There’s no better day to walk city streets than a cool breezy one. The invigoration comes naturally in such weather, so it shouldn’t be a surprise for me to walk from Penn Station to my destination at Prince Street. It may be over 30 blocks, but a subway ride doesn’t seem to replace the various sights on the cities surface.
Broadway runs the length of Manhattan and I thought it’d be the perfect avenue to walk, especially since it hits Prince. When you traverse the avenue you find all sorts of neighborhoods and interests. My first famous tourist place was the Flat Iron Building and a large tomb in front of it. In Flat Iron Park I found a group of people practicing Falun Dafa- a meditative exercise which reminded me of Tai Chi. There was some beautiful monuments there which included a World War I monument dedicated to soldiers returning to New York, a top was a large flag pole that flew the red white and blue. I moved on to Union Square where there was a food, herb and flower market one side and an art/fashion show on the other. You’ll see a picture I took of Honeycombs found in a tree that fell in Brooklyn. The Urban Beekeepers brought it in with genuine New York honey- it was WAY cool. I also met a Russian painter/illustrator named Yuri Bobrykov who was selling his work. He had some incredible pen & inks, watercolors and a few paintings. The details of each drawing were astounding. I walked away to continue my walk and stopped after I said I’d be back. I know myself well enough to know, I probably wouldn’t. I returned and purchased a small picture which fit into my book. Turns out he’d done some work for someone in L.A.. My image was done in 2001. He also gave me a card which listed a place you could see his work see here:
http://www.artforprogress.org/artists.php?mID=135&page=images
Around the corner was “Chocolate from the Bald Man”. Looked delish, but I continued- past the Strand Bookstore and came to a bend in the road where I stumbled on Grace Methodist Church. It had the most incredible doors and gothic fence. (In the 1980’s there was a Goth club called the Limelight which was built in an old church with stained glass windows. It was an eerie club, especially the mirrored ball which was above the dance floor that had Christ on it- almost sacrilegious .) Not much further was Cooper Union- an educational institution on St. Marks Place. It attracted me like a fly to honey, but St. Marks isn’t the same place I once knew. It’s more like Little Tokyo now, with most store fronts being in not just English but Japanese. Leaving the street I peered down the avenue and found a magnificent piece of architecture- part of Cooper Union. On closer examination I found a model shoot in front and a really neat GOTH bike chained to a pole. In the area was an old statue of Mr. Cooper and his dedication to New York- the Village Voice was on the other side of the street- a NY paper big in the 1960’s- and today for that matter. Before I became more distracted I returned to Broadway and finally found my destination- Fanelli Cafe.
Fanelli Cafe is this corner pub whose outside looks like it was layered with black paint many times over the years. The inside was small and the chairs were right next to each other. At this early time (11am) there must have been close to 10 people, mostly older men. The bar was clearly Victorian and original with ornate carvings on it. There was a second bar towards the back also. I sat next to an older guy who was drinking wine and reading a Daily News or Post. To the other side was a man with a dog he called a “Dingo”. I sat quietly with a Guinness and listened.
Approximately 15 minutes later another visitor arrived who apparently knew the man with the dog, the bartender, and another who was with them. He brought in some old photographs he’d taken from the 1950’s. One was a boy in Germany who wore lederhosen and stood in front of elaborately carved trellises, the others were of old bridge supports that supported steam engines crossing. They were taken in the South West. I brought up a picture that had been taken of my mother in 1939 when she became a war evacuee and left Liverpool to be safe from the war. She stayed with a foster family, but returned to Liverpool before the Blitz began. The picture came to light when my mother attended a reunion of these women in the 1990’s. The photo was snapped and lost until then- my mother in front and center walking down the road- something she didn’t know existed.
After I brought up that the bartender- Simon- said he was from Birmingham England, but lived here 23 years. He had only recently tried to find out more about his families experiences during the war, but found little. His grandfather was a marine, but as most English families are, they were close lipped about that period. Had it not been for me conducting an “interview” with my parents about their childhood, many stories would be lost. I hadn’t known the extent of the traumatic experiences, and probably never would had I not acted like a “historian” then their “son”. His family still live there, his last trip 2 years ago.
To my left was a man named Tom who picked up on our conversation and started to discuss his mother who only passed a year and half ago at an age over 90. He’d spent much of his time splitting up her care between his brother and himself. He was a photographer who carried his camera and lived close by. He mentioned a local haunt called Tom & Jerry’s Bar on Elizabeth street. He was embarrassed to go back because of a picture he’d taken of the bartender who he promised he’d give a copy to, but hadn’t. He’d misplaced the picture and wouldn’t return until he found it. We discussed some philosophical issues and he disappeared shortly after.
Two Spanish tourists arrived and sat next to me. They spoke very little English, so I attempted to speak some sort of broken Spanish and English, but it didn’t go well. I pulled out one of my cards with my website and email, so they took pictures with me. I in turn, took a picture of them. The bartender just rolled his eyes. It was comical.
Just as I was going to go, Simon treated me to a drink. I hadn’t eaten yet and before I knew it I was on a purely liquid diet of Guinness. My Grandmother used to drink a Guinness a day as a food supplement- so I had four courses then left…..
I’m not quite sure how I arrived at Tom & Jerry’s on Elizabeth Street. I got disoriented, but was helped by a couple who saw how confused I looked. They got me to the right area. When I walked in the place the bartender was seated petting a small dog. She welcomed me, as I was the only one there! I liked it already. Not 10 minutes later 3 other people joined me at the bar. It was an old bar with a giant moose head, water buffalo head and art on the walls. A man with a heavy Irish accent walked in and sat down at the end of the bar. He knew the bartender- he seemed disheveled. I find out he had a flight out of New York to Shannon in Ireland in 3 hours and hadn’t even packed! I sat there in shock. If I was in that situation I would have been on the floor dead. He was the co-owner of the place and left shortly after with a big whoosh. My memory faded quickly.
After a few more, I was treated to another- NO lunch… STILL. Time elapsed, and so did I. Before I left I’d met another artist named Dan Snow. He’d had a show at the bar and had travelled around the country with the theater. He was also a painter with his website at www.dansnowartist.com . We exchanged cards- he was a regular there.
I somehow built a bridge which led me to Penn Station (hazy between). I had enough time to load up a container of Chinese food with General Cho’s, Sesame Chicken and noodles. It’s not unusual for people to grab a bite and take it to the train, but I was out in the open and not sheltered by another seat- I must have looked a mess.
I arrived home at 8pm.
Next week it should have been Fraunces Tavern which I believe is closed, so I’ll most likely continue to the next called J.G. Melon at 1291 Third Ave at 74th Street. Hope to see ya there after noon.
Van Gogh once painted a picture of a farmer’s old boots. It wasn’t because of the color or the position of them, but of the shape- worn and tattered. It was with great admiration he painted them; his recognition of the working man. They were a symbol of the tireless work men gave in the fields of Holland. The day to day grind which heighten their souls, made them appear like those old shoes. At the time people viewed the shoes as a status symbol. It’s not unlike today where a fine pair of Ferrigamo shoes or colorful Adidas cost hundreds. Blue collar workers prefer the heavy construction boots with steel toes that protect their toes from heavy wood or center blocks which could easily crush them.
I used to be more concerned about the shoes I wore, especially with a suit. Now, I’ve grown accustom to certain ones which I simply enjoy for comfort. I’m not technically a business man of importance- I’m a part-time worker, writer, and musician who lives life and prefers to enjoy the things around me- like the feel of my shoes.
I have a pair of Doc Martins, brown every day shoes; comfortable as hell. I wear them with pretty much everything including black suits. I wear them now. They’re scratched up and the insides are starting to slide in. I know in due course I’ll have to shed them for a new pair. These are sentimental- almost every trip to the city I’ve worn them. They’re not unlike my sneakers. I’d bought replacements for them a few years ago, and purchased the exact pair unknowingly until I returned home with them. They’re in bad shape- a small hole in the side, a large cut in the tread and VERY worn rubber. They’ve actually started to hurt, especially around the spot the gout hits. It’s not high on the priority list. Yesterday, I happened to go to DSW to look for new ones, but the cost of a new pair is outrageous- I walked out empty handed.
It made me think of the farmers who beat the living shit out of their foot ware. I’m sure they could give pointers on what makes a good set of boots or shoes.
People judge each other initially on what a person wears. They assume what you wear is representative of you as a person before they know you. If you wear a suit, speak clearly and in a slow voice, and you’re clean and neat; one might assume you’re a person of power. If you’re scruffy, unkempt, ripped pants and a worn shirt; you’re a pauper. When you have a combination of both maybe an artist or poet. People need to “classify” you before they approach- weather you’re someone they should know or be seen around. I learned many lessons from my father who bypassed the perception of class going from nothing to something with only an eighth grade education. His understanding of people was his strength- much the same as mine.
Those of you who recall the 80’s will remember the movie “Caddyshack”. A classic which revolves around class and the golf course. Rodney Dangerfield played the obnoxious rich guy and there was the judge, a man from old money. Upper class society and their interaction at one of the more wealthy sports. The reaction of old conservative money to new filthy rich spending seems almost European vs American. It makes me wonder if Capitalist Russia has become a large “Caddyshack” with old Czarian society snubbing their noses at the new rich and powerful; like late 1800’s USA.
There will always be class wars and differences between societies and people. There will be poor who suffer from mental illness and are shunned. There will be wealthy who suffer from mental illness and are “eccentric”- even embraced. The difference? Money. It always returns to the greenbacks. It’s like that old adage goes- you’ve not got a right to say anything unless you’ve walked a mile in my shoes. Look down at them- judge not, see them for what they are and realize they only mask your feet.
You only know someone after a few drinks
When I exited the train, something told me to go the opposite of where I was supposed to go. I decided I’d visit an area of New York I’d only feel comfortable during the day- Hell’s Kitchen. It’s along the waterfront in the upper avenues, about 8th avenue over to the West side Hwy and from about 36th Street to 52nd, or something like that.
Fear was instilled in me by my father who in the 1970’s worked there- “When Darkness fell, we needed to take cars from the company because of the danger of robbery, rape or murder,” he’d say…. The terror he brought into the household was enough to make me fear any trip to New York deep into my twenties. He’d always been a good storyteller, and the charisma- always verbal- was enhanced by his hand gestures. It was gripping.
The cities changed a lot since then and after I worked there, I’d grown comfortable in most areas. I’m a subway and foot traveler, and had time so I’d make the journey by foot. I’d traverse 9th Ave uptown, see some urban decay, take a few pictures, see the outer edge of the Lincoln Tunnel and the facing parking lot when you hit 42nd., below the back of Port Authority, a soup kitchen for seniors, graffiti, lots of trash, fenced up abandon buildings and occasional corner “hangers”. When I reached 43rd street I’d picked up a flyer from Anthony on the corner advertising for Mid City gym: a personal trainer. As I crossed at the light, a guy wheeled the largest guitar I’d ever seen towards me. It was pretty nice too- a v-shape, and mounted on a push ramp. It stopped me in my tracks when I reached the opposite corner. The guy stopped to talk to the Personal Trainer and I decided to go and ask him about it.
BC Storm was his name. He’d built the guitar himself in 2003, had it mounted on a rack with an amp and power system all hidden behind this gargantuan instrument. Turns out he was on his way to Hammerstein Ballroom for an audition (his second or third) for “America’s got talent”. A producer had bumped into him when he was playing the street, handed off her card, and told him to contact them. After he made it down (late) a bunch of people swarmed him and put him on right away. He was a charismatic guy with a thick accent (either Brooklyn or Staten Island) and he played well enough and entertained enough to come back today. He wanted to play “the Star Spangled Banner” like Jimi Hendrix, but they wouldn’t allow him to do it because of rights with the Hendrix estate. He chose Ozzy- Crazy Train.
He hadn’t prepared for his audition, but was going to wing it. I agreed, sometimes this is the best, because you’re either driven by pressure or cave to it. Some people work better without thinking about it, and he gave me the impression he was good at winging things. I liked his spontaneity.
We talked about how great New York was, and I’d mentioned to him about writing about my love of the city earlier that morning (yesterdays Train Ride blog). He loved the streets as much as I, and carrying around the behemoth- with the attention it gets, I could see how he could have so much inspiration. I took a photo, because people wouldn’t believe the size of the guitar AND that he played the thing. It was taller than him- probably twice the size of a stand up base, but I’ll let you be the judge- see our photos- Best Bar Weds. When the camera came out, I found others took out there’s also. So even before he reached the ballroom, B.C. Storm was a starrrrrrrrr.
I had the trainer sign my book as well as the musician. They were the first and only of my trip. I walked all the way to the water where Pier 88 was and found the Intrepid, which I’ve never been on. It’s a massive battleship anchored in the Hudson and holds an assortment of planes. As much as part of me said- “GO ON”, the other part said, “YOU HAVE THINGS TO DO…” It’d have to wait for another trip.
I found a three story Salvation Army Thrift store with some really cool furniture and plenty of clothes. A small pottery place with some neat little clay heads, and another small 2nd hand store called something like “Outsiders” which gave a clear feel of Broadway- even had a poster signed by Debbie Gibson and the cast of some show. They played that typical French music and had all sorts of costume like clothes. It was literally blocks from the theater district so; you can imagine the influence there.
The Ear Inn opened at noon and it was about 11am by the time I’d had it with wandering through Hell’s Kitchen. I hopped a subway down to Spring Street and exited to look for the Screening Room on Varick, but couldn’t find it. I found the tunnel, even found out the TriBecA film festival started that day! In front of the large theater that advertised for the festival was some kind of water fixture, which contained a waterfall inside a mini park. It had attracted a classroom of kids who looked like they were having the time of their lives playing, despite the huge highways next to it and the basic urban landscape.
I got to the Ear Inn early, tried the door- it was open. I was the first one in and asked if I could grab a beer. The woman was kind and preoccupied with her work, but gladly poured me a Boddingtons. I told her what I was doing, touring around the bars and blogging about it. She seemed a little “standoffish” at that point.
I thought, perhaps this is the wrong approach when I first enter a quiet bar. I mean I’m not the sort of guy who’s looking to slander anyone and I think sometimes people feel “a writer” can be someone unapproachable maybe even get them in trouble. If they act in a certain way- it’ll come back to them as a bad thing. Perhaps it’s just my crazy thoughts and me. I decided to drink my beer and check out the items in the place.
There were great flasks above the bar, plenty of old signs even one looking for soldiers to replace those in Germany during WWII- (again see the pictures). I wondered if my grandfather ever visited this place when he voyaged from Liverpool to New York in the 1930’s aboard the ocean liners. There were all kinds of pictures of old ships and seafarer merchandise, a phone booth, some rock signage on the booth, old pictures, and even chess pieces. There was a monkey with it’s head bowed at the top and several Ears of plaster, around the place- I even saw a framed magazine article of the man with the largest ears!
I purchased a book they had on the history of the place and brought it home- the same book I’d seen at the Greenwich Village Bistro. I ordered a calamari dish and about 12:15 the place was packed. It was a small place to begin with, and most people seemed to know each other. I’d started a small conversation with a woman at the end of the bar who was the fiancé to the owner and made her living as a writer. I spoke only a little about what I was doing, then she was joined by a friend of hers and retreated to a table. I’d learned the owner had come over, said hello- seemed to be a gentle soul, and carried off to tend to business. By 12:30 there wasn’t a table and I could understand the need to get everything in order when the place was quiet. The bar filled up with lunchtime guests and then there was me.
I was a little intimidated by the crowd. When you’re in a place filled with regulars who are there to eat then run, you’re limited on conversation. I prefer the quiet bar, the simple one on one conversation, and with my time schedule, I had little of that and knew by the time everyone had gone, I’d be gone myself. I’d have liked to talk with the owner about the ghost, but I’m not one to interfere with business. I’d been brought up with the attitude of do the work- talk and BS after: a workaholic mentality.
I knew I wasn’t far from Carmine Street and a few weeks back, I’d remembered the old guys who played every Weds from 12:30-2pm at Greenwich Village Bistro. It was 1pm- I still had time. I passed the New York Firefighter Museum, which I REALLY wanted to go visit, but fought the deadline. It’s so easy to get sidetracked and I did my best to stay focused on the musicians who would disappear at 2pm.
I found my way back to the Bistro and there were 2 of the 3 originals- the piano player and the trombone player. I sat down and ordered an Irish stout, then smiled as they played these old New Orleans style songs. It was very honky tonk and brought back memories of my passed Uncle- the one I wrote Jazz Cat about. Carla remembered me and I credited her for me getting my book. I told her I’d just been there and thanked her once again.
The square outside was busy; the day gorgeous. The musicians played, and I enjoyed- this is what Spring was about. When they were through I thanked them, we exchanged some words and they retreated to join a friend of theirs at a table towards the front. For me, I’d finish my beer, visit the bagel store next door and get those delicious Sundried Tomato bagels to come home with (yes, I had one this morning). This time they had 7 and I took them all. I didn’t linger, hopped the train and got home around 5pm. Some days shape up to be pretty damn good.
Next Wednesday will be Fanelli Café at 94 Prince Street. Thanks for dropping in- do check us out regularly- we enjoy it as much as you.
Steve
Funk Thunder
There are days when the last thing you want to do is write.. be awake… or drink. Even when it’s a beautiful day the treks are long and the excitement, like any “task” becomes redundant. Routine gives way to boredom and the train ride, well, that the same every time.
I dealt with 6 years of that with such patience, it makes me think, how? I suppose it was different- the ride shorter- my mind occupied with work. The 45 minute commute was ideal for that solitary time to write. You must think, “solitary time”? For most commuters in the tri-state area that time on the train is a time to indulge in activities like reading, working, looking and my worst hated activity- talking on the phone.
We close ourselves off in these worlds where we concentrate and prepare ourselves for the onslaught of a day filled with madness. New York City is like that- the crowds and the tourists; we need to seek shelter inside ourselves- to protect the fragile inner layers. I mean the stimulus comes at a million miles an hour and when you’re out in the open, you can’t avoid it- BUT you can retreat inside. It’s safe there.
I once heard a commotion on a train when I left the city. I was sandwiched between two others in the center of a three person seat. The man was a big guy who wore one of those 10 gallon Cowboy hats. He started to vent loudly in frustration. He explained to this uninterested crowd he was from Texas and although he was surrounded by people- everyone diverted their eyes and did little to talk. I suppose every conversation he attempted to start, died shortly after it began. He said something like, “For GOD sakes, does anyone talk here in New York?”
I presumed it was his first time here and although we appear worldwide to be of “cold heart”, we are not. We’re protected. We only allow in those who are close, we’re guarded, we have a lot to do, and any commitment to a conversation that may lead to a new stalker, we can do without.
Once you understand the culture and you experience the incredible amount of “input feed”, you’ll know you must find somewhere to be at ease- if it’s the islands, or a small piece of your head- on the right side…below your ear.
For all its worth, its the greatest city in the world and I couldn’t live comfortably without the thought of getting there by car or train. There’s always the dream cities; London, Paris, Zurich, etc- but give me New York. I’ll take it all the time.
Today’s venture will take me close to Canal street. I’ve heard of it many a time, especially when it comes to knock off designer bags, but I’ve never really ventured there. I visited Varick Street years ago to visit the Screening Room for a B film called “I woke up early the day I died” with Christina Richie & Billy Zane. The place was a restaurant circa 1940 with these enormous plush red velvet curtains and all the decor to boot. After dinner you were directed to a small private theater which sat maybe 50 people to watch a movie. The ambiance was perfect and the movie obscure. The Holland Tunnel was close, a stones throw in fact. The place seemed to be on a crossroad if I remember correctly. It’ll be interesting to see how the landscape has changed, or if I can even find the place.
The Ear Inn has a long history. The house was originally owned by a freed slave, one who worked for George Washington and pictured in the famous painting of him crossing the Delaware River. It’s within a block and a half of the water and was once a smugglers den. They started to serve liquor in 1817. Once again, I’m reminded of that conversation from a blog or two ago about old versus young- Europe to America.
I purchased a Disney cell on Toy Story ages ago. It showed Buzz Lightyear on one side of the spring dog and Woody on the other. To me, it represented that bridge between old and new which is portrayed in every human. It was cleverly laid out in the cartoon picture. At what point do we need to give up history at the sacrifice of the future? Do we need to at all?
The Steampunk movement is a beautiful combination of both. It combines old victorian objects- items of old industry and makes them new again by modifying them in a romantic way- glorifying their history and creating a future device. If you imagine the look of old worn oak, beaten leather, and battered copper worked with computer chip technology, you have a niche which for-fills the emptiness created by the vacuum of destruction; like Washington Irving’s need to return to the romance of nature in the 1800’s. Either way, the world changes- it morphs over and over again.
There is a need to appreciate history and those items which represent it. Next time you visit a place of historical reference think about how the dreams of someone shaped that thing or place, then correlate it to your own dream and how you’ll seek to do the same for your future. We all dream, but in different times and places.
When I got my first pair of glasses I worked near The New York Public Library. When I wore those things, the details went from night to day. I wandered like a boy, new to the world so familiar to me. At the time it was the details, which blew my mind. The tops of old buildings, the façades, the architecture, which I’d never noticed came to me in one enormous WHOOSH.
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I hadn’t realized the state of my eyes or these fine details I’d missed all along. It seems every time I go to a new area of the city now, I find myself lost in the details and the euphoria of being some place new. It’s a big city with plenty of little things and when I’m in a new section of town I scratch my head and wonder why I hadn’t taken the time to get there earlier.
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It’s one of the better aspects of my Best Bar Wednesday tour. Wandering around, seeing things from a different perspective, indulging a little and realizing how small I am in comparison to the world around me.
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When I exited the subway at 79th Street on the Upper West Side I was floored by the beauty of a large church, which stood on the corner of Broadway. A fruit vendor was opposite and people walked everywhere. The bar could be seen from the subway. Fortunately, I arrived early and started to poke about. I went to Amsterdam Ave, made a left and walked further uptown. Along that strip there are plenty of bars such as the Dead Poet, and the Gin Mill. There are also some interesting old residential buildings with beautifully painted black fire escapes. I found the Tibet Bazaar, which imported goods from there: clothes, instruments, prayer blankets, hats, jewelry and such. I’d always been surrounded with items from Asia growing up, so for me, it felt very homey. A beautiful Catholic church was on one street with a gorgeous gate (you’ll see the picture in our folder Best Bar Wednesdays). It led to a back alley, but it’s beauty hit me on such a gorgeous day.
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Often I never know what pictures I’m going to take of my surroundings. I trust my gut and hope something poetic strikes. I found a small garden next to a school locked with a heavy-duty chain. I can’t blame them, especially since gardens are difficult to come by, and well-maintained ones need protection. According to studies, they say crime drops in the vicinity of them. It must wake those buried feelings, you cover in your own self defense.
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The Dublin House opens at 8am and works until 4am. It’s a great place to just go in, have a couple of pints and relax. It has a traditional dark atmosphere and the décor looks like it still from the 1970’s. They have an enormous jukebox, ATM, and a video game. Papers lined a shelf behind the bar stools which you could help yourself to. Small booths for two lined that whole area of the wall. If you passed through the main bar area, down the hall you’d come to a larger room that held various tables. It was a humble kind of place with only 3 patrons(10:30am- wouldn’t expect much more this early). Two men sat on the end of the bar; one with a Mac, who looked like he had some kind of writing up and another who he seemed to know. The last man sat towards it’s center and kept quiet. He ordered Budweiser.
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The bartender, a young woman named Paula, had a heavy Irish brogue. She served one of the men on the end a Bloody Mary that looked delicious. I’d only just ordered a Guinness, when one of them said, “Good choice”. It wasn’t my first, as I’d been dreadfully tired and wanted desperately to order some kind of coffee drink. The bartender hadn’t had a pot of coffee made, but kindly offered to make some. I’d order an Irish Coffee next.
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Paula new well about the book and had one also. She brought me over a beautiful business card of the Dublin House sign- neon green & red- which I taped inside. She was the first to sign my book- told me her and her friends had planned on making trips early Monday mornings at 8am to various places, but hadn’t got it done.
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The most difficult task in life is getting things done. In the creative world, the phrase circulates over and over again, adopted by Nike- “Just Do It”. Some people are talkers, some are do’ers, and some just can’t get it together. I prefer to call myself a do’er, once I dedicate myself to something- I DO! This Best Bar Wednesday is a prime example. I said I was going to do it, and despite all the excuses I could find NOT to do it- which include an hour and fifteen minute commute into the city, I’m gonna get it done. There are days I REALLY don’t feel I should be doing it and suffer at the guilt of getting other things done, but I made the commitment, and can’t turn back.
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Fatigue is part of the experience, especially for me. My theory is brain receptors responsible for alertness and logic fall asleep allowing those other creative centers to wake. After long periods without sleep, people have been known to hallucinate and see things, which aren’t there. Granted, I’ve never had those experiences, but it makes you think about the undiscovered aspects of the brain. I have a cut out quote in my novel folder by T.E. Lawrence: “All men dream- but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible.” Need I say any more?
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I got a call from Jefferson who said he was on his way. He stopped at 59th to walk and experience the beautiful day. He’s always been an avid walker and has attempted to get me to walk around Manhattan several times (26 miles) with the Road Runners Club, but was unsuccessful. He told me about several places you need to crawl through broken chain fences and how the upper upper upper East side has the most interesting sights- not all pretty.
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I spoke with the writer- Mark, who was indeed at work- a television producer. I said, “please don’t tell me you produce those reality series…..” , to which he replied, “yes”. I said, “ohhhh man….” And he didn’t seem to be to thrilled with it either. I told him about the Deadliest Catch- the one reality show I enjoy- which of course he’d heard of. I told him about the confrontation I had years ago at a bar with a communist and our verbal exchange, which almost led to me leaving the bar in a huff. The guy sat me down, treated me to a drink, calmed me down and we continued to express our views. It was one of those moments you realize you don’t need to see eye to eye, but you need to know when to quit the conversation, or step away- breathe. Any thing in life needs this- any negotiation- there’s a point you can go to, but if you cross that line, all hell breaks loose. Defining where the line is- that’s another matter.
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The guy who had the bloody Mary exited, and not long after JT (Jefferson Thomas) entered. We carried on our rants and raves about this and that. It’s what we always do. We vent, and he’s a good person to do that with. We have similar viewpoints on life and parents who are much older, so we have this mutual respect for each other. His father served in the South Pacific in WWII, my father was a boy in Liverpool England who had the shit bombed out of him by the Germans. We both have war stories and parents who have been married over 50 years- his I believe celebrated their 60th yesterday- so we had a toast. We both have worries on their medical conditions and we both know time is closing in. Jeff and met in the same bar, I’ve talked about before- Downtime, years ago.
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The good thing about Jefferson is he’s one down to earth mother fucker, and I enjoy his company- always have. He has a great philosophical outlook on life. He rolls with the punches, gets up, and keeps getting up. I was lucky enough to go through the whole 9-11 experience in his company, and on the first anniversary sit amongst the nations bravest firefighters at McSorleys downtown- an experience which would humble the mightiest.
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Having the atmosphere of the Dublin House was fabulous. I’d read it had an older clientele- mostly over 40. When you brush with greatness, it’s often in these humble settings, WHICH brings me on to poetry.
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The Dead Poet was our next stop. I originally wanted to go there first on account of the mix drinks I’d heard of. Having a few beers, then going to liquor is usually a NO NO, but when you’re in a place called the Dead Poet and surrounded by famous literary quotes, poetry and literature- how can you not enjoy a mind altering “Walt Whitman” or “Edgar Allen Poe”? I ordered the Whitman, Jeff- the Poe. The Whitman was like a Long Island Ice Tea- it packs a punch. Jeff told me the Poe was the same.
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It was difficult making the choice. How do you choose a drink based on your favorite poet? Do you choose it for the literature they’ve contributed, even if the ingredients are not what you like, or do you choose by the contents and hope to read the poetry at a later date? I think in this case, like any, you need to find a balance. I’ve always been part to choose because of name; after all it’s why I ended up at “The Dead Poet”. Walt Whitman was from the area, and he had a home on Long Island, which I have yet to get to. Poe had written in New York and we all know what happened to him. Regardless, they had authors like Oscar Wilde, Emily Dickinson, Dylan Thomas, John Keats, Robert Frost and W.B Yeats- what would you choose?
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There is a large picture on the wall opposite the bar written backwards. I told Jefferson try and read it with me. We were able to read it- SLOWLY- and after I said to him, “if we had a mirror we could read that really simple”. We turn to the bar and look at the ENORMOUS mirror which overlooked the picture and decoded it right there. By this point, the bar stool was getting MIGHTY comfortable, and so was I. I started to dread that train ride home, despite the beautiful weather. Fortunately, Jefferson has always been good about getting me to the train-, which he did. The funny thing is that once I board the train, there’s no guarantee, it’ll be a straight ride.
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I have this natural ability to fall asleep instantly, less than 5 minutes. I say to myself I’m going to rest my eyes and before I know it I’m sound asleep. When the conductor woke me, I’d missed Secaucus and was approaching Newark, NJ. I needed to turn around and head back. I was able to get back on an express, which left at 5:40 and only stopped a stop before my own. By 6:15 I was in the house, and I didn’t have to get my daughter to church- it had been taken care of…. Thank GOODNESS!
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Next time you’re on the train and you fall asleep, make sure you have an attentive conductor and lots of water. You never know where you might end up- it could have been Trenton for me, had he not come by.
Next week it’s the Ear Inn at 326 Spring Street. I know there’s a lot of history there, so I’m looking forward to it. Hope to see ya there!
Today is a New York minute. It started with a text from my pal Jefferson Thomas at 5:50am stating he may have time to toss back a few and escape his normal rigorous practice in Queens with his band. It went from there to the normal daily activity of getting up, breakfast for me and the kids, lunches for school, and showering. This morning I proceeded with a quick trip to the bank, tickets for the train ride, a drop of my son at his bus stop, before a quick run down the hill to catch the 8:16 train. It never ends.
My need to get to New York early was due to my daughter’s religion class at 7pm. The church is less than a mile, but my daughter practically sobbed when I told her we might walk. True- I understand the complications of a 13 year old walking with her father to the church-like facing death itself- but hardship is good for the soul. Besides, I’m the all powerful Dad, and some things kids need to buck up for.
Last night was the premier of the Deadliest Catch, a ritual I’ve had with my son for the past few seasons. I bought King Crab legs and a glass of fresh beer to bring it in. It’s my way of supporting the work they do, and the risk they take, I mean that’s one SERIOUS job.
My nine year old has a habit of not being able to make it through an episode. He usually nods off half way through, and I always need to carry him to bed. I enjoy it, but as he gets older, he gets heavier and bigger and I’ve already accepted I’m not as strong as I used to be. For now, I’m content to know I can still do it. Its important to value life and I believe the program shows you how much we’re at the mercy of nature. Only this morning I heard another earthquake hit- this time China displacing 10,000 people and killing 400. The tectonic plates are on the move and we can only hope we’re not at the next shift.
The Deadliest Catch is much different than your usual “reality” show. It’s gritty and unscripted, but through clever editing they capture life on the Bering Sea and off. People DO die; it’s a fact every captain and crewman faces in order to do the worlds most dangerous job. Those who watch it have seen people perish, or near perish and that hits hard. This season will be especially sad, because of a death in “the family”. There is a reason to look at the better side- wisdom. Had the cameras not exposed these tough souls, we’d not be as enriched as we are. I can’t say enough about the show. If you need to see the light- tune in.
For years, I wanted a tattoo in old English script on my lower back simply read, “Shackleton”. He was an Antarctic explorer who led an expedition to be the first to the South Pole. It’s with great admiration I’ve thought this over. In 1914, he set out with his crew, but was halted when his ship- the Endurance- was captured by ice and crushed. The crew left for the ice fields and attempted to make their way home. They took what supplies they had, three lifeboats and walked. They ran out of supplies and lived off seal, using it for not just food but oil for their lamps. Five others joined Shackleton to cross a treacherous stretch of water to reach South Georgia- an island with a lighthouse. The only guide was a sextant which if they missed by a few degrees they might miss the island entirely. They took the James Caird (the lifeboat) and despite the 20′ common waves and misting which pelted the boat and froze- they made it.
The harrowing journey was one I read in National Geographic years ago. It took him and his crew 3 years to be saved… THREE YEARS. Not a person died. The ordeal was overshadowed by WWI, but is one of the most incredible true life tales of courage I’ve ever read. It’s for the reason the tattoo would be my symbol of courage to escape whatever hardship I face- my escape from whatever mind-altering madness might occur in life. The human will has an unshakable core, if your reminded.
I discovered in my research last night there are a few other places close to the Dublin House, one I was attracted to by name- a literary bar called “the Dead Poet”. If any place ever hit me by name- that’s it. A must for any student of literature or poetry. They even have drink names after poets like “the Walt Whitman”, “the Edgar Allen Poe”, “the WB Yeats”, etc.
I know the Museum of Natural History is close and had I had an entire day, I’d have ended up there, but with a deadline looming, it’ll be a New York Minute. Sometimes there’s nothing better.
Why is it Monday comes and I’m as tired as Friday? Could be because of non-stop weekends. All these days merge together nowadays. I should write a story called “The One year day”. I’m sure it makes sense to you as well as I, there aren’t enough hours when your spread thin.
Last Thursday, I had the opportunity to meet a designer named Glen Liberman- the creator of the Kinekt ring. It’s really the COOOOLEST gadget- a geared ring made of stainless steel that revolves. I happened across his website after I’d seen it on a friends blog- YES, I l read and watch blogs should time allow.
It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before. Each side moves independently of the other and the gears spin. I have this habit of “twirling” my rings, and for those of you who also have it- you’ll find this one really entertaining.
Kinekt is based in New Jersey and not all that far from me. The designer is a big fan of electronic music and is a drummer from a young age. He’s especially creative and as most of you know, I enjoy meeting people- ESPECIALLY creative ones.
We exchanged some emails and agreed to meet at a Starbucks for coffee, to discuss everything from “shop” to music and what ever might come up. I really have no kind of agenda in these matters, I simply like to talk and exchange ideas- I’m a people person by heart. I mean if people like myself don’t get out to talk, we simply go crazy.
Glen and I sat down and bullshitted. Found we had a lot in common and decided to do it again. He might even join me for a Best Bar Wednesday in the city- the creative playground. Caffeine is one thing, alcohol another.
One thing I can say is when you have a plan, and you have a mind-blowing product, the world is at your feet. Its no secret, people sometimes come a knockin and the real secret is to know- when to answer the door. Stick with your plan, but don’t let the opportunity slip because people are quick to jump on the bandwagon. Integrity, honesty and faith are the cornerstones to humanity…. and that’s what it’s all about.
If you have a chance check it out: http://www.kinektdesign.com/
Don’t forget “BEST BAR WEDNESDAY” is only 2 days away AND “The DEADLIEST CATCH” premiers the new season Tuesday night. Gonna be an exciting week- already got my son hyped and King Crab legs for the premier. Tune in- escape the monotony, and remember there’s a reason each one of us is here. Mine is to remind you- you’re the gear that helps turn the wheel, that helps guide the machine, that crosses the road and ends up beating the chicken to the other side.
For centuries in Inuit (Eskimo) Culture stories have been passed down through generations by word of mouth. Myths, legends, family histories, and stories meant to guide the children by enriching their lives, by way of celebration. A moment where people enjoy each others company with games and storytelling.
I woke up thinking about this- oral histories- and how it is we operate them in a society like American culture. After our mixing of cultures, the lines of communication are bound to be obscured. When you look at a place like New York, as young as it is, you have groupings of people like Little Italy and Chinatown which may border each other. There’s an inter mixing of people and although there is often a great tendency to keep your own culture, over time the acceptance and proximity to your neighbor is less defined, especially in cities.
There are always the family stories which we choose to remember as points of reference in making a decision. Other decisions are also made by situations we experienced once before in our own history, which leads one to believe, with age comes wisdom: “Respect your elders”. It’s nothing new I’m bringing up, but I think there’s been a sense of neglect in that field with the advent of new technologies. Knowledge is at our fingertips by way of the window you look into right now. When once there was a library (yes, social interaction takes place there), or a person to answer a question, there is now the internet. I read an article that a man died at his work desk and was discovered 5 days later by a cleaning lady and not his co-workers (Ironic it was someone in the Publishing world)!
It’s good that it cuts down on time, but it’s bad also because it cuts down on social interaction. You live in a bubble, can take trips virtually via satellite imagine, or utilize holographic images to paint reality, but it’s not the same- I don’t care how you slice it- the largest difference being those interactions with those around, native or visitor.
Yesterday, I read in an art magazine about a new video game that rewards you for slowing down to absorb. It was the creation by Bill Viola and the title of the article was “Click here for Enlightenment”. The rewards given in the game are given for slowing down and for introspection- genius. Think about the patience you have when you’re waiting to boot up a computer, or waiting for an email to come through- seconds become hours! Every game moves in this dynamic speed, quick reaction timing that has become essential in todays technological society. Here it is a game, today merged with tomorrow for the more philosophical individual.
As a young man or woman, speed is necessary. It promotes your own goals, moves you in the direction you need to be and there’s nothing wrong with it whatsoever. When you age, there are other obstacles which fall in front of you. Patience wears thin, yet understanding grows. There’s a song by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young called “Teach your Children”-
“Don’t you ever ask them why, if you told them you would cry, just look at them and sigh and know they love you.”
I never really thought about the lyrics till now, but as I read them from another link, I get a jump in my chest. They really are magnificent and if you have a chance listen to the song, see the lyrics and maybe you’ll see.
Songs all hold a verbal lineage, and it’s one which goes back as far as history. If you listen to a broad range of music, it also introduces you to culture- some paint shows through in their composition. I was asked only recently by another music maker “Glen”- “If it produces so little money- why bother doing it?” My answer was, because I NEED to. I realized that song composition and my interaction with others produces this need to “teach” by way of experience and although modern culture may not give me those valuable greenbacks to keep it going, I can go to the grave knowing what I need to say- was said. I can’t paint, but I can write and with the help of others, make that visual text, oral in a strange sort transition utilizing another sense you can’t get by looking at a screen alone. Singing. It all relates back to “the whole”.
One of the most important life aspects is to listen as much as you speak. Absorb and make meanings of those passages and phrases- learn, take, and explore. You’ll hear me say it over and over again. Education is not just a class in a school, but a walk through the hearts and minds of others. Don’t take for granted what might be thrown in your direction, it may just be your saving grace.
Have a happy Sunday all.
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And you thought it was over…….
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I neglected to tell you about what happened when I reached Penn Station after my day of cavorting in the Village. There was a 45 minute wait to get a train. Its far too long for me to sit in one place and do nothing, so I decided to do what I usually do when I get to NYC- I made a phone call. ….
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The great thing about being a creative and calling other ones is they sorta understand you. I’m always making these – “What are you doing NOW”- kind of calls and no one receives more of them then my friend Donald Vaccino. I’m surprised he still talks to me, considering I make them at all hours- usually after a few…..
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Donald’s been my friend for over a decade. I first met him at a bar called Downtime, which was around the corner from the train station. I’d frequently go there to listen to open mics since it was very close to work. It was the hangout for a bunch of creative people, who were not only musicians, but painters and writers also. Donald used to do the paintings at Downtime and read the paper at the bar. He always be there when I’d arrive and over time we just got to know one another. ….
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My first experience with the painter was when I read him a short story I was thinking about sending a writer school for admission. His reaction- one of great laughter- confirmed it’s sending and allowed me admission to the Long Ridge Writer’s Group in the late 90’s. (The Story- a Hillbilly who I had to served a raw slab of meat to- a true story)….
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Donald has always been very influential to me and he’s introduced me to art in many forms- music, writing, movies, painting and such. He showed me the Barnes Collection, which I’ll always remember as the single most impacting art collection I’d ever experienced: Renoirs-181, Cezanne-69, Matisse-59, Picasso-46, Soutine-21, Rosseau-18, Modigliani-16, Van Gogh-7, Seurat-6, Manet-4, and Monet-4. Considering it’s a privately owned collection (one of the worlds largest) you can imagine the security when it comes to visiting. Only over the past years the city of Philadelphia over turned Albert C. Barnes Will to move the collection to the center of Philly. It was the owners wish to keep his institution as a foundation for artists in not just the painting, but their arrangements and compliment of furniture around his home. He passed in the 1930’s. ….
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If you ever get there, you need a reservation. If you don’t have one, you DON’T get in. Elton John was refused, so don’t think you won’t be. If you’re in the area of Philadelphia- DEFINITELY visit, you won’t be disappointed. ….
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I’d had many experiences with Donald over the years and met some very interesting people too. I’d been to a cutting edge magazine gathering called (t)here, where Donald had donated a painting for a fundraiser. I’d met Billy Corrigan from the Smashing Pumpkins and had an interesting talk about art and writing. I’d been to a Van Gogh exhibit and visits to the Morgan Museum owned by the late banker JP Morgan (Manhattan). I’d met Gloria, a very colorful and influential character and art lover at a Grammercy Park home that held an Art show. Main point is when we get together, I usually leave inspired. ….
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I got hold of Donald with Wednesday’s phone call, explained I was going to catch the train but wasn’t really ready to go. I convinced him to get out after painting all day for a scotch. We decided to meet at the Molly Wee- a small Irish pub down the street from the old Downtime on 30th, and a stones throw from the train. ….
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I order him a few scotches, I think I had only one beer after swooshin it up all day. He told me he’d been making his existence on painting, but it’s been difficult. He’s the last Bohemian painter- extremely talented and it wouldn’t surprise me to see his work in the MOMA at some point. His style is distinctive, a combination of Italian and Japanese. He lived in Japan, had a Japanese wife and a sister in Scandinavia. He’s painted in Germany, and moved about painting. He’s represented in Japan, Germany, and New York…..
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He took me to his studio and showed me some of his new work- it’s INCREDIBLE. He paints large- 5’ squares and bigger. He has a wall dedicated to a canvas and his studio overlooks a busy fashion design headquarters. He’d take out a painting and put it on the wall and I could sit and study it. It’s always an amazing experience. ….
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The good thing about Donald is he can keep me focused on time. I told him the train I needed to take and he kicked me out to grab it. After that, things got sketchy as they usually do, although I do remember a phone call which was fortunate to wake me up a couple of train stops from home. ….
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For those of you who enjoy contemporary art- you must check him out at: http://www.dvaccino.com/….
It’s 5:10am. I’ve laid in bed for the past half hour (my mind on overdrive), and decided to give up in my attempts to turn over and shut it down. Late nights make no difference when the mind is active, sleep almost seems secondary. You’re wound up with what needs to get done, obligations and responsibilities you have, and well- the brain wants what the body doesn’t.
I arrived at Corner Bistro before 11:30am when they open which allowed me to look around the largely residential area: brownstones up and down the windy streets. I hadn’t explored this area in my times to New York, so thanks to my book- I found a hidden gem. I crossed paths with The Whitehorse Tavern, the place where Dylan Thomas- the poet- drank himself to death and it turns out the doors were OPEN. It’s in my book and the last bar on my Best Bar Wednesday tour. In my need to make order from chaos, this wrench halted me- what is the logical order?
Should I go into two Best Bars today and write about both? I’ve wanted to go to the Whitehorse since my friend Ken (last weeks blog- Professor of Literature at Fairleigh Dickenson University) told me about it’s history six years ago. I had 15 minutes to wait- temperature was 80 degrees, sunny, Spring like, and they had outdoor tables. How could I not? I’d have one white beer and back to the Bistro.
The bartender at Whitehorse works Monday-Wednesdays. He gave me a matchbook and a COOL postcard, then allowed me to walk around. I took a few pictures and he took one of me- similar to the pose of the Dylan Thomas painting on the wall (pictures in our Best Bar Wednesday Picture folder) This morning I’d have a small A.D.D. sidetrip, as time evaporates hour by hour, day after day, week after week on my little adventure. Let me get back to the point- Corner Bistro.
Corner Bistro has no better description than a “neighborhood” bar. A humble place where conversation is second to the views from the enormous window which overlook a busy avenue. It’s this type of place I find a second home. There are places that have the hype, the bells, the whistles- there are others which have history, people of interest and still others which make an impact on you personally. The Bistro was a place where you could grab a cheap lunch and beer- sit with your thoughts and watch people- my favorite pastime. I ordered a Bistro Burger which was phenominal and only $6.95, and four McSorleys darks at $2.50 each (unheard of in New York). My lunch was less than $20! They’re known for their burgers.
By the time I’d gotten there four or five business people occupied tables opposite the bar. There were two flat screen TV’s which revolved between News and stocks, to a soccer game. None had the sound blaring, but seemed to disappear to the views from the window. There was a small restroom, and I’d read the back room had older tables carved with graffiti. The brickwork was old. Whenever I’m in a place which was constructed from old bricks- it adds something to the atmosphere.
Haverstraw, a small town in the Hudson Valley used to supply New York City large quantities of bricks manufactured from clay deposits along the Hudson in the 1800’s. A museum tells you about those activities which contributed to the building of old New York. The Rockland County town moved them from upstate down the Hudson by barge which made me wonder if some of these bricks evolved from those clay fields up the mighty river.
I talked with the bartender who enjoyed the end of the bar towards the window, where I resided along with another “local” who chatted about the Yankees game. He wore a Yankee cap, and when one of the workers came up to bust his chops about the Mets being ahead- winning their first game- he sharpened his wit and threw back with the snap of his fingers.
There are places you go in your lifetime where you know you’re a visitor. Some are places you admire, some are places you want to revisit, others are one’s you feel out of place- I felt all of the above, and to me, to find myself in those areas help shape me personally. I felt myself a non-local who happened in because of a book- put myself into a bar which only those in the neighborhood came to. I was a passerby, which isn’t such a bad thing.
I sat there and kept to myself really. Thought, listened, watched- there was no hype. The bartender always nodded to those who came in. He talked with me, but largely with the person in the cap- the “local”. I didn’t go into my normal probe mode of what this person does, or that person does, I wanted to just be there. The man who wore a cap was important. He’d worked for the Fords Agency, surrounded himself with models, even married one- but divorce is never easy and some conversations you don’t go into. Some conversations are meant to stay in bars.
St. Vincents hospital which is in the area is set to close. It’s a disastrous thing when a neighborhood hospital goes under. They’ll move patients to other area hospitals. Evidently, they’ve been debt burdened for some time and the residents of the area are horrified emergency care will no longer be around the corner. I heard of a hospital in the area which folded years ago- most mobsters went to for bullet wounds. We had laugh when we talked about “the cash only” in/out room. Maybe it’s now on Staten Island or Jersey- who knows…
It seems every where you look nowadays you’ll note small businesses seem to disappear, victims of the economic times. I took a photo of a window front I found poetic titled “Miracle Bar and Grill”- a large red vacancy sign in it’s window and the reflection (which I hadn’t noted at the time) had a couple of people hanging out. I thought it’d be a great subject for a painter and forwarded it to my friend Steve Epstein who likes that sort of thing. Times like these it takes time for the actual moment to register, but I can honestly say, I was happy I found that place.
One of the more interesting facts noted in the book was it was a rough and tumble bar back in the day. Longshoremen and merchant seamen visited because the place was close to the docks. Kids would be sent to the place to get a tin pail filled with beer, in which they used to rub the rim with butter or grease to keep the head from foaming too much. They called it “Rushing the Growler”- a prelude to the “Growlers” we use now to get fresh beer. Mine has a pewter handle with a drunk up against a post. The patrons now are locals, artists, writers, actors and business people. It’s not important who visits a place like that, it’s the familiarity of a comfortable bar- one you can be to yourself, be cozy, find inspiration to write, paint, or do whatever it is you do. I should get back.
After my visit, I decided to walk down Hudson Street. I was tempted once again by the aura of the Whitehorse, but continued. There was plenty of interesting places I passed: a beautiful church with a courtyard full of blooming flowers, gorgeous old brownstones, small interesting stores and streets which seemed to have no direction. Commerce and Bank were close- I found a small theater around there, but crossed town to find somewhere more familiar. Wouldn’t you know I ended up in front of Caliente Cab company again?
I enjoyed a margarita- an expensive one at $8 (I had a choice of 8$ or $16- what would you do?) because the place looked too inviting. The bartender, a woman with a tattoo on her wrist of a Japanese Coyfish, directed me to 6th avenue for some sights. As I passed through Carmine Street I heard some old jazz which filtered out from an open bar/cafe on the square- horns & piano. It diverted me- to my last stop downtown: Greenwich Village Bistro.
A bar is nestled in the far right side of the place. The piano stands directly in front of the entrance and was occupied by someone who looked like a retiree. Between him and the bar was a trumpet and a trombone player. They play every Wednesday from 12:30- 2pm, it was 2pm, and I was disappointed to hear I walked in on their swan song. On the better side, had it not been for them, I wouldn’t have entered this interesting place. The owner/bartender- Carla Palandrani- was incredibly friendly- inviting person. Around the bar were pictures taped up, I thought might be her daughter- on account of the similarities in appearance. There was a picture of her from years ago in a cowboy hat behind the register and an old Toby Mug on a top shelf. They had a beer on tap called “Flower Power” in psychedelic print, so I grabbed one.
She noticed the spine of my book and asked about the various bars. She was excited as she thumbed through places she’d visited and knew well. She grabbed a book from a shelf behind the bar on the history of the Ear Inn- a later visit. It showed some very interesting pictures, which I’ll explore at a later time. The waiter was a young guy who fronted a rock band, behind me sat a young woman on her Mac with a flat straw hat on her table, towards the bar front was a man also on a mac, and in front of him were two Italian tourists who had a thick tour book of New York on their table. The first give away was directions for the bathroom asked by the accented woman. Another woman came in- she apparently worked there- and also thumbed through my book.
By this time, I couldn’t have cared less for who looked at it, who signed it, what it even meant. It was an appendage.
I went over to the tourists to ask questions about their stay. They were here for 10 days from Rome. We had an interesting conversation about Italian culture and American culture- we compared notes.
I’ve always had great respect for the Italian way of life where more revolved around family life as opposed to work. Work seems secondary there, here it’s first. People tend to take it easy and enjoy life as it passes there, as opposed to us who need to be on the edge, working crazed hours for success and devoting most of lives to it. The New York area is much about this, but when you work for an Italian company in New York- it wakes you up. Makes you realize how important it is to enjoy the people your around- have a little wine- and conversation, without dwelling on the tasks and hardships for the next day. We have such a young nation our sense of history perspectives are great- old here being 1700’s-1800’s, old there- 1200’s-1300’s and earlier. We’re like open little kids who don’t need to mask ourselves behind our family histories, perimeters set centuries ago in Europe. I was told in a conversation a while back which made a lot of sense; the American way of life is built on explorers that took chances, left old world ways for a chance to better they’re way of life. Immigrants populated here, and provided our genetic pool, one filled with risk takers who were brave enough to “start over”, change their families nature of existence. In the old world, people have lived for generations, centuries in the same home, castle, area and are stable with status quo. History has led them to be content in those areas, perhaps in a comfortable social status. When you think of it in a grand scale, our pool of genes is largely dynamic risk takers, thus our young nation is forged from those who have consistently challenged the status quo, made better for themselves- spoke out. Since we’re a melting pot, we can look on ourselves in a very DIFFERENT way than those whose families originated in one country for centuries or millennia . I’m the first born here from my English heritage which dates generations back in the UK, but I’m American and lucky to have the right to express it. It allows me to see from both dimensions.
Before I knew it, time slipped and I had to head for the train. I was envious of the tourists trip to walk the Brooklyn Bridge. I never got there (discussed at Best Bar Wednesday- Bridge Cafe). Time is so valuable. So in this lengthy blog, I must say- thank you for reading and being with me for these bar sessions, observations and discussions. Hopefully it’s as enlightening for you, as it is for me.
Stay well, live life, be healthy and for GOD sakes- enjoy the weather!
I’d like to start this blog with a capital SHIT. It’s my second effort to write down my train thoughts. I accidently hit something and a page of writing disappeared. I’m sure you’ve all done it like myself, but I’m strained for time! So let me get it out of my system: SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT!!!!!!!!!!!
Whewwww. Now, let me try this again.
Routines- I’m a routine sorta guy. I like to think there’s a method to my madness, but sometimes it never shows itself. Having one, keeps my mind at ease. I’m a time conscious, Type A personality who gets the job done- when motivated of course. If there’s no steadiness in my schedule, it throws me into temporary chaos. I like to plan, arrange things in advance, and without a steady time spot, it makes it damn near impossible.
My last job I worked retail in a mall. When I started a career, I vowed never to do it again, but time changes. I re-evaluated my life priorities years ago and never looked back. The times called for something flexible and it worked, but there was no consistency. Week to week we were slaves to the store, with no ability to plan any more than a week in advance. It’s no way to live, especially when you have kids.
The hierarchy of the workplace and the sense which filters down from management is critical for motivation of it’s employees. We spend more time in our work lives then we will at home, so its necessary to get along and maintain close relationships with those you work with. No one ever wants to clash with other strong personalities, but it’s bound to happen. Progress is never a stagnant thing. Respect, however, is at the top of the list and professionalism revolves around it. It can be a great motivator.
Being a novelist is very different. It’s a solitary task which relies on internal forces and the will to bring them to light. If you’re lucky you might have an editor or friend who kicks your ass every now and then, puts you in gear. If you’re a disciplinarian, like myself, you kick your own ass. I believe in the forces which surround me, and with a little hope and a lot of sweat, perhaps that novel will make it’s way to print.
I used to be concerned with the perception of being a writer or musician when it came to the “professional or business” workplace. People tend to paint a picture of you by what it is you do, how it is you dress, how you act, blah blah blah. They label you falsely when they don’t even know you, but I think it’s only human nature. You never really know someone until you’re able to sit down and have a few drinks with them. Again, this relates back to the Best Bar series. I meet real people and the creatives- they come out during the day. So far, this has been an exploration of people in addition to how the effects of surrounding plays to different personalities. I LOVE it.
Over the past 8 years, I’ve discovered the voice and the need to speak from my soul. Like any poet, who needs to shed their anger, frustrations, sadness, happiness in constructive ways, I am. There are goals I need to fill creatively, so I took time on Wednesdays to do it. Express my worldly views, experiences, and attempt to tie them together for hopefully a better good. It may be scribble or meaningless banter, but years down the line if you have a thought, recall a blurp you read in this blog and it evolves into some kind of creative project- a book, a play, a piece of music- then really I’ve done my job. I’m the small statue at the bottom of totem holding up invisible bodies I hope will one day be physical. By doing it- there can be no loss.
(I stop momentarily, look out the stopped train window and note 2 geese in back of a plastic shopping bag. There’s a pack of mustard and an overturned sour cream container. It stands next to an eroded curb on the edge of a creek. A tire lays in the creek and a few feet down another.)
The trash multiplies as we edge closer to NYC. I wrote a poem long ago about a lonely stork that stood in a mud bank surrounded by garbage. In an abstract sense of the word, it’s not unlike now. From the time we’re born, we need to sort through all the trash in order to find our way to freedom. In the 18th century people threw pots of poop and piss in the streets. Those who knew where to walk, didn’t wear it. If you have direction- you can achieve anything, without which you’ll pick the trash the rest of your life.
Construction and deconstruction are natural states and flourish in streams of thought. One can’t live without the other, balance being achieved by a stripped down state on the train and Teterboro’s next. Hence and 80 degree gorgeous sunny day deserves attention. Welcome to Best Bar Weds- later.
As I write this blog on my Mac, I stare at a small black statue given to me by my father years ago. It’s a coal miner carved from the black substance. He holds a shovel in heavy gloved hand and leans on a high flat stone which resembles a headstone. He’s a burly man and a fake faceted stone appears as the light in the front of his miner’s hard hat. It’s signed 1990 James D.- England.
When I was a teenager I visited my aunt (my father’s sister) in Wales. She lived on a farm and kept goats, sheep and a dog as big as a cow. It was an old home heated by coal which many used for heat in the early days of the UK. It was an odd experience to see the “Coal man” come by with bags for the residents to heat their homes. My father called us over as he went down the street with his flatbed truck delivering these huge sacks- blackened by the dust. We had a picture taken with the coal man, and my father explained how old England worked on the black stone. I believe it’s primarily why he gave this statue to me.
I always envisioned men who worked the mines like those crab fisherman we see today on Deadliest Catch (incidentally starts a new season the 13th). Always a risky job, dangerous, and hazardous to your health. Everyone’s familiar with the old practice of taking a canary into the coal mine to detect poison gases. It’d die if they were found and alert miners to get out. The Police did a song “Canary in a Coalmine”, and I can’t help but think of miners when I hear it despite it’s happier beat.
I don’t think people in urban America think about those who jeopardize their lives in the coal mines nowadays. It seems removed from main street USA- technology making the heavy advances in our society. Coal mining seems more like an activity essential for early America, but there are needs for it today and there are entire towns which make a living from it.
It’s only in the event of the tragedy we refocus our lives on the work done by these heroic unseen warriors of “underground America”. Methane gas caused the explosion which has led to the worst mining accident in 25 years. I haven’t paid close attention to the event, but I understand there were violations which could have led to error in the explosion. I shouldn’t be so quick to judge without my facts, but we all know there are risks associated with the mining of coal- it’s been known for centuries. You’d think in times like this a Union would be able to force these violations to be obliterated. It’s why Unions were founded in the first place. Monitoring these veins should be closely watched. We don’t want to see people die to shape the future of excavation, we need to have preventative measures BEFORE hand.
I found it ironic that over Easter dinner I found out about a place in Western Pennsylvania called Centralia- a town founded on large coal vein beneath it’s surface. Coal excavation started in the 1800’s and continued through 1962 when a trash fire caught the vein a light. The vein has NEVER stopped burning. The fire has slowly spread through the ground and occupants of the town found toxic gases could come up through their basements! In the eighties, the government bought up the land and occupancy dwindled to 5 people from a town that used to be 1000 people strong. Homes and buildings were leveled. When you compare pictures from the 1960’s- schools, gas stations, homes, playgrounds and compare it to now…. well, it’s sad- very sad.
They say the vein could burn for a century. Vents emit gases from the ground and there are places you can see smoke come literally from the soil. You can even see a road cave in, which was the real worry. In 1981 the ground opened up beneath a boy- 4ft in diameter and 150 ft deep. Fortunately, the boy hung on to some tree roots and his friend was able to help pull him out. Had he gone deeper the heat and gases would have been enough to kill him.
I’d like to visit Centralia at some point, not for the sake of gawking at smoke emission or feeling the heat they say melts snow, but for the utter sadness and disintegration of small town America. Seeing a once thriving town evaporate into air. The emotions on which we build our lives are about more than one sense, they’re about all of them.
May all those effected by the latest blast in West Virginia find the strength to carry them through this time of grief. The unsung heroes are those who do the dangerous work, who continue to make this country function, those who contribute and have contributed to our vital nation and it’s soul. There is never a person forgotten, just a memory misplaced.
An Art Gathering gathers No Moss- Orange County Arts NY
I first experienced the Orange County Arts Council this past winter- in the snow and dark. It was difficult to make out the terrain, especially with a white covering. There were rolling hills and Sugar Loaf (the name of the town) was cute and comfortable. I live in the suburbs of New York, this was more like another land. I met some wonderful people. The conversations were engaging and finding out about artists from other areas is always good for the soul. The food was phenomenal and too the atmosphere. The building that housed the Orange County Arts Council was filled with an art exhibit.
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Yesterday, I responded to an email for an “April Fools” gathering to explore ritualistic behavior. I thought it was perfect for me, especially since my Best Bar Wednesday Blog Series is DEFINITELY in the ranks of ritual. All Spring will keep me occupied with this one and I can honestly say- it’s one I’ve come to like.
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When I went there this time on a beautiful Spring day- in the light- it was even more delightful. The rolling hills were filled with blooming trees and the borders were made of stone and bushes. I saw a herd of deer in the distance, and the town seemed more alive. I passed an interesting shop “Sales from the Crypt” which had its door open. I had to turn around, to explore such a name, especially removed from city streets. The wares were skeletons, Celtic merchandise, gargoyles and such. I had a little chat with the owner a prematurely grey woman behind the counter and a man who stood in front dressed head to toe in black (perhaps this was déjà vu). It turns out I’d met these people before at the Renaissance Faire they do in Sterling Forest in New York. They always display there, but it’s like we talked about- when you have scantily clad women parading around grounds and mead at your beckoned call- it’s easy to lose track of vendors selling their goods. Their business card was the give away. I’d taken one before- a headstone with a skull- similar to something you’d imagine behind a Edgar Allen Poe poem.
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The Orange County Arts building is situated on a large piece of land with an old family cemetery in back; the cemetery lined with a grey iron fence. It was on top of a hill, which overlooked a swamp. I saw a couple of mosquitoes and I’d imagine in the summer, the area must get overwhelmed. They said it was going to be a rough season when it came to that, and anywhere near water suffers worse. The company certain makes up for any kind of inconvenience.
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It was a small group of artists, maybe 15-20 people. Each person would have a bite, chat, and fill in the others on what rituals they do to spark their creative needs. There was metal detecting, glass making, listening to Bach, jewelry making, egg painting, sweeping- you name it. I suppose I mixed it up a bit with Bar Crawling- but call me the odd duck.
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My first real conversation was with an older gentleman named Joseph MacLaren. He’d lived in New York City his whole life and moved up that area only 10 years ago. He resided in the theater district and was a screenwriter. We discussed different aspects of our lives. He was orphaned at a young age and had difficult times as a kid, never exceeding an 8th grade education (my father was the same). He was able to make the best of life by conquering those demons, a testament to human will. He gave a paper to everyone on perseverance. The saying was written in old script and went as follows:
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Press On- Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.
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Philosophical…. Right up my alley. I enjoyed my conversation with him, and would have liked to continue, but he made an early exit. I was told he had paintings in either the MET or MOMA. (I really need a new brain- one which is not Abby normal).
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Gary Schuster is the President of the Orange County Arts Council a charismatic man who I found has two daughters ages 11 and 13- GOOD LUCK Gary! Turns out he’d had about a 300lb. man pass away in the parking lot of his business. Someone was able to get a defibrillator machine from the office and revive him. The man was taken unconscious to the hospital. He was very interested in my Best Bar Series and had visited many of the places himself. He wished he could get in and do such a thing, but alas, he’s a lawyer and lawyers have only time to spend with law. I think if you’re going to be a lawyer to be one who represents artists and entertainment would have to be the way to go. Not only is it extremely interesting, but seeing how creatives are a little “off” - must be worth the job itself. The fact he’s heavily involved in the arts is fantastic. He’s a very personal guy and I enjoyed our conversations thoroughly.
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It’s tough to detail everyone, because there are so many things you find out about people, pages aren’t enough to fill with details. Susan Linn is not only an artistic soul, but also a fabulous cook- she’s the Executive Director of the Arts Council. I wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for her and Melanie, a theater teacher who contributes her time to the organization. I believe she came up with the Ritual idea. There was Donna who metal detected and made these incredible glass beads, which reminded me of marbles. Georgianna lives in the East but her heart belongs in the West. She’s taken with Cowboy Poets and owns horses, wears a fringed jacket and cowboy hat. She intends on doing a Cowboy event in July. There was Howard who’s had 10 books published, a symphony done and other artistic credits to his name. I found he collects rare periodicals, which itself is fascinating. The point is when you surround yourself with creative souls, you blossom more as a creative yourself. I don’t care who you are and what you do; you’re a product of those around you. If you’re successful, most likely you’re around people who are the same. If you’re a failure, you’re most likely around people who are the same. If you’re intellectual, you are not only with people who are the same, but people who are different as well. Remember that.
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Thank you Orange County Council for the invitation. I’m grateful.
I’ve been called a “Flaneur”- a French word for idler or lounger- a wanderer I prefer. I learned about the word when I watched a special on the Impressionists and their attitude of wandering amongst the changes of 19th. Century Paris. It was crucial for them to experience the vast changes, which affected their city, and there was no better way than to walk around and observe.
I certainly did my share of “Flaneuring” yesterday. I got lost in Greenwich Village. It’s very easy to do because of the age of that section of city. Streets aren’t laid out in a grid, which means you can have one section of road cut by another. Later avenues were laid across the old; Midtown is a piece of cake, Downtown is another matter. When you exit the subway station, you really need a map. I had none and refused to get a taxi anywhere, everything is right there. I’d walk to find my way, but without that invaluable map- I was out of luck. I examined it in the subway station, but with a faulty memory to hold information and a puzzle of streets up above, I relied on meandering. The first place was Cedar Bar, which was closed. I didn’t find the old place, but noted a storefront window that said “For Rent”. In the book, the bar front looked VERY different than where I was, but I was on the right street at the right number- perhaps there are two 82 University Places.
My next stop was Chumley’s- technically next week’s visit. You’ll see by the picture, it’s ALL construction with little recognition of the bar. A 19th Century poet lived close by in a small building. I had a HELL of a time finding it’s location on Bedford Street because I couldn’t find the street! The people I asked pointed in the direction with no real idea of WHERE it was, but somewhere “down there”. I asked one person, wandered, and asked someone else- 5 times. I don’t know HOW long I walked in circles. The last person I spoke to was a mailman. If anyone knows the city it HAS to be a mailman. He told me, “get to 7th Avenue and walk down- it runs into it.” I started to doubt myself after that long walk, but when I asked a passerby if she might know where it was, so responded NO - it was RIGHT THERE.
On this type of trip, you must be specific to your historical objective, but memories can pass at practically every corner. I passed “El Caliente Cab Company”- a Mexican restaurant I had Mimosas at after a bachelor party probably 15 years ago. There was a restaurant called “The Garage” which stood next to Jeckyll & Hydes- both of which I’ve had prior experiences with. There was Carmine St. where a childhood friend lived- and these were just walking around the area! The history I wanted to stay with was bar related, however, the stories that come from them are what interested me.
Since both bars were definitely closed, my plan was to find Electric Lady Studios on 8th. Street. It’s well known for the people who played there including Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin and the Rolling Stones. Anyone who was anyone in Rock & Roll has been there. After an exhaustive search for it, I abandon my mission for a drink sign that offered $3.00 pints. It was MacDougal Ale House on MacDougal; one of the more famous streets Downtown. The entrance downstairs led to a dark bar with an old atmosphere, a pool table in the front, and aged brickwork and tables. It was a cozy. At just past noon, there was only the bartender – a beautiful Russian who had Asian features- and a man named Lou who was in NYC for only the afternoon. He was from Scranton and taught chess. Turns out he was a chess master and traveled the world in tournaments- Portugal being one.
MacDougal Ale House had an assortment of ales including one of my favorite beers- Toasted Lager- produced by a Long Island Brewery called Blue Point. It’s not to heavy and I thought it’d make a good choice on account the heavier beers (stouts & porters) are terrible for the Gout. The bartender, Irina, was really friendly and interested in my journey. She’d only been in New York City for 3 weeks. Her speech was fantastic and she spoke fluent English. She added a pen & matches to my souvenirs. She signed my book with a phrase Lou blurted to her, “ From Russia with love”- made me almost feel like 007. I asked her about the latest Russian train bombings and it turned out she used to travel those trains. She told me they bombed very popular train stops, and fortunately no one she knew was involved. She lived for a short period in Miami before her trip to New York. She told me it was a little much and I can believe that.
Lou filled me in on other places I should get to like Kenny’s Castaways, or McSorleys and a host of other drinking establishments. He told me how to get to 8th Street, which I filed away in that faulty folder called Memory. He told of “The Hanging Tree” in Washington Square Park, where 12 feet up people used to swing. The limb was still there. I think he mentioned there was no sign on the tree, but it was outside of the area in a corner of the park.
A couple of regulars entered the bar and greeted the bartender, Bert & Mike aka Bones. Bert was a graffiti artist and liked my hat, which sat on the bar. He asked if he could sign my book and when I found out he was a graffiti artist I gave him the back of it to create- like an open canvas. When he got involved, he was very focused and enjoyed the activity that came naturally to him. He got sidetracked in a game of chess with Lou, on a mini chessboard. Several times he was distracted from his art music, the chess game and a pool game- he’d come back and resume his picture. You’ll find it in the photos under Best Bar Wednesdays- it’s superb.
Mike, alias Bones, told me Captain Sulu was the only other Star Trek member who could fly the Enterprise. I thought the nickname could have even more meanings, but I left it at that. He told me he had to work at around 2pm and left prior to the others. I forgot what he did, but alcohol will do that to you.
Before I knew it, everyone had left. Lou treated me to some beer- thanks Lou! And Bert did the artwork you’ll find in the pictures. FUCKIN awesome Bert- Thanks!
When I left there- I walked MORE. I hadn’t eaten lunch and ended up back around West 4th. I grabbed McDonalds, sat for a bit, and then continued. Practically across the street is the world famous Blue Note. I’d seen Charlie Watts play an intimate gig there years ago with some of my best Stones buddies. I decided to try and find the tree and go into the park.
Washington Square Park has abundant entertainment in all forms. After I found the tree, I walked through the many paths that led to its interior. There was an accordion player- a woman- who played this old French music. It was as if I’d stepped back in time. She had been accepting donations into her accordion box. There was a small note that said, “One poem with a donation”. I put some money in and asked for a poem. She was with a poet and a painter. Her boots had paint on them that the painter gladly did. Both of the ladies (the accordion player & the painter) were from Montreal and there for only the evening before going somewhere else then back to Canada. The poet was from Manhattan.
I had a really intense conversation with the painter- a philosophical conversation- one I tend to get into after a few drinks. She was very receptive and contributed quite a bit. It’s why I love to speak to creatives - the input is as valuable as the output. The poet scribbled away on the other side of the stone bench- the accordion player sang and I felt I was in France. He gave me my poem and I filed it in my book; the artist painted portraiture, but in a modern way. I asked her to forward me some pictures, because I was interested, so I can only hope for the best. If I see nothing, I have a conversation to remember.
Large crowds gathered around the fountain where two street performers did their show. The fountain had no water, but was the stage for- a drummer and a contortionist. They grabbed a woman from the audience and told her – “these are things your boyfriend CAN’T do”- the drummer used buckets to beat and the man did all kinds of crazy advances. It was input overload down here. Seriously.
From there I took off again. It was close to dinner and I’d seen a pizza joint called “Two Boots” which my grade school friend Kenneth Sammond (now a professor of Literature at Farleigh Dickenson) turned me on to. They name pizzas after different TV & Movie Stars: there was the Larry Tate-spinach, plum tomatoes, & fresh Garlic on a white pie, there was Cleopatra Jones- Sweet Italian Sausage, roasted peppers, onions & Moz, and Mr Pink (from Reservoir Dogs)- Marinated chicken, plum tomatos, fresh garlic & moz, amongst others. Each had a picture of the character with the pizza. Don’t ask me what I got- I can’t remember.
Ken helped me years ago set up for an art show at the National Arts Club- in Grammercy Park. Setting up an art show is NOT an easy task, and although I’m pretty good at coordinating paintings in a logical manner, it was all within the course of a few hours. Had it not been for him, I might have lost my mind. When we finished he took me on a walk around the area he once lived. He’s much the historian like myself- filled me in on all kinds of information, especially writer’s who canvassed the area.
I saw a woman at Two Boots who wrote intensely. Since I’m Mr. Curious- I needed to ask. Turned out she was weighing pros and cons on moving into an area with another woman and her boyfriend. So I asked- Who was winning? “Pros” she replied. Once again, I find some quick stimulating conversation. I thought of the lists we make (especially my own). I need to have lists, references to keep me focused- evidently I’m not the only one.
A the pizza shop I’d seen a redhead dressed all in green, as if I had déjà vu from St. Patricks Day. It was a passing thing, but when I left to find St. Marks- I see her. Turns out she didn’t know the direction or the area either. She was from Denmark and studying in Harlem. All the green confused me and I told her she looked more Irish than Danish. Wouldn’t ya know it she was a designer. Is there NO ONE uncreative in this area?? It was comical.
She was wandering around also with an exam looming THAT evening- in design. She needed to get out and walk around, so I told her to join me. I liked her on account she’d get distracted like myself. She saw some clothes that caught her eye in a little shop. We went in- looked at fabrics. She told me she liked steam punk stuff and pirate ware. I told her about the long coat I fashioned after a 17th Century Buccaneers outfit with Chinchilla which ran the entire collar. I told her about the mad picture I was going to take with steam punk goggles and a WWI pilot cap.
From there we stumbled on the famous Strand Bookstore. She’d heard of it, but hadn’t been there- so I took her in. She liked books and was a little overwhelmed. The Strand has 4 floors with old used books in addition to hard to find titles. She thought the books were more expensive than what she was used to, but by that time her time was running out- she grabbed a card, then hopped a subway. Me?
I discovered that my train ride home -SUCKS! After 7:15pm you need to wait 2 hours for the next train. It was 7:30pm. So, why not walk more…. Could it be the blisters on my heals? Well, I took the subway to the area of 34th Street. I walked for about an hour then decided to just wait in the train station. Ever wait in a train station after walking and drinking all afternoon? I forced myself awake until my train boarded then had to wait an additional 20 minutes in Secaucus for the connection. I stood up because of prior experiences of falling asleep in cozy metal chairs. When I boarded I was in and out of consciousness for my ride. I didn’t get home till after 10:30pm and I’m STILL tired.
Next Wednesday, I plan to go to Corner Bistro at 331 West 4th Street. Same area, same bat channel, but this time I’ll be better. I’ll get a map!
It’s the Wednesday before Easter. My kids are off school and over the past 8 years it’s been my responsibility to care for them (largely). This mind set leads to a certain amount of guilt anytime I take time for myself, which for self-sustenance is absolutely necessary. When I lay out a plan, I do my damnedest to not abandon it, even when Gout is in play.
Gout is a strange disease for a poet to have. It’s a build up of uric acids in the joints that crystalize which often takes place in the feet and ankles, thus making it difficult to walk. It’s been called “the Rich Man’s Disease” on account of the foods which ravage your body. The foods and drinks which prompt it’s appearance are ALCOHOL, Caffeine as in COFFEE & Sodas, red meats (steaks, ground meat, etc.) Pork (a BBQ pulled pork sat in the fridge before the flare up and is useless now), shellfish (crab, shrimp, lobster) and certain breads amongst other things. I’m convinced the higher power gave me this to keep me level headed, because when you’re hungry- you produce your best work. Every time I go into excess, my body strikes back and cripples me, an activity absolutely necessary for “the diet of a poet”. I always wondered how Benjamin Franklin managed it- he had it terribly.
After last weeks abandonment of my blog series, I felt a need to hop back on the horse, especially since the world has overwhelmed me lately: edits for a short story, a synopsis of my novel with an editor from CA whose company I enjoy through email, putting touches on our new CD titled “Radio Control” whose cover art remains the obstacle, working part time to support the above activities and juggling family obligations. Did I mention it’s the week before Easter? Fortunately, this blog takes away the primal screams.
I’ve always worked better under pressure. I may bitch and too many times I’m sure I’m cynical- but I enjoy the pressure.
In my research Tues. night I discovered some of the bars in my book to be closed. It struck me odd considering the book was published in 2006 and that any bar which would be designated as a BEST bar wouldn’t be around-I hadn’t even considered it. Wednesdays Bar was to be Cedar Bar, next week was to be Chumleys- both of which had shut doors. Nonetheless, I’d needed to see for myself. I don’t tend to believe everything I read. I also heard Frances Tavern- the place where George Washington said goodbye to his troops- CLOSED. You know that’s not a good sign.
New York is a vibrant city. Stores turn quickly and the landscape morphs. When historical establishments close, it’s a worry. Often, history is taken for granted and most of us tend to think places like these will always be there. I never imagined New York without the Trade Centers- but look what happened. Times change. If you live in the moment, you won’t have the regret that comes with a closed venue, a lost concert, a destroyed building. It only makes sense this adventure is a little of that.
When I went to my allergist for my last appointment when I was 18 (I’d been treated for severe allergies & asthma since I was 2) he told me, “Enjoy your twenties, your immunities are high now. Live. There’s a chance they could return in your thirties, so make the best of it. Enjoy life.” The words were burned into my memory, especially the part “they could return in your thirties……….” Suffering- come back? YIKES….
I’ve been lucky so far, and haven’t looked back. Being in good health is a state of mind as well as the physical. If you believe everything the doctor says, or listen to the plethora of drug commercials they now air- you could invent one of many diseases and cripple yourself despite no sickness at all. Thoughts can cripple. Believe in yourself, make your thoughts positive and know yourself well. NEVER give up your passion because others tell you to. Will and perseverance can make it happen. See the movie “The Secret” if you need to- positive reinforcement is enlightening.
You ask me why I’m taking a trip to a closed bar on my tour? First, it’s to confirm it’s closure. Second, it might be to meet someone I was destined to meet and thirdly, I made an alternative plan Tuesday Night which revolved around the area.
I’ll make it a “rock & Roll” sorta tour today. Spin by the legendary studio- Electric Lady Studios- whose hosted people & bands like Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, and the Rolling Stones- anyone whose anyone in Rock & Roll. Even if it’s off limits to the general public, a walk in front could throw me a vibe. I’d also make a walk past 96-98 St. Marks place. The stoop there had Mick Jagger introduce the song “Waiting on a Friend” video, where he waits for Keith Richards. It was also the buildings picture which was the foundation for the cover of Led Zeppelin’s album- Physical Graffiti. In “Waiting on a Friend”, Mick & Keith walk together to an old bar to meet Woody, Bill, and Charlie. The bar was called “Old St. Marks Bar” I don’t believe it exists any longer, but it’s worth a look. A stand on that stoop my introduce me to my next friend. Only time will tell.