s for sure. It helps when you work with the right people- those who understand each other and communicate well. I enjoy those around me, and hopefully they enjoy my company just as much. It’s the primary reason I do the things I do.
I create pressure for myself, it helps to move me from one thing to the next. I’ve been primarily focused on my Best Bar Blog Series for the past 3 months and will remain vigilant when it comes to the completion of that project, it lasts until August. I must admit, I feel a little empty today without a bar visit this last Wednesday. No experiences and I’ve radically shifted my focus on music temporarily which has led to a lack in motivation to do this; funny enough, I believe we expect rain tomorrow.
The name Funk Thunder was formed as the result of an enormous thunderstorm which crossed Long Island during our first session together. It’s always been a good omen, and whenever we’ve worked, the rain always followed; at least 75% of the time or more. We laugh because we always do our best work when its present. Improvisation follows and perhaps there’s a touch of supernatural forces at work- rain brings flowers, flowers bring insects, insects bring birds, birds bring cats, cats bring dogs, dogs bring owners who try and keep them under control, and crazy dog owners bring inspiration! It all works in cycles. (Music can be heard at http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/funkthunder or http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/funkthunder2 )
Do join me next week though, when I get back to writing “The Best Bar Wednesday Blog Series”. I’m sure I’ll also have something good to say about this weekend. Thanks for dropping in!
I sit here in the dark of my living room with my feet up, the Deadliest Catch on low volume, and my son uncomfortable as hell on the the couch. He snapped his arm earlier today, fractured his bones in a clean break from a Swing accident at school. It was in a competition for the right of saying, “I swung higher than you”. Unfortunately, when he was at his highest, he lost balance and fell to the ground on his arm. It could have been worse, it could have been his head, but it did deserve the emergency call from the school. His arm was bowed and obviously broken.
I was fortunate a co-worker heard my dilemma and highly recommended an orthopedist close by. The doctor kindly accommodated us with a phone call and despite my son shaking with pain, they got us in pretty quickly.
When the x-ray was taken, the doctor took me aside, showed me the x-ray and told me the plan. The two bones which support the hand in the forearm had snapped. The bones had come to overlap and had to be repositioned to have the arm straightened, essentially putting the hand back on to the bones. If he could get the hand back on the bones, they’d re-grow together and fill in with normal growth. If it didn’t work, it might need surgery in which he’d have to go in and pry them apart to reset it back on. YIKES…… he also told me parents have a much more difficult time dealing with it then their patients….
They hung his arm, gave him Novocain, and let the arm relax over a little bit. My son got talkative as the pain went away. When the doctor returned I had him hold my hand and tried to direct his attention as the doctor worked his arm. My son winced, but when the arm appeared straight moments later, he felt relieved. I guess you could say I did too.
When the x-rayed it again, the doctor did a great job of positioning it back on top of the bones. Granted, it was 100% straight but pretty close. He said the bones will grow together, but we need to have x-rays tomorrow and Friday, to make sure it stays in place, to prevent surgery. I keep my fingers crossed.
In the meantime, I’m having him sleep in the living room and I’ve become the “repositioning servant” who will be at his beckoned call. A job I have no problem with, in fact, I’ve volunteered myself. He’s my son for God sakes.
So Best Bar Wednesday tomorrow- a joint named Marion’s Restaurant & Bar in the Bowery will have to wait. Not sure how I’ll do it yet- I may double it up, provided the time allows for it. I’ll play it by ear.
Thank you for your understanding and support dear friends, and may the light always shine on you.
I discover places, by chance or by reference. I write them down on whatever is handy and tuck them away for safekeeping. I had two bars scribbled on scraps of paper tucked away inside my Best Bars book. A place called Malachy’s referred to me by a bar patron at Dublin Bar and another called Costello’s on 44th Street. The first one was paid great compliments and was a NECESSITY in my visits. I found Costellos researching the bars of one area or another. All I had was a man named James Thurber painted some famous murals there. I picked my brain for a while, that’s all I had. It was hot and I’d earn a beer, partake before I had to be “proper” at The Library. It was only a little out of the way, a couple of avenues over and about 20 streets down.
I hit the town running. I worked up a sweat, made my beer well earned. On the way to 44th. I passed the giant RAT the Union puts in front of buildings to attract attention to their cause. It was outside what looked like a Citibank and it said something about the ills associated with Asbestos. I’ve seen it (or one of them) all over the city where there’s an injustice. My friend Jefferson Thomas wrote a song called Grand Central Station (my next stop), which made it into the top 20, Adult Contemporary charts a few years back. I worked around the corner from here. There’s a place called the Oyster Bar in the train station which has the best lunch experience sitting at tremendously busy counters – you hear clanking dishes, bits and pieces of conversation- they bring in seafood from all over the nation fresh daily. Grand Central is a palace of transportation and its history is as valuable as it being a main hub in NYC. You can’t help but be in awe.
I walked out the back doors and found 44th. On this small lined paper I’d scribbled “between 3rd and 2nd ave.” , so I continued up one side of the street where I came across these gorgeous doors which designated “The permanent mission of India to the United Nations” Doors attract me. I think it’s the fact everyone see’s themselves on one side of it, you can be safe behind it or locked out; see danger at every corner or a place to nestle your head. Some people are perfectly safe out in the open, others are absolutely terrified and frankly our own personality designates our zone either on one side or the other. I’ve seen them made to keep people in, keep people out, for decoration, for utility, and the vision of them simply creates a story- doorways open the mind.
The address read 225, a place called the Overlook was on the spot. It looked open. I stepped into a quiet place with beautiful cartoon murals in the backroom. I pulled out a stool and sat my stuff down. A few business guys took pictures around, as if they had some plan. One took out a tape measure and was measuring the step- for what I don’t know, but the people there must have thought I was with them. I took pictures and noticed the man who was doing measurements was waiting for me. “Am I in the way?” He said, “yea, Who ya with?” I said, “I’m by myself believe it or not, I’m here for a beer.” He nodded and whispered with the others very suspicious like.
I went to see Blondie when she first got back on the scene after a long delay in the mid-nineties. I was well dressed- looked like a press guy, so I hung where they were: they nodded, I nodded back. I talked to one person, then another and before I knew it I had a free ticket. I disappeared in the back and saw a great show. This was much the same, the assumption your with someone your not there with at all. Happens all the time. For all I know these guys were famous, really I’m an idiot in such manners. We had a PR woman with a place I worked and she could tell me everything on everyone- takes a special person for that. I can talk to anyone, but remember everyone? I got TOO much goin on upstairs to remember- they say alcohol kills brain cells. I’m a conversationalist… oh, and I like beer- my brain is sitting over there in the corner chair laughing at me.
I was served a beer, sat and just observed them as they took pictures and talked amongst themselves. I looked at the murals and hung at the bar until the real bartender- a guy named John came in. The suspicious guys disappeared and my conversation was with the bartender. Turns out he’s a poet and into music too. The jukebox played some incredible stuff- Clash, Stones, classics and we talked of that too. I told him what I was doin, and asked him more about the murals and about Costellos. He had one of the owners, Jeff come over. He sat with me for a little to chat.
I love that kind of place where you walk in, feel at home, and get treated well. This was that kinda place. They had a great write up on the menu, and they have a great website too at: http://www.overlooknyc.com/
The original Costellos evidently moved and the murals went with it to this place. I mean you really need to check out the pictures in our myspace Best Bar Wednesday folder to see. There was Hagar, Beetle Bailey, Betty Boop, Annie, Spiderman, ALL sorts. Xmas balls hung all over the ceiling- over 3000. It might have been the cook who I spoke to that told me he was one of the ones who set them up for a mardi gra celebration. They added a festive element. Upstairs they had an outside veranda where you could sit for a bite to eat. A few people out there sat for lunch.
Meanwhile back at MY bar downstairs, a woman arrived who was a resident of Manchester. She was leaving for Boston where she’d spend three days and travel back to England. We shared some conversation on the pound and the Euro and the effect of Greece on the whole thing. I found John was in Paris and Rome only a month earlier. We talked how important it was to travel and how it opened your mind- rounded you out. It was such a great place I could have abandoned my mission- frankly, I found myself drinkin more and more beers without a care. I didn’t want to go- but sometimes friends know there are places you need to be, and help get ya there.
I got to the Library… eventually. The place was more like a comfortable restaurant than a bar; where waiters or waitresses serve you. True you can sit on couches and the décor has some books, but it’s like my band mate Joe told me in Florida years ago: these buildings are two-dimensional. Perhaps it was the alcohol, maybe the quote my fellow poet- John put in my book, “A Little Less Greed, is all we need,” which made me, feel I don’t belong here. I wish I could give it a good rating. I did have a HUGE cocktail called The Park Avenue-filled with Bourbon, Martini & Rossi Vermouth and a dash of Bitters.
After that, things got hazy. The drink did me in. I woke up hours later on a bench in Central Park. If it wasn’t for the nice clothes I wore, I might have had some bum sleeping on my shoulder. I made my way to the world famous Algonquin Hotel. It’s known for hosting literary and theatrical notables. I believe Hemingway actually wrote there. On a side note- Jeff from Overlook showed me a picture of Marilyn Monroe who had gone there to Costellos. There was something I was told about Hemingway making a bet about breaking a cane with a patron- possibly at the old Costellos. After the money was put up- he took the cane, broke it over the guys head, collected the money and left the bar. For more on the Algonquin Hotel see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Algonquin_Hotel I don’t know how much I drank there, does it matter? I remember hearing about a cat Matilda who has a tradition of greeting guests in the hotel – a tradition since the 1930’s.
After a little time there, I walked all the way back to Penn. It was a horrible walk, almost as dreadful as the train itself. By this time it was late, and every bone in my body cried for submission. I was determined to stand on the train for the 15 minutes it’d take to reach the connection. I somehow ended up home around 10:30ish. I spent the whole next day in recovery- hung over at work- and sleep, well that sucked too. Friday my schedule changed because of work closing early, which left this writing till now. Plenty to do this holiday weekend and next my guitarist is out to hang with the familia. Plenty of work to do, outside of the blogs, so be patient- PLEASE.
I’m in the Bowery next week; a place called Marion’s Continental Restaurant & Lounge. The Bowery, or former home of CBGB’s, ALWAYS leads to stories. It’s like a shot of Jack Daniels- one is good, two is excellent, but 10 is deadly. Hope ta see ya.
A special thanks to the Overlook’s owner Jeff and the FABULOUS bartender & Poet John who took time to have some wonderful conversation with me; It’s people like yourselves who I do this for. You’re GREATLY appreciated.
Steve
Funk Thunder
Ever had a silent primal scream? Mine was caused at the deli counter this morning before the train. There were several people changing the meats in the display case and although it seemed there was a wait, the ticket read 7. An old woman held the number six and was very particular in the thickness of her ham in addition to the cheese and the other few she ordered.
I’m a patient person and can handle this absurd “Monk” like behavior- when I have time; Not today. I’d shopped for all my other necessities within the same time it took me at the counter. It didn’t help that I selected Boars Head Peppermill Turkey, which had to be opened fresh from the refrigerator. When I went to the self-serve checkout, I was audited! I felt the blood vein in my head pound with each passing second of my watch, as if I was in one of those 1950’s detective movies where a couple of guys sat around in a dark room staring at a clock, rain pouring outside.
Fortunately, I overrated my time, and obsessed on something I really had no need to. I moved quickly after I left the supermarket and ended up with time to spare; even had coffee before the train arrived.
It’s supposed to be 94 degrees today. When I told my son, “Shane, it’s supposed to be REALLY hot,” he replied, “That’s why I’m going to move as little as possible.” That gave me a good start, but my doctor doesn’t agree with the little movement thing. He sees the opposite for me with a life full of activity and exercise to trim 10 pounds and eliminate the gout issue. He explained about the build up of fats in muscle and how it affects the insulin levels in your body. With the build up, the kidneys retain uric acids and thus an attack occurs. He wanted to see me in 2 months, ten pounds lighter- sounds like a goal- and I do like goals. He told me the body is meant to be hungry and not filled with excess fats. I’m getting a good feel for the guy, seems almost like Dr. Edwards- the old sea salt that passed with hardly anyone knowing he had cancer. Only recently I found this new doctor wrote about his theories in 1977 in a small medical book. He told me they’d known since then about the fats versus the muscle, but it was the sense of humor, which I like. I think that’s what makes a doctor. Now, if only I didn’t have to wait as long…
I’ve decided to walk to my Best Bars on Wednesdays no matter where they are. Today, it’s the Upper East Side 65th and Park- healthy and HOT. Gives me reasons to walk in the mind of my created character- a down and out squatter from the lower East Village: Part Steve, Part Randall.
Actors must really enjoy the ability to adapt to another personality. Those who are at their peek must lose themselves somewhat and find it difficult to break away. There was a great episode of Monk where an actor studied the famous detective and started to become “Monk 2”. It was hilarious, but I digress.
I heard of a stabbing incident today at a Harlem subway station. Several people were wounded and the man escaped. Only yesterday, I heard New York was voted the safest big city in the nation. The Jets & Giants owners also announced in 4 years the Super Bowl will be at the New Meadowlands stadium. Amazing stuff- the irony is nothing short of miraculous. If you considered New York from 1980 till today, it’s like night to day. Makes me proud to say I’m a New Yorker.
The Library is my destination. I’ve read it’s more of a lounge then a bar, the bar being hid away in the kitchen. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I mean, I like libraries, and being surrounded by books is good, but no bartender? I’ll have to rely on my sense of observation. I may need a martini, but a pizzeria sounds like a good way to cut costs- after all there are more places yet to go.
One of the worst things about New York City in the heat is the containment of it from the black streets to confined subway stations. It’s trapped like some enormous oven, which slowly bakes the brains of New Yorkers. Patience is short. Tempers are hot. Fatigue is inevitable, as well as interaction. All of these factors lead up to situations and with situations comes inspiration. It’s that which I hope to capture in my writings- nothing is more important.
English majors will tell you there’s nothing more important than grammar- but if they can stamp out and interact with the world around them as freely as their minds flow- they can be truly great. I, on the other hand, am a poet, so with those deeply sensitive feelings I harbor only words to connect. Should I die tomorrow, I’d like to say I’ve had that.