Gout has calmed, but my trips haven’t. There are a few bars which are closed in my trusty dusty book and today I believe the Cedar Bar is one. Chumleys which was next might be another. I heard only last night Frances Tavern has shut. So today, I’m scoping things out. I’ll find a bar no doubt and maybe some interesting conversation too. Stay tuned.
Since the Gout took me out of commission yesterday and walking was in very small steps- I decided to take in a movie. I finally got to see Tim Burton’s Alice In Wonderland in 3-d. It was fabulous, but due to time constraints and a full shift at work- this blog continues tonight. In the meantime, here’s two quotes on imagination:
It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.
Henry David Thoreau
And in a twist of fate….. a ryhme:
I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.
Michelangelo
and possibly the beginning to a beautiful song. The marriage of poet & painter. Enjoy your day!
Steve
I said a joke at the end of last week about my gout. Well… it’s come back to smack me in the foot. I now hobble like an old man. Since I can only walk the speed of a snail and need to grit my teeth at every step, I thought my mood would only reflect one seriously bitter writer. I’m on anti-inflamatories and pain killers.
I will write, but my venture to the Cedar will be postponed for a couple of weeks while I recover enough to once again have a few drinks.
Please join me for an interesting blog regardless! All the best.
I woke up this morning with conflict on the brain. It wasn’t so much my own, as it was for a person I’d met this week on Best Bar Wednesday. A nameless face- who was part of a threesome at my first bar. I had little contact with him, however I did speak throughly with the other two- one being an attractive woman probably close in age to him. The three had been talking when I sat down. I didn’t know the relationships between them except they worked together.
My conversation with the woman lasted for quite a bit, and was engaging. The men spoke next to us, but were cut off from our talk due to our barstool positions. After we finished, she excused herself to the bathroom where I picked up my second conversation. She returned to the silent one and they got quite cozy together. It lead me to believe they shared some intimate feelings I wasn’t aware of. I wasn’t offended and took nothing from it except when it came time to sign my book. He didn’t want to and I had to nudge him quite a bit to do so. Even when he did it, it was reluctantly. Perhaps he got jealous.
I once wrote a poem about Jealously. We all inevitably get it, but when you’re in your teens and twenties you act on it more hastily. In my twenties, I dated a beautiful woman I worked with at a restaurant. She had left a relationship after 5 years. She talked about him a lot, and as much as I was attracted to her, I felt I was a pawn. We got close quickly and I know word spread to her ex.
Not long after that, she broke off our relationship- returned to him- and they later married. It led me to the conclusion, I was the impetus- the reason or the spark for their marriage. He decided he didn’t want to lose her and marry her before he lost it all. I was invited to the wedding. Their wedding song- “In Your Eyes- Peter Gabriel”
The reason I bring that up is that conflict, no matter how tough, can bring better things in a worldly context. When you think about certain points in your life, I’m sure you’ll find the decision was motivated by some type of conflict, internal or external. One of my first “real” jobs was the result of a fight with superiors which prompted me to send out over a dozen resumes and land a better offer.
Internalized conflict often leads artists to produce their most favorable pieces, ones that they directly connect to memories associated with their making. Think of Vincent Van Gogh when he did Starry Night- in an asylum- looking into the stars and pondering what led his life down that fateful track- not a painting sold. Look at their value today and the emotions he conveyed.
Conflict works its way out. If it’s through dreams, or creative output, there are reasons in the grand scheme which lead us down the roads we take- put us in situations at a time when resolution comes. It’s all a matter of finding that delicate balance and utilizing those conflicting feelings for the better. We may not see the light shine at the time it’s dark, but if we know it’s there, then we’ll continue to search for the switch.
Have a beautiful Sunday.
The Bull & Bear Steakhouse is housed in one of the most famous hotels in the world- The Waldorf-Astoria. The hotel was originally located at the spot of The Empire State building. If you look under our Best Bar Wednesday Photos you’ll find an original picture from the 34th Street location. A walk around the lobby of the hotel will turn back time to a decade where Art Deco ruled. It was pure 1930’s and 40’s. An elevator I passed went to only four floors, but had an original dial that registered the floors- the kind you’d see in a Humphrey Bogart movie. The wood is aged to perfection, the marble streaked with the color of an abstract painting and the metal work, right out of history book.
The history of the hotel and it’s guests was out of a storybook. A program from the Queen’s visit back in the 50’s was behind locked glass. President Eisenhower and hundreds of movie star visits through decades fill story boards. You’ll find an original dinner setting in the photographs. The hotel was even featured in an early movie, which played in a show window- gold lined curtains and gold trim. The history is far too much to detail here. For more details on the hotel- see here:http://www.waldorfnewyork.com/ ;
I arrived early in the city. I thought it’d be beneficial to take in other sites since the Bull & Bear didn’t open until 4pm. I always felt comfortable with the Hard Rock Cafe and since they relocated into Times Square, I thought I’d be able to get an early drink and listen to some great music. To me, that was always the attraction with the Hard Rock- the music and the company of those who appreciate it as much as I. The music reverts my mind to a more carefree time, and it certainly lends to the excesses I once indulged in. I started with a Hurricane.
There were some interesting people there I had the fortune to meet. The first was a few ladies from Pennsylvania who were there for the parade and decked out in green. We had a short conversation while they waited for drinks behind me. One of them makes more regular visits to the city, the other happened to be there for just the day. They were fascinated by my adventure and said they’d check out the site. I wanted them to sign my book, but alas- words was not something they came by easily. There were three other neighbors who I got to know. They took a day from work to be in the city for such a crazy day. One remained elusive, he was the furthest from me, and didn’t really want to sign my book. I told him, with only the limited conversation we had, his signature was as important as everyone elses- on this journey EVERYONE is important despite how they may feel about me. I had another conversation with a man named Steve who recently retired and planned on some time to enjoy life. He planned a trip to Disney and was active in a community playhouse in Poughkeepsee. We had some talks about what remained important in our lives and the pursuit of our passion. His words: “Never ever abandon your passion”- those my friends are words from the wise. Kelly was the third of the group and my conversation stimulating. She was a property manager and dedicated herself to the pursuit of her goal- a corporate executive. She had an art streak, a love for archeology, studied law, and she was once a paralegal. We talked about dedication and sacrifice in the undivided attention towards a goal. As young people do, the unparalleled focus to make it, seemed unshakable and for that reason- I could see achieving that position one day- being the top of her game. The three had a few car bombs and ordered appetizers which they so kindly invited me to enjoy. I’ll say it over and over again; The journey in life is not about yourself, but those who so profoundly effect you; it could be a chance meet, but we’re molded by those around us. Never forget that.
I’m not sure what time it was they left, but it was quite a few drinks later for me. I wanted to get to the area of the Bull & Bear bar and take in the sites. The parade had begun on 5th Avenue and everywhere you walked in the vicinity was filled with green. There was a line on the cross-street to cross. It was QUITE a line, but moved quickly between the marchers.
I arrived at the Waldorf probably around 3pm. It was a gorgeous day, the people where gorgeous, life itself was the reflection of a Spring like day. After I took in the sights around the hotel, I reserved a seat at a bar called Sir Harrys. I saw three Marines in their uniforms arrive shortly after I took my seat. There’s never enough thanks I can give to those who serve this great country of ours. So often, people don’t say it or perhaps take for granted what it is we have and how great this country is. People need to travel in order to realize how wonderful we have it here. It should be required of all our citizens to live in another place outside of the United States. It broadens your understanding of other cultures. These men (Srgt X, Srgt Y, Srgt Z)- all sergeants Semper Fi- had experienced not just war, but had dedicated themselves to service. Srgt X was from Texas. Most people I’ve ever met from Texas have always been extemely hospitable. I travelled a commuter train once where a Texan started to yell because he just wanted a conversation- on commuter trains few speak to such strangers. Srgt X and I spoke about his service, and their present location in Garden City, LI. A large contingent of the Marines marched in the parade- their bars and medals adorned their sharply pressed uniforms. Srgt Y was engaged with his fiance in France. He wasn’t a career military man and had visions of a future with his wife outside of the military. He was well travelled and had a lot of interaction as a correspondent between Americans and Iraqis. Srgt Z I didn’t get to converse with much. He did join me at the Bull & Bear downstairs when we talked of the large bronzes and why the Bull was probably more heavy than the bear- it was the balls…..
My sisters first husband was a Marine. We visited him at Paris Island as a kid and picked up empty bullet shells. I remember the record we got and the marches on it. He was a gymnast and superb athlete. He’d play with all the kids in the neighborhood and have us try to catch him. He’d climb trees, jump to the roof, climb in windows- he must have been part spider. He saved a baby raccoon who’s mother was killed in front of his parents house; raised it as a pet- called it Bandit. Damn thing was so smart it picked the lock that held it in a custom built cage and escaped. That guy was a one of kind guy who died young after a stint with drugs- he was honorably discharged.
I’m certainly glad we have guys like these Sergeants to protect our lives here. Don’t underestimate what is needed to keep this country safe and NEVER take for granted the soldiers over seas. A simple thank you to anyone in uniform can sometimes be enough. Thank you- guys!
Seargant X was upset with one of the television hosts he’d seen on the Fox broadcasts from “Happy Hour” and knew it taped live from the Bull & Bear Bar. He told me how he’d like to hit him. I laughed at the thought how such an event would shake up the television world. I told them it opened at 4pm, so they left and I joined them there. The hosts of the fox broadcast didn’t arrive until 5pm when the show began- the Marines had left by then.
I sat on the end of the bar with a $10.00 Guinness from a bottle. Costly, I KNOW. I needed to have something to comfort me as the place filled quickly. A gossip columnist sat next to me- a fellow writer. She covered social events and sat in front of some other women who’s main concern was to appear on TV. The bartenders weren’t very attentive at my end of the bar. Perhaps it was my hat and the fact I wasn’t a regular. Maybe they thought I was a television whore. After all, there are people who want that 15 minute spot at fame. I’m not in it for that. The man who came up behind me and tried to get attention for a drink said it best, “What the HELL is the News in a bar for? I’m tryin to get away from the news.” He looked at me strangely when I broke into hysterics.
The inattentive bartenders made me realize the value of a good person behind the bar and the comfort they provide when you’re new to a place. Granted this place filled fast, so I give them the benefit of the doubt, nonetheless my service was poor. The title of the news show is “Happy hour”. I CERTAINLY didn’t see any drink specials, and it didn’t look like a hell of a lot of people were happy either. I watched the tele-prompter roll and the makeup person dab the perspiration from the star faces. It lead me to the realization of how this was more like a movie set and false representation of reality. I looked around at the corporate types that filled the place and the treatment of people in front of the camera and I thought about their masks. My perception framed by experience on both ends of the class spectrum.
Education of class differences was taught to me at a young age. My father, a poor boy raised in WWII Liverpool rose to a well respected position with a fortune 500 company, without the aid of a high school diploma. He used courage and balls to rise to his position- mind over matter. It was always important for him to teach us to appreciate what we have, and to use our brains and balls to get to where we need to. “Be who you are, and not someone you think others might want you to be.” Get a mentor and after you’re well educated, teach others.
Thank you readers. I hope you’ve found something of interest and I hope you’ll visit again next week when I visit Cedar Bar at 82 University Place.
“Pops”- it was the first expression I heard as I walked down the train platform. Some fine young post teen punk who must have made an impression on his green hoody friends. I had yet to reach the Pearl River station.
Pearl River hosts the second biggest St. Patricks Day parade in New York, possibly the country. Known for it’s large population of Irish immigrants, I could only imagine the sea of green to face me. The well known brewery- Defiant- sits opposite the train platform. Usually, the platform has only a few commuters at this time. I told the conductor, it’ll be a tough one today.
I like the fact people turn out in droves to support the allegiance to their country. Hell, EVERYONE supports Ireland on St. Patricks- I even saw an Asian woman who did a dance at the Secaucaus station - IN GREEN. Beer caps hit the floor, beer bottles banged from the collegiate crowd, the loud familiar accents blared through the cabin and even a small radio blared Celtic music. I heard high fives and familiar greetings from one to another; even saw the flush white and pink face of a teen as he exited the train’s bathroom.
St. Patricks Day 2010 celebrates the 45th anniversary of my parents immigration from England. They came here in 1965 by ship- The QE Two- a Cunard line. The Liverpudlian humor has always struck my family in odd ways, think of it. My British parents arrive in New York Harbor and dock on St. Patricks day. It’s typical; must have been like a step into the Twilight zone.
As a student long ago, I was a semester abroad student in London. I convinced my friends, after I saw a beautiful ad on the BBC, to take a trip to the Emerald Isle on Spring break. They wanted to go to Greece. We would take a bed & breakfast bike tour from Killarney to Kenmare. Two days out of Amsterdam, we were on a ferry to Dublin.
The last bit of money (after exhausting most of it in Holland) was spent on this tour. It left me with about 20 pounds (maybe $30.00) to last a week. I had a plan to buy a loaf of bread and a bottle of jam and use that as sustenance for the days, the mornings would serve like my dinner with the fine breakfasts served at the B&B. I hadn’t anticipated two things- 1) how difficult it is to pedal a bike on a stomach which was packed to it’s capacity and 2) WHY the Emerald Isle is so green………YES- it was rain.
The first few days I spent FAR ahead of my friends. Every rain fall, they’d remind me who was responsible for pedaling in the wet stuff across the mountains. The fact I had so little money made it even more difficult. I was kept out of the pubs by my friends; they knew I’d be broke after the first stop. We enjoyed our time with the sights: the scenery, castle ruins, serene lakes- even found a cave. My buddy got chased by a mountain goat who protected it’s baby and we got a laugh. Isn’t that what it’s all about?
Not shortly after we arrived back from Ireland, did most of us run out of money. We spent many a day eating pasta, cheese and potatoes. If I wasn’t given a lifeline of money from my parents, I may have became a squatter like a few people I knew. I owed the person off the plane 50p- .75 cents for my last beer until my 21st. birthday and they thought I’d have something left……
I presume Best Bar Wednesdays destiny was to have a day fall on St. Patricks. It wasn’t planned, just ended up that way. What are the chances? As it happens, the bar I had planned to go to, wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Had it not been for a small stop at The Hard Rock Cafe and the upstairs bar at the Waldorf-Astoria hotel, it would have been miserable. I’ll get into that tomorrow.
Be patient with me.
When you enter Manhattan; a tourist or someone from the other side of the river, you tend to arrive mid-town. All the streets are categorized so a child could get around, from 12 Avenue across to 2nd avenue, from 3rd Street to over 178 Street. The grids are fairly simple, once you get your bearings; they’re laid out logically.
The city is broken into three large sections; Downtown, Midtown, and Uptown. In my travels I’ve spent probably 75% of it Midtown and the other 25% between Downtown and Uptown. I therefore looked forward to my trip Downtown to the Bridge Cafe because it’s in one of the oldest sections of the city; South Street Seaport dates back to THE BEGINNING.
I’d been to South Street several times in my past, but not to indulge in the history. Several beer festivals were held on Pier 17, where vendors from all over the world set up their stands and served the finest ales and beers- the best sights being overweight tattooed men and lines of bodies pissing off the end of the pier. It always made me giggle at the thought of a tourist leaving by ship under the magnificent Brooklyn Bridge to be greeted by a line of guys who relieved themselves in the harbor. Imagine the story they’d tell their kids…. “They were happy to see us go, so much so, they shook themselves at us…..”
The history in that section of New York will overwhelm you. As you wander around the cobblestone streets, you stumble on institutions that have existed centuries, like The Fulton Fish Market which was once the largest in the world. There are clipper ships docked at Pier 17, a museum on the Seaport, and plenty of old restaurants. Some buildings are even buckled with age, as a local passerby told me. The Bridge Cafe has seen it all.
It’s the oldest known drinking establishment in New York from 1794 when a Grocery, Wine and Porter Bottler made the address its home. It’s had a notorious past on the waterfront. Peter Laing who in 1801 leased the property sued the New York United Insurance Company over an unpaid claim. He lost the lawsuit in NY State Supreme Court but in 1802 won on appeal. The lawyers??
Alexander Hamilton (the Insurance Co.) and Aaron Burr (Laing). For those of you who aren’t familiar enough with American History, one of these men was shot in a dual- see your local textbook. (Let me credit this information to the historian Richard McDermott- an excellent researcher and fellow writer- more later)
On the 1855 census there were 6 known prostitutes of different nationalities who resided in the building. Yes, it was once a brothel. It’s been a pirate bar also, where you might imagine sailors being hauled off to sea. I read a quote from an 1878 document that read; “Twenty-two of the most repulsive types of degraded womenhood stood huddled together at the prisoner’s bar in Tombs Police….” In 1928 eighteen people died from undiluted wood alcohol poisoning. Michael McCormick was arrested for the illegal possession of 62 bottles of liquor labelled Scotch, 6 bottles of gin and 3 quarts of wine. Which leads me into my next train of thought: SCOTCH!
The Bridge Cafe has the most extensive collection of Bourbons and Whiskeys I’ve seen. They have a menu dedicated to the liquor which is 4 pages long from a Japanese Single Malt to Hudson Four Grain Whisky. They fill three shelves deep and half the bar. You can have a glass or a taste. I almost tried one called “Hedonism (Vatted Grain)- described as: Aged in “First Fill” American oak casks, which bring out the sweet Vanilla and honey flavors, BUT after last weeks episode, I stuck with beer… One things for sure; you’d be there an entire month to try and sample all they have to offer. The bar itself is as “old as the hills”. It has mirrors darkened by age, and that glorious feel of old mahogany, you only find in the very best and oldest drinking places. The Manager- Fabian told me on foggy days where the Bud Light Neon sign is, you can see the old sign that hung for ages as an imprint on the window. Shadows tell stories of their own.
So I’m sitting at the bar and having a conversation with the young bartender. She had an accent from New Hampshire. I questioned her further and found she was originally from NH, moved down to Louisiana and was a victim of Hurricane Katrina. She lived in New York the past 4 years if I remember correctly.
Her name was Lucia and she lived with her boyfriend in New Orleans. She evacuated prior to the disaster. They lived on the second floor of a home and were fortunate to still have some of their belongings when they returned. They relocated shortly after.
The other woman, a waitress named Missy, was an actress. As everyone knows, the best place to find actors and actresses are restaurants. Cash from tips helps the bills get paid, and the flexibility of the job can allow for those auditions which are so crucial to fame and fortune. If you watch the Spaulding Grey movie- “Monster in a Box”, he did this fantastic monologue about the attempt to find people in Hollywood who weren’t part of the movie business. EVERYWHERE he went, he’d ask and they’d be an actor, a writer, a singer, an entertainer, producer, etc, etc. It’s downright hilarious, should you get a chance to see it: an oldie but goodie.
I ordered lunch; lobster bisque and a Smoked Turkey Club which were both fantastic. I felt I should have some kind of seafood on the waterfront and the turkey club, just looked fantastic. It was enormous, with bacon and apple- something I could barely finish. It was every bit as delicious as the history which I perused as I ate.
I was almost ready to leave when a man walks in. Fabian sees him and shakes his hand, he introduces me to Richard McDermott, the very author of the information I’d read on the Bridge Cafe! McDermott told me he was once a science teacher and upon retirement he took up an interest in history. After he had a NY Times article run, he’d been approached by other bars to dig into their histories. One wheel, turned others.
We sat there with a drink and chatted about history and of course, ourselves- after all we are writers. I told him of the DeWint house in Tappan, NY and the Trial of Major John Andre which was conducted in the company of General George Washington. The tavern- the 76 House- still exists! He told me of the accurate history of McSorley’s Tavern and the argument over its opening date- I’d been there already a few times. He told me about Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr’s association with the place we drank in. He was a very detail oriented man- a scientist at heart, all action supported by fact.
I prefer the life of a fiction writer, partly because of my natural ability to embellish. A good story involves the way in which it’s told. As a fiction writer, I can read and create around facts- close, but not necessarily accurate. Historians like to argue about solidity and will only consider proof as the concrete which binds a story. Philosophers, consider possibilities outside of normal fact. Proof is not needed- entertainment is. I’m a story teller, born philosopher.
We sat there in this conversation, but I’m not sure he listened to me. I listened to him, but he did little to ask about what I did. It occurred to me; writer’s are all about themselves; what they do, where they go, how they interpret, what effects them, how the stimulus is processed and where it will lead them. He didn’t seem to have much interest, except in historical context. I prefer to meet people and be throughly engaged in conversation. To listen is so important.
The visit to the Bridge Cafe made me bring out my camera. It was the most pictures I’d taken since I started this venture. There is so much visual stimulus around the area, I knew I could only capture part of it in words, pictures help retain something I missed (like the wandering mariachi guys who spontaneously played as soon as the subway doors closed- DAMN good too). The poetry of a picture can state more than any words can say. So I will do what I can to upload pictures in a new folder on our site titled: Best Bar Wednesdays.
Next week will be Bull and Bear Steakhouse & Bar at 540 Lexington Ave at 49th Street- Inside the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. It opens at 4pm and has a dress code, if you want to join.
Productivity is a measure of success, and no success comes without it. The train comes, and goes, it’s scheduled like any activity, but without it- Best Bar Wednesday wouldn’t be. The train is an absolute necessity for such a venture. It allows the freedom to indulge without the worry of a trip behind the wheel. It creates peace, even in the event of a train transfer. Spring had sprung, my mind was caffeinated and I had yet to get the train.
I sat on the platform opposite the track and lost myself in the darkened steel rail held tight by heavy grey wood and rusty steel spikes. Each spike locked the long lines in place for miles and miles. It’s how our country was built, how the steel industry capitalized, how we moved from place to place with ease. How commerce prospered- why Warren Buffett spent billions on it’s purchase (my opinion can be inserted, after all this is my blog… who really knows why)
My parents owned an antique booth long ago in Red Bank, New Jersey. Back then, it was a town surrounded by urban decay. There was an abandon textile factory (now called the Galleria), and three old buildings owned by one person (I knew the owner as Nan and her son Guy). They christened the place the Red Bank Antique Center; every building labelled I, II and III. My parents place was in building two. When you entered it back then, to your right was an 18th century coffin with a glass lid and a REAL clothed skeleton! I’m sketchy on details, but it wasn’t there long. The parking lot was dirt with a obstacle course of potholes. It was next to an old lumber yard, that used to get it’s wood delivered by a railroad track that ran between it and the building. It had long ago been abandoned, and covered by an assortment of weeds and poisoned ivy.
On weekends my parents had a responsibility to show items behind locked cabinets, ring sales and sell their own goods. As young kids, my brother and I were told to stay close, but always pushed the boundaries when we could. We’d spend hours in search of artifacts, but especially in the dirt parking lot of the Antique Center. We’d find buckets of railroad spikes, which we’d take home and spray paint gold- pretend we were rich. Our day would be spent trading monopoly money for buckets of gold spikes. Even sell some for a dollar each to the kids down the block
I had a fascination with history and a hunt for treasure for as long as I can remember. I blame my Great Grandfather; a pawn broker in Liverpool, England and my father for my desire to research and access value to strange and unusual things. Find a lost secret, something no one knew anything about and realize it was the hidden key to a fortune. It always lit my imagination. I dreamed I owned the golden railroad spike that connected the West Coast with the East. To own an important piece of history was first, and then there was the fact it was GOLD. Gold fascinates many a child.
It’s not unlike now.
My child-like imaginative thinking is confined here to share with you. I’m fortunate to be able to continue to use my imagination like a man-child. I’m not unlike the man who builds and plays with miniature train sets. I use no material- just words. I build sentences, paragraphs, then pages- perhaps a book. Maybe it’s a pointless exercise, maybe it’s time to ride the swing and propel it over the bar.
What kid ever considered physics when he tried to swing around the bar? Do you think it would have stopped him anyway? Not this kid. I never listened to the odds or considered them in doing what I do. If I had, perhaps I might not be here to fill your day with nonsense. From one kid to another- don’t listen to everything ya hear- you’ll never get anywhere.
Steve “the big kid” Roberts
Funk Thunder
The REAL story tomorrow- Bridge Cafe- the OLDEST Drinking establishment in NYC.
My friend, Steve Epstein, is part of an art show called “Art at Bay” at the tip of Staten Island from March 5th to 28th this month. They had an opening reception last night. It was the first time I’d ever been further than Richmond Ave, but I’d heard about Bay Ave. and it’s views of the Statue of Liberty and the city. It didn’t disappoint.
Staten Island to me was always a really scary place. In my imagination, I always pictured the underground activities that take place on an island which refuse is known to go. Pictures of mobsters prance through my head and a pistol in a pear tree. All kidding aside, the dense nature of the island and not having any kind of GPS system, nor any map- left me to think about ending up in a sleazy neighborhood and having my ass handed to me on a plate.
The worst thing about Staten Island are the traffic grids- there aren’t any. Roads take crazy hairpin turns, the same names can be found in multiple places- (Richmond Ave, Port Richmond, Richmond Blvd, etc, etc, etc.), and I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many traffic lights condensed into one place, pot holes everywhere. Now, if your alone with a print out from Mapquest you’re trying to read as you drive, it could be a downright nightmare. The obstacles come up fast and furious; car choked streets, double parked cars, traffic lights, pot holes, jay walkers, all the while trying to navigate a maze of directions. My printout when I crossed the Goethals Bridge went as follows:
1) Take Exit 12 Todt Hill Rd/Slosson Ave - .01mi
2) Turn slight left on to Lortel Ave - 0.0 mi
3)Turn Left on to Slosson Ave -.2 mi
4)Turn Rt. on to Victory Blvd - 2.9 mi - HURRAY! I have time to read!
5)Turn Lft on Bay Street - .3 mi
6)Turn SHARP LEFT onto Nick LaPorte Pl - 0.0 mi
7) Turn Left on to Stuyvesant Pl - 0.0 mi
8) Stuvesant Pl becomes Bay Street - 0.0 mi
9) 70 Bay St on Right - 0.0 mi
Oh, I forgot to add the Staten Island attitude which basically says. “If you don’t know where you’re going, you’re going to slow, or you’re looking at me funny, you don’t belong on Staten Island and I can attempt to get you out by HONKING at you!”
Regardless, of how difficult the drive was- if you knew the roads, the people and the surroundings, it’d be relatively simply. My New York plates provide a LITTLE ease. It’s practically opposite the Staten Island Ferry which would be really convenient for you NYC dwellers. I believe the train is close also. Take public transport- save the planet and yourselves!
I felt compelled to visit my friend Steve Epstein because of my love for his work, but also the name of the exhibit: “Emotional Rescue”. It’s a favorite song of mine by the Rolling Stones, something when I read the lyrics, I designated it as an internet name- ERescue. It was perhaps a sign from the cosmos telling me it was a place I needed to go.
He has two long time friends- Neil Besignano and Michele Guttenberg- who he’s talked about before. I’d seen their paintings at his place and was always impressed with the work. I was fortunate to arrive before the crowds when I could take time to walk around chit-chat and enjoy. The space is great and the artists- fabulous. One of the paintings Michele had done was a couple I’d seen photographed for a small publication called “The Sun”- one of the most INCREDIBLE magazines for compassionate people EVER. In my mind, that said a LOT to me. Subject matter always said a lot to me about a person. Neil’s patterns and subject matter, attracted me a great deal. There was one of crumpled yellow tarps which was absolutely STUNNING. I kept going back to it again and again. I believe it was my favorite of the show. There were one’s of beach trash with a focus on crumpled containers- empty bottles, dead fish, and stones. An entire painting of cigarette butts, worn tires. I think he has a new fan.
I own a few of Steve’s paintings. He did my portrait; the best portrayal of me, ever done. If you look at “my photos” in our Funk Thunder folder, you’ll find a portrait of Joe & I, done by Steve. He does more than just portraits, but contemporary abstract work- FASCINATING stuff. He works in radiology in a hospital, and is often pulled into the emergency for situations. How he does it, I don’t know, but the impact appears in his paint. I feel he’s a painter who NEEDS to paint. Steve had a featured painting in Lurzer’s Archive Special of the “200 Best Illustrators Worldwide” 2007-08. A tremendous achievement, but as most artists is tied up in every day wage earning.
Getting out and doing things is the catalyst of creativity. Nike said it best in their advertisements- “Just do it”. The more you explore, the more it comes to you- the purpose, the meaning, the inner salvation you need to cope with all the nastiness which surrounds us. It may take a maze of city streets, but there’s peace at the end of the journey. Good day all.
I forget how important the Rolling Stones have been in my life.
I’ve always been a huge fan of music, but there were a few bands I connected with radically in my early years. Van Halen was the first in high school, David Lee Roth left and it sort of fell to the wayside. Led Zeppelin was next in the early years of college. The Song Remains the Same became this mystical trait I buried deep inside my psyche. For years, I always dreamed of a reunion between the remaining members- and still I do. The last cataclysmic band was the Stones, who I STILL love, and have never really left.
Many bands out there today don’t have longevity. They group together make that big hit and after a few years fizzle out. No one REALLY attempts to keep together… they go off on their own, make their own thing and make money independently. Of the truly GREAT bands I can only think of U2, but the Stones- they’ve been there from the beginning.
I haven’t listened to them for years. The man I met on Best Bar Wednesday- Steve One- was a dancer. It prompted me to think of the great song by the Rolling Stones - “If I was a Dancer”. I found some clips on youtube this morning and currently I’m listening to “Where the boys all go”- not the songs everyone knows, but the vault stuff. There are sooooo many songs they’ve put out through the decades, it’s easy to get lost in it.
When I first became a fan of the Stones, I lived in London. I stayed with 3 other creative students- a writer, a painter, and a theater major in a small flat. I lived in a tiny room- enough to fit a bed and have a fold down table from the wall. There was about 2 feet from the end of the bed to the wall and maybe about 4 feet from the side to the wall. It was heated by a small nichrome heater mounted high on the wall, I could pull a cord to heat the room. The water heater to the flat was about half the size of a regular propane tank used to heat a BBQ grill. We used to drizzle water out for one hour into a bath in order to splash it over us- all the while heating 3 pots of water on the stove to expedite the process. There was no shower.
On cold nights I’d huddle down under my blanket, put on Beggars Banquet or Goats Head Soup. Songs like “No Expectations” and “Winter” became immediate hits in Steve’s jukebox of life.
The connections we make with music often refer to a particular time in our lives- a memory. It could be good, it could be bad, but if you open yourself up to it years after the occurrence, it could open the floodgates as if it was yesterday.
The Rolling Stones are the catalyst to these long lost memories. A place to revisit. So Steve One- if you read this- thank you. There is a purpose for every person we meet- even if it’s a chance meeting at a bar. The wheels spin from one person to another and for every inspiration there is spark. You were this spark.
All the best!
It occurred to me in the middle of the night that I should keep my “History and Stories of the Best Bars of New York” like a 1930’s sticker ridden suit case. If you can picture that golden time where ship travel was more frequent and large hard trunks appeared more regularly, you might be able to comprehend the idea of this new piece of art. It was during those days, people would decorate their trunks with stickers of places they’d been- Istanbul, Rome, London, etc.
I have a book with no stickers, but receipts, a match book, a metal MET badge, and signatures. To me, this journey is about people more than anything else. If I’m lucky enough to meet some famous people- so be it- their signatures will be next to those of bartenders, patrons, whoever I might strike a conversation with. We’re really all the same in other words- feeling people, with emotions, problems and memories. We have different trips, experiences, and even though we have fleeting moments we have memories- talismans.
In grouping these little trinkets- like a receipt for the Metropolitan Museum of Art I don’t remember getting-together- it’ll form a journey much like one of those enormous trunks that used to travel the world over. In my corner of the world, excitement is every step of the journey.
The next bar for March 10th is Bridge Cafe-279 Water Street. Hope to see ya!
On rare occasions I have the opportunity to have an outstanding day. Yesterday, was one.
I boarded my train, wrote, switched at the junction (the earlier train was late which allowed me a wait of literally 2 minutes), arrived in Penn and every subway from there was like clockwork. I made one switch from the E to the 6 effortlessly, with a transition smooth as silk. I had no wait; an absolute rarity.
I read about Benelmans Bar and saw it opened at noon. I arrived a little after 11:00 am in the area. The Metropolitan Museum of Art was about 6 blocks down from the subway station, the Carlyle Hotel only one. The choice was logical- I’d pop in the Hotel, look and if the bar was open this early- start early and have a day at the museum.
I stepped through the gold revolving door of the Carlyle into the reception area. There were two large abstract paintings to the left and a corridor filled with various artwork, including what looked like two large seventeenth century works. In front of me was the main dining room. I poked about, especially down the “art hall” until I found a maid. I asked her the location of the bar and she pointed through a part of the dining area. I walked through into this beautifully nestled, dimly lit bar at the back.
The moment I stepped through the archway I felt the aura of the place. The walls were painted by Ludwig Bemelman, the creator of the children’s book Madeline. It’s the only public display you’ll find his paintings. He did them in exchange for room & board. There’s a magnificent grand piano in the center of the room, a highly shined black piece of artwork which the room revolved around. The bar is to the right. It was quiet; I hadn’t planned to be there earlier than noon.
There were two men to the left of the piano with camera lighting. They looked like creative types who were in the middle of some kind of shoot. I don’t like to disturb others and I had hoped I wouldn’t be a bother. Many well known personalities visit such a bar, and I simply wanted to be a fly on the wall.
I had taken off my hat and made myself comfortable at the bar. I could hear the mens voices, but nothing I could understand. It was a mysterious little alcove where they sat, dim, but lit by that powerful camera light.
I can be the quiet type, but I was in good spirits today. I asked if I might be a bother if I sat peacefully at the bar, and we struck up a conversation immediately. Can you believe the only two men in the bar besides myself were named Steve?? I found it comical from the start.
They were there to work on a documentary of some type. I hadn’t probed about the content of the film, it wasn’t my place, but I told them what I was there to do. They were as interested as I. They wanted to interview me, and touch a little on what my mission was. I was humbled. They hooked the microphone up and we began a small interview under the intense light which lit our corner.
If you put three creative people in a dimly lit room with something interesting to talk about, you never know where it may lead. The words may come as natural as a simple conversation; streams of innovative magic that can only be captured once and disappear as quickly as they appear. I look for these moments where I can learn more about others and indeed myself. I found there was a deeper meaning to this little trip I planned, I was a student and also a teacher.
I could certainly look up to these men. They are involved in the creative fields- Steve One- the interviewer- used to dance long ago- well known in fact, he’d been a painter for the past 20 years, a producer and holds other interesting titles. Steve two was the technical type. He knew the shots, the sounds, like any great director. He was a family man with a beautiful wife and kids. They’d both came by car and were highly concerned about not being ticketed- the fear of every New Yorker!
The star of the bar if you ask me was our bartender- Tommy. I don’t think I’ve ever met a bartender I liked more. In fact, his very personality could have been a carbon copy of a main character in my book “the Fleamarketeer”. He was the PERFECT Henry.
Tommy had arrived late, which was uncharacteristic of him. He was always timely, pants pressed, bottles opened and a whole host of activity done by the time the bar REALLY opened. He was concerned about the light and its effect on other patrons who might not enter. After 11:30 he asked them to shut it down.
Tommy had been bar-tended at Benelmans for FIFTY years! He mistakingly thought I was part of the filmaker’s crew. When I told him I was just a patron, he was really upset. “I’m NEVER late and the one day I am, I have three people in the bar.” He was an Irishman with a wealth of knowledge. In one simple phrase he defined it all: “You can’t film me, I’m just a bartender.” The man who everyone knows, a humble man.
He’d lost his wife not long ago, and the job became more of a saving grace than anything. It kept him busy during the day and his mind from home. I found he lived close to me and commuted in. Everyone knew Tommy and took care of him, much like he took care of us.
Our conversation went a little like this:
S- “What kind of drink should I get? I want an old type of drink, something common in the fifties maybe.”
T- “You tell me what you want and I’ll make it. I’m a beer man myself.”
S- “So am I, but I want something which will be fitting of such a place. What do most people drink here?”
T- “Martinis”
S- “Than that’s what I’ll have.”
Tommy poured me a Stoli Vodka Martini- a BIG one. The left over went in a small container which sat next to the drink in some crushed ice. He brought some water, which he told me is usual with such a drink.
It was cold and good- strong to say the least. I told him I may go to the museum or just sit with him all day. He said if you have more than two of those drinks, I’ll need to have someone carry you out. I laughed- so be it….
We had a delightful conversation. I’d found out more about him and the place. I was very comfortable there, like it was a second home. Time started to fly. I asked for a second martini, but couldn’t leave until I finished it. A doctor came in who Tommy knew. He wore a neck brace and had mentioned about an invention which occurred to him as the result of the comfortable neck ring.
Things were going sketchy…. the second martini was kicking my ass. I kept repeating the phrase in my head- “If you have more than two, someone will have to carry you out.” Fifty years of bar-tending… he should know.
At some point I must have realized what time it was. I’m sure I must have paid Tommy well, but I don’t remember. I found a receipt in my pocket which said Metropolitan Museum of Art. I can’t remember a single painting. I sat down to ask about tickets to a special event later in the month, but no matter how hard I looked- the words weren’t there. The two older women looked at me in question. I must have sat there for two minutes before I uttered a word. I think it was “never mind”. The cab drive was a fractured puzzle. I think if I took the subway I’d still be there.
Somehow I boarded the right train to Secacaus, but had to wait 20 minutes for the connection to the Pascack Line- a much slower train which ran infrequently. I rested my eyes for what seemed to be a second, and found I’d missed the train! It was one of those moments you don’t actually believe you fell asleep. HOW, is beyond me- I MUST have heard the train, I was RIGHT next to the track! However, I couldn’t deny the lost time.
I called my friend Jefferson Thomas who is an avid fan of great bartenders, especially the VERY experienced type- the old guys, who have plenty to tell. I had a few words with him, and did everything to stay conscious…..”more than two of those drinks, and I’ll need someone to carry you out….”
I slept on the train and came to in time to exit. I arrived home after a good walk and realized I was in this “crippled state” until 9pm! Hell, if I hadn’t written on the train yesterday when I was sober, you wouldn’t have had a thing until today!
I had plenty of water, took a cherry pill and Vitamin C for the gout and a few aspirin for good measure.
Now THAT’S a bartender………
This morning I read about this wonderful bar at the Carlyle Hotel- Bemelmans Bar- that dates back to the fine period of Art Deco- 1930. It’s reminiscent of the period, and serves cocktails only an experienced bartender of 50 years could serve. It got me thinking.
Here we are in the second decade of a new millennia. Politics has put a cage on every day society, so much so we’ve decided to create a phrase- “politically correct”. God forbid you can an African American a black man, or a Native American an Indian. If you don’t take the time to look at the fat content on a can of Liverwurst or corn-beef hash, lightening will strike you down.
We’ve all decided to speak and tip toe around everything society has to offer because we as a whole have become sensitive. “You can’t say that! I’ll sue you!” people say. It’s the first line of defense- no more fists, just legal paperwork. Its the capitalization of American society. Why if you measured the amount of money made from frivolous lawsuits, I presume we could pay this gargantuan deficit we’ve crawled into. Frankly, I’m tired of it.
I enjoy a few drinks, getting drunk, I enjoy a laugh more than anything else, and I suppose when the intoxication comes I can put aside those problematic every day occurrences. It’s not that I’m always intoxicating myself, but under the influence of even a few beers, I can focus on the ever more important human activity of laughing, listening, and not speeding along at 100 mph- forgetting how I’ve come this far. All to often, in this crazy tri-state area we’re speeding through time like a black jack dealer spitting cards to his next client.
I enjoy doing things that are bad for me. I enjoy juicy fat full burgers, heavy cholesterol steaks, and food that dribbles out of my mouth and down my beard. One day my body will stop me I’m sure, but until then I can live with a smile on my face. George Burns smoked cigars until he was one hundred.
We once had a trip to the Ben & Jerry’s factory in Vermont. At the end of the tour, you can purchase a bowl of ice cream- ALL kinds of flavors. I remember my daughter, who must have been three, eating this chocolate delight- painted all over her face as if she’d stuck her entire mouth into a pile of the cold stuff. An old woman came to us and pointed at my girl and said, “It always looks so much better when they eat it.” I’ll never forget that moment- think about it. The joy and delight is not only in the self- absorption of the moment, but the on lookers realizing, “if only that could be me.”
One night years ago, I went to a Cajun bar called “The Old Bay” in New Brunswick, NJ. I tossed back a few drinks with my good friend Brian over some fine conversation. I planned on taking the last train home from the town which was about 1:30-2am. There was NO WAY I could leave without a trip to a small, but incredible, winger joint called Cluck U- one of the landmark college late night visits. I purchased probably a dozen mild wingers. The meat was layered in this drippy, gooey, red sauce. It was lathered on and the scent grabbed me by the ears. My mouth watered as I waited for the train, until I could stand it no longer.
I walked to the end of the platform, where it was quiet- like some child punished for something he didn’t know what he did. I ripped into those fleshy wings with the delight of a child. The sauce was not only all over my fingers, but my lips, my cheeks, and between my teeth- it was GLORIOUS.
Wouldn’t you know it, a fellow writer and professor approached me cautiously, “Steve, what are you doing here?” Fortunately, being one of the creative type who made his second home at our local bookstore- the Raconteur- he was understanding, not shocked in the least- by my display of a Cro-Magnon man making love to his food.
I suppose this exercise revolves around the joy of a visit to a foreign place; meeting new people, having a laugh, a conversation, learning something new- being myself.
Some journeys we need to reawaken our senses, bring excitement back; for me; the icing could never be thicker.
A very simple quote and very to the point:
“It is beneficial to be aware that you will die.”
I used to think that the reminder was always the most important aspect of life. When you’re in the position or indeed reminded of the frailties of life, you tend to live with more appreciation of those simple things around you.
I almost died in 1998 of something called “Parrot Fever”. I’d been around cemetaries for as long as I can remember, even lived next to one for 11 years. I’d never been spooked by them, but found inside a peace I couldn’t really convey. When you see the headstones and the engravings, sometimes porcelain plates, you start to think about what life truly is. What you want to make out of it.
We never know how much time we have, and for that reason when a reminder comes, at least for me, it boosts me into this fast paced creative mode. It comes in spurts and is influenced by everything in my surroundings, my environment. It’s always with death in mind.
Years ago I met a woman who had died, and came back. Woke up in a body bag in the morgue. She had a NDE- a near death experience- and was told in those moments she wasn’t alive that it would be her mission to live and tell of her experience. She wrote a book.
It turns out many people who have these near death experiences, have similarities between each other, one being- their not fearful of death.
I seem to recall when I was a young sickly child waking up in an oxygen tent in the hospital. I may have been 5 or 6, but I’d experienced something I couldn’t describe. I want to say the only thing I did was try and draw it.
I could never confirm its existance, because it was so long ago. My parents are old-fashioned and would never allow me to try and find out more on account of my “funny” background- funny in this case, spooky. Besides, I was only VERY young, and now, I have more years than I care to choose behind me. I wondered whether I’d actually experienced anything, or it was put there by some imaginary trait- point was, I had many traits of the NDE type.
In retrospect, death is simply part of life. We lose family, we lose friends, and eventually, we will lose ourselves. It’s important to enjoy life, to live it and experience different aspects of it. Don’t close yourself in, but get out. The unknown will either be half empty or half full. Try and fill it up; don’t spill any, and when you’re thirsty, get some water.
“It is beneficial to be aware that you will die.” Because you will learn how to live….