I discover places, by chance or by reference. I write them down on whatever is handy and tuck them away for safekeeping. I had two bars scribbled on scraps of paper tucked away inside my Best Bars book. A place called Malachy’s referred to me by a bar patron at Dublin Bar and another called Costello’s on 44th Street. The first one was paid great compliments and was a NECESSITY in my visits. I found Costellos researching the bars of one area or another. All I had was a man named James Thurber painted some famous murals there. I picked my brain for a while, that’s all I had. It was hot and I’d earn a beer, partake before I had to be “proper” at The Library. It was only a little out of the way, a couple of avenues over and about 20 streets down.
I hit the town running. I worked up a sweat, made my beer well earned. On the way to 44th. I passed the giant RAT the Union puts in front of buildings to attract attention to their cause. It was outside what looked like a Citibank and it said something about the ills associated with Asbestos. I’ve seen it (or one of them) all over the city where there’s an injustice. My friend Jefferson Thomas wrote a song called Grand Central Station (my next stop), which made it into the top 20, Adult Contemporary charts a few years back. I worked around the corner from here. There’s a place called the Oyster Bar in the train station which has the best lunch experience sitting at tremendously busy counters – you hear clanking dishes, bits and pieces of conversation- they bring in seafood from all over the nation fresh daily. Grand Central is a palace of transportation and its history is as valuable as it being a main hub in NYC. You can’t help but be in awe.
I walked out the back doors and found 44th. On this small lined paper I’d scribbled “between 3rd and 2nd ave.” , so I continued up one side of the street where I came across these gorgeous doors which designated “The permanent mission of India to the United Nations” Doors attract me. I think it’s the fact everyone see’s themselves on one side of it, you can be safe behind it or locked out; see danger at every corner or a place to nestle your head. Some people are perfectly safe out in the open, others are absolutely terrified and frankly our own personality designates our zone either on one side or the other. I’ve seen them made to keep people in, keep people out, for decoration, for utility, and the vision of them simply creates a story- doorways open the mind.
The address read 225, a place called the Overlook was on the spot. It looked open. I stepped into a quiet place with beautiful cartoon murals in the backroom. I pulled out a stool and sat my stuff down. A few business guys took pictures around, as if they had some plan. One took out a tape measure and was measuring the step- for what I don’t know, but the people there must have thought I was with them. I took pictures and noticed the man who was doing measurements was waiting for me. “Am I in the way?” He said, “yea, Who ya with?” I said, “I’m by myself believe it or not, I’m here for a beer.” He nodded and whispered with the others very suspicious like.
I went to see Blondie when she first got back on the scene after a long delay in the mid-nineties. I was well dressed- looked like a press guy, so I hung where they were: they nodded, I nodded back. I talked to one person, then another and before I knew it I had a free ticket. I disappeared in the back and saw a great show. This was much the same, the assumption your with someone your not there with at all. Happens all the time. For all I know these guys were famous, really I’m an idiot in such manners. We had a PR woman with a place I worked and she could tell me everything on everyone- takes a special person for that. I can talk to anyone, but remember everyone? I got TOO much goin on upstairs to remember- they say alcohol kills brain cells. I’m a conversationalist… oh, and I like beer- my brain is sitting over there in the corner chair laughing at me.
I was served a beer, sat and just observed them as they took pictures and talked amongst themselves. I looked at the murals and hung at the bar until the real bartender- a guy named John came in. The suspicious guys disappeared and my conversation was with the bartender. Turns out he’s a poet and into music too. The jukebox played some incredible stuff- Clash, Stones, classics and we talked of that too. I told him what I was doin, and asked him more about the murals and about Costellos. He had one of the owners, Jeff come over. He sat with me for a little to chat.
I love that kind of place where you walk in, feel at home, and get treated well. This was that kinda place. They had a great write up on the menu, and they have a great website too at: http://www.overlooknyc.com/
The original Costellos evidently moved and the murals went with it to this place. I mean you really need to check out the pictures in our myspace Best Bar Wednesday folder to see. There was Hagar, Beetle Bailey, Betty Boop, Annie, Spiderman, ALL sorts. Xmas balls hung all over the ceiling- over 3000. It might have been the cook who I spoke to that told me he was one of the ones who set them up for a mardi gra celebration. They added a festive element. Upstairs they had an outside veranda where you could sit for a bite to eat. A few people out there sat for lunch.
Meanwhile back at MY bar downstairs, a woman arrived who was a resident of Manchester. She was leaving for Boston where she’d spend three days and travel back to England. We shared some conversation on the pound and the Euro and the effect of Greece on the whole thing. I found John was in Paris and Rome only a month earlier. We talked how important it was to travel and how it opened your mind- rounded you out. It was such a great place I could have abandoned my mission- frankly, I found myself drinkin more and more beers without a care. I didn’t want to go- but sometimes friends know there are places you need to be, and help get ya there.
I got to the Library… eventually. The place was more like a comfortable restaurant than a bar; where waiters or waitresses serve you. True you can sit on couches and the décor has some books, but it’s like my band mate Joe told me in Florida years ago: these buildings are two-dimensional. Perhaps it was the alcohol, maybe the quote my fellow poet- John put in my book, “A Little Less Greed, is all we need,” which made me, feel I don’t belong here. I wish I could give it a good rating. I did have a HUGE cocktail called The Park Avenue-filled with Bourbon, Martini & Rossi Vermouth and a dash of Bitters.
After that, things got hazy. The drink did me in. I woke up hours later on a bench in Central Park. If it wasn’t for the nice clothes I wore, I might have had some bum sleeping on my shoulder. I made my way to the world famous Algonquin Hotel. It’s known for hosting literary and theatrical notables. I believe Hemingway actually wrote there. On a side note- Jeff from Overlook showed me a picture of Marilyn Monroe who had gone there to Costellos. There was something I was told about Hemingway making a bet about breaking a cane with a patron- possibly at the old Costellos. After the money was put up- he took the cane, broke it over the guys head, collected the money and left the bar. For more on the Algonquin Hotel see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Algonquin_Hotel I don’t know how much I drank there, does it matter? I remember hearing about a cat Matilda who has a tradition of greeting guests in the hotel – a tradition since the 1930’s.
After a little time there, I walked all the way back to Penn. It was a horrible walk, almost as dreadful as the train itself. By this time it was late, and every bone in my body cried for submission. I was determined to stand on the train for the 15 minutes it’d take to reach the connection. I somehow ended up home around 10:30ish. I spent the whole next day in recovery- hung over at work- and sleep, well that sucked too. Friday my schedule changed because of work closing early, which left this writing till now. Plenty to do this holiday weekend and next my guitarist is out to hang with the familia. Plenty of work to do, outside of the blogs, so be patient- PLEASE.
I’m in the Bowery next week; a place called Marion’s Continental Restaurant & Lounge. The Bowery, or former home of CBGB’s, ALWAYS leads to stories. It’s like a shot of Jack Daniels- one is good, two is excellent, but 10 is deadly. Hope ta see ya.
A special thanks to the Overlook’s owner Jeff and the FABULOUS bartender & Poet John who took time to have some wonderful conversation with me; It’s people like yourselves who I do this for. You’re GREATLY appreciated.
Steve
Funk Thunder
Ever had a silent primal scream? Mine was caused at the deli counter this morning before the train. There were several people changing the meats in the display case and although it seemed there was a wait, the ticket read 7. An old woman held the number six and was very particular in the thickness of her ham in addition to the cheese and the other few she ordered.
I’m a patient person and can handle this absurd “Monk” like behavior- when I have time; Not today. I’d shopped for all my other necessities within the same time it took me at the counter. It didn’t help that I selected Boars Head Peppermill Turkey, which had to be opened fresh from the refrigerator. When I went to the self-serve checkout, I was audited! I felt the blood vein in my head pound with each passing second of my watch, as if I was in one of those 1950’s detective movies where a couple of guys sat around in a dark room staring at a clock, rain pouring outside.
Fortunately, I overrated my time, and obsessed on something I really had no need to. I moved quickly after I left the supermarket and ended up with time to spare; even had coffee before the train arrived.
It’s supposed to be 94 degrees today. When I told my son, “Shane, it’s supposed to be REALLY hot,” he replied, “That’s why I’m going to move as little as possible.” That gave me a good start, but my doctor doesn’t agree with the little movement thing. He sees the opposite for me with a life full of activity and exercise to trim 10 pounds and eliminate the gout issue. He explained about the build up of fats in muscle and how it affects the insulin levels in your body. With the build up, the kidneys retain uric acids and thus an attack occurs. He wanted to see me in 2 months, ten pounds lighter- sounds like a goal- and I do like goals. He told me the body is meant to be hungry and not filled with excess fats. I’m getting a good feel for the guy, seems almost like Dr. Edwards- the old sea salt that passed with hardly anyone knowing he had cancer. Only recently I found this new doctor wrote about his theories in 1977 in a small medical book. He told me they’d known since then about the fats versus the muscle, but it was the sense of humor, which I like. I think that’s what makes a doctor. Now, if only I didn’t have to wait as long…
I’ve decided to walk to my Best Bars on Wednesdays no matter where they are. Today, it’s the Upper East Side 65th and Park- healthy and HOT. Gives me reasons to walk in the mind of my created character- a down and out squatter from the lower East Village: Part Steve, Part Randall.
Actors must really enjoy the ability to adapt to another personality. Those who are at their peek must lose themselves somewhat and find it difficult to break away. There was a great episode of Monk where an actor studied the famous detective and started to become “Monk 2”. It was hilarious, but I digress.
I heard of a stabbing incident today at a Harlem subway station. Several people were wounded and the man escaped. Only yesterday, I heard New York was voted the safest big city in the nation. The Jets & Giants owners also announced in 4 years the Super Bowl will be at the New Meadowlands stadium. Amazing stuff- the irony is nothing short of miraculous. If you considered New York from 1980 till today, it’s like night to day. Makes me proud to say I’m a New Yorker.
The Library is my destination. I’ve read it’s more of a lounge then a bar, the bar being hid away in the kitchen. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I mean, I like libraries, and being surrounded by books is good, but no bartender? I’ll have to rely on my sense of observation. I may need a martini, but a pizzeria sounds like a good way to cut costs- after all there are more places yet to go.
One of the worst things about New York City in the heat is the containment of it from the black streets to confined subway stations. It’s trapped like some enormous oven, which slowly bakes the brains of New Yorkers. Patience is short. Tempers are hot. Fatigue is inevitable, as well as interaction. All of these factors lead up to situations and with situations comes inspiration. It’s that which I hope to capture in my writings- nothing is more important.
English majors will tell you there’s nothing more important than grammar- but if they can stamp out and interact with the world around them as freely as their minds flow- they can be truly great. I, on the other hand, am a poet, so with those deeply sensitive feelings I harbor only words to connect. Should I die tomorrow, I’d like to say I’ve had that.
Old King Cole was a merry old soul, and a merry old soul was he; He called for his pipe in the middle of the night And he called for his fiddlers three. Every fiddler had a fine fiddle, and a very fine fiddle had he; Oh there’s none so rare as can compare With King Cole and his fiddlers three.
The legendary nursery rhyme dates back to the Middle Ages- a symbol of British Literature, which has transcended time and found it’s origin with a post Roman King. Coel Hen (Coel the Old) resided in Northern England and Southern Scotland- between A.D 350-420. There is much to say in the origins of the rhyme, but my basis of reference is a bartender named Gavin Fitzgibbon who recited the elongated version of it by memory.
The King Cole Bar in Manhattan is old New York, founded by Colonel John Jacob Astor IV. The Astors- a powerful New York family since the early 1900’s- furnished the rich with this grand place of social interaction in 1904. At that time it was the tallest building in New York. Not long after the completion of the hotel, Mr. Astor would be one of the more famous people to perish on the Titanic voyage.
When I arrived, the beauty of the doorman’s station that he called a “time machine” struck me. It stood outside of the main door. The friendly gentleman offered to take my picture along with cane in front of it (in Best Bar Wednesday Pictures- myspace/funkthunder). It was as if I’d landed in another universe- the steam punk revolution. The concierge inside directed me to the bar. In old script everywhere were the initials SR- St. Regis OR Steve Roberts. There were paintings that dated back to the art deco period throughout, my favorites being by Maxwell Parrish- the person who painted the enormous relief behind the bar. I asked about the secret behind the painting which was mentioned in my bar book and Gavin told me; the painter was dared to paint a fart into the picture. With the dare, he painted expressions you could only laugh at, my favorite being the man on the right of King Cole, who looks like it was a real doozy.
The King Cole Bar claims to be the first bar in the United States to create the Bloody Mary. It evolved in Paris and was perfected here in the early 1900’s with its bartender Fernand Petiot. They called it the Red Snapper and it’s maintained that name because Bloody Mary was too vulgar- unbefitting of the hotel. Since it had such history, I felt it should be my first drink. Now I’ve never been a “Bloody Mary” drinker, but for the sake of history, I’d have to do it. Vegetables could only have a good effect for my ailment, thus the justification. Lunch would be a simple Chicken Club, recommended by my friendly bartender.
Bartenders are men of the world. They hear the stories, experience the madness, listen and are quick to tell a comedic story. That’s the good ones anyway. Gavin was a wealth of information and having sat down nice and early, I was able to share some history- learn more about the hotel. When two visitors arrived and sat on the other end, they opened up more conversation on the St. Regis also. They told me it used to have a different shape years earlier. I found out the place was the movie setting for many a picture including scenes in the Godfather, one of the more recent films being “the Devil wears Prada” when the Harry Potter script was handed off.
Tommy’s name (the bartender at the Carlyle) came up through this other guest. The man is an institution and known through the New York hotel bartending world. When a man works 50 years in one place he has many a story. Gavin told me Tommy served Theodore Roosevelt. I feel very privileged to have met him and when I told Gavin he arrived late the day I was there, he was shocked. It’s a rare thing for that kind of bartender to be late. As any good New York bartender would, he referred me to another fantastic old time bartender at the Ritz Carton- a man named Norman who worked in the evenings Monday through Friday. Evidently, he’s one of those old timers like Tommy who are known around town- another legend. There are very few of these people left and if you’re lucky enough to be in their presence, you might just learn a thing or two about life. I must add, Gavin falls in this category- a small moment worth his weight in gold.
According to a Travel & Leisure article on Hotel Bars & the Warwick Hotel, the “Ideal” make up of a bar crowd in New York consists of 60% tourists, 30% New Yorkers and 10% crazy and mentally unbalanced people. We call them “wack-a-do’s”. Now, if you have this breakdown, you’re bound to see the best bar experience New York has to offer. I’ll have to consider a survey for the future- I might get some interesting results. I’d like to add ambiance into the picture, because if you ask me, it’s the place and the surroundings that lend themselves to stories. Hell, if Gavin worked in hole in the wall, I might have a great conversation, but the setting might demean the story, or not convey it in the right way.
Synchronicity happens in places like this and I always feel honored when it does. I’ll say it over and over again, the quiet time, to me is the time I learn best, absorb what’s said, converse and with the right bartender- feel at home away from home. Cocktails can be expensive and meals the same, but when you walk away and feel more enlightened- you know it’s worth that snapshot in time.
From the King Cole bar, to the bar I passed earlier on 55th called the Whiskey Trader. The attraction of the place came from a quote above the doorway, “Something has been said for sobriety, but very little”. My mind immediately thought of the early fur traders of Canada, who made their living by trapping and selling the pelts of animals like Mink. Those who after a day of hunting and trapping found their way to a bar and did shot after shot of whiskey. A Wild West bar would have the same feel- at least from the outside.
The inside of the place seemed more like a college hangout where signed dollar bills filled the wall behind the bar. The jukebox filled the air with music and several big screen TV’s were stationed for patrons to watch (I believe there were 4). It wasn’t at all what I pictured from the outside.
I did note a wonderful plaque at the end of the bar on Jack Daniels, which mentioned about his death from infection. I’m not sure if it was true or not, but early one morning he couldn’t remember the combination to his safe. He got very frustrated and kicked the thing, injuring his foot. The foot later became infected and he died. The Moral being, “never, go to work early”.
You’d think at a place like the Whiskey trader I’d drink whiskey, but I didn’t. I drank probably the worst thing for my gout- Guinness. I discovered in a back alley back in the day when I hosted a “Red Bank Bar Crawl”, Guinness has a capacity to line your stomach. The crawl involved every bar from hotel bars to regular bars in Red Bank, NJ- I think at the time it was something like 12. We’d spend 15 minutes in each and walk to the next. As beers were consumed quickly, my stomach started to revolt. After a six, I walked and deeply inhaled. I felt nausea peek and disappeared in this alley thinking how the hell I was going to make it through. I drank Guinness at the next Irish Pub- The Dublin House and my friends thought I was insane. My stomach felt better, but my mind was lost. Friends pushed me into some bushes and at the last bar I was flagged even before I sat down. I was delivered a half eaten pork roll & cheese the next day at my home by a romantic interest I had brought along. I didn’t remember a thing- but that was back in the day. I don’t drink like that now.
The Guinness settled my stomach from the Bloody Mary, which didn’t agree with me. It wasn’t long I was there, on account of being on a strict time schedule. Once again, I mis-read the train schedule (it was DURING the week and NOT Saturday!) and on my arrival at Secaucus found I had to wait a half hour with a dead phone. It turns out I can barely work a payphone any more- placing a collect call just AIN’T easy.
On the good side, the gout kept me “at bay” AND the following day I felt pretty damn good. Too much drink just isn’t good, after all, the day after there’s always little drive and plenty of regret.
Next week, the plan is to get to the Library at the Regency Hotel on Park Ave. Looks like another expensive place, will this NEVER end? It’ll do me in, that’s for sure….
Steve
In 1977, my father contracted a nerve crippling disease from India. It had an incubation period of six months, through which he carried on through life like any normal man- no symptoms. Early one morning my mother ran around the kitchen in a panic. She dialed the hospital. I could tell things weren’t well, so I asked, “What’s wrong, Mum?” She said, “Your father is numb from the neck down.”
As a kid, the last thing I could understand was this word numb- what it represented and the complexities surrounding it. When she explained it, my brother and I had to see for ourselves. She let us.
Dad explained he could turn his head and nothing else- he couldn’t feel anything from his neck to his toes. I asked, “so, if I prick you with a pin, you wouldn’t feel it?” He responded, “No, go ahead.” I frantically searched the house for a needle and when I found it, I began to poke him. Deeper and deeper- i drew blood and he didn’t flinch. I couldn’t understand how he couldn’t feel pain. Not long after the ambulance took him away.
He was in the hospital for a long time. They thought it was psychological. He went over a month without diagnosis and they wouldn’t let us near him. He was sent to isolation and we were given a series of shots in the ass to protect us. They hurt.
When he was at death’s door a doctor from India diagnosed him. They treated him for a disease spread by a mosquito in India- a place he’d been within the year. They said his nerve endings were so damaged, he wouldn’t walk again. He came home and lived for awhile in our living room on a hospital bed. He drank lots of cranberry juice, don’t ask me why.
In 1980, John Lennon’s Double Fantasy came out. The album was truly significant because of the connection my parents had to their Liverpool roots. It was a time my father was in recovery. We’d moved and he was around much more- he travelled much less. One day after school I stepped through the doorway and the record player blasted, “Watching the Wheels”. My Mum and Dad danced in the new living room- my father danced…. life was good.
The doctors said he’d never walk again. He broke canes and crutches, snapped them, refused to accept his fate as dictated by the doctor. He told me much later, “if you choose to believe what others say, and don’t trust your own mind, you will forever be crippled.”
Mind over matter- I’ve seen it work. You can do anything you set your mind to- you can change the universe if you believe in your heart- believe in yourself.
Today, I brought my new cane as a crutch. Gout is a legitimate use. Stylistically, it adds pizzazz. It has a brass “bulb” on one end that could double as a weapon, but it’s the perfect measure to support my weight. I imagined my father snapping the canes in frustration, refusing to believe he’d ever walk again- I understood.
When I almost passed because of a disease I picked up from bird shit at age 31, my father understood. It terrified him because I had no diagnosis for a week and a half. I expected to go in the hospital and be out the following day knowing what it was. Our perceptions and reality don’t always sync. It forced me to slow, made me appreciate the experiences of my father 22 years earlier, and his mine. It was that point life struck me as odd. There was a syncopation and an understanding which was immeasurable.
If you live in someone else’s shoes temporarily, and leave your heart open to the emotions, allow the cause and effect to be absorbed- it rounds you out. There is no need for selfishness, because really we’re so different- our experiences, our lives, and if we let go- be ourselves- let truth be within, we will have enlightened souls and THAT is what life is about.
All because I walked with a cane today. Thanks, Dad.
GOUT- that son of a bitch arthritic problem which can cripple a normal walking guy and make him struggle from place to place. Since it is the second time in only about 2 months, I’ll bite my tongue and do my best to fight the pain, get to the St. Regis and King Cole Bar, and return early due to commitments on the home front.
My habits will forcibly change on account of medication I’ve been given, and I’ll keep my lunch to zero drinks (alcohol ones). I have a cooooooool cane, I just picked up and already I’ve thought of that wonderful song by Sting called “Englishman in New York”.
It’s very easy to put aside a commitment because of medical issues, pain or excuses, but I wasn’t brought up like that. Sometimes you need to fight the pain- either physical or mental, and just get it done. The Latin phrase the Marines use is called Semper Fidelis- always faithful- to their commitment to corps and country. I’ve met several marines in my travels and I can never have enough respect for their courage, strength and commitment. It’s people like those who inspire me and when I think of this small inconvenience, I know I gotta just push myself through.
I’ll do my best tomorrow to be myself- but it’ll be a short visit. Tomorrow is King Cole Bar 55th Street at the St. Regis. See ya soon.
Penn Station has always been a curious place in the rain and cold. When I was in college, I took a work trip (not business trip but pals from a restaurant I worked in) to New York and after the whole crazed voyage, we met a guy called “The Candyman”- a homeless man with no front teeth. He called himself that on account he stole candy from local vendors in the place which he tucked in a bounty behind his overcoat. I remember as an apple rolled across the floor unclaimed, he excused himself from our conversation- picked it up, pocketed it and returned. We said, “How ya gonna eat that?”- he pointed at the empty hole in his mouth, “Can’t eat that- it’s to trade…”
When I walked up the stairs yesterday I was stuck by what appeared to be a homeless man, or a tired traveller. He sat on the floor in front of poem engraved on the wall with several bags. He wore an eight-ball jacket, was unshaven and nodded in and out of consciousness. It struck me poetic, so I gently grabbed my camera, took it out and snapped a shot. You never know when these moments happen, sometimes they’re unexplainable. The complete picture seemed to be there at that moment, perhaps the meaning of life, or an interpretation which could be given meaning to any of life’s aspects. I couldn’t really tell you- but for me- it was universal. From weary traveller, tired fighter, lost soul, to the end (eight ball jacket representing).
I exited the station and walked to Herald Square where I saw another man, this time wrapped in a clear bag in the rain with only an opening for his face. I presumed he was homeless, but I really couldn’t tell. There’s enough eccentric people in New York to always keep you guessing- to me that’s part of the excitement- part of why I feel at home. Across the street was a long line, the kind you might see for concert tickets, but all these people were well dressed. It wrapped around a building the length of a block. I figured it must be a famous person, a baseball star, an author signing books, or a Hollywood Starlet- so I went to the origin which ended in front of a hotel. I asked a woman across the street what was going on- she told me it was a job fair.
SIGN of the times. New York’s economy has sunken greatly since 9/11 and never really fully recovered. Everyone’s known the recession has evaporated the jobs and although they say it’s getting better- we have a long way to go. This was evident by the long line (see in photos under Best Bar Wednesdays). There’s no doubt people are hurting out there. Months ago I heard the unemployment rate in Detroit was at record levels- something like 22%. I can’t imagine what it’s done to crime in that town, but I digress.
I arrived at Keens at 11:25. The sign in the window said 11:45, so I took a very short walk to one of my more common watering holes- The Ginger Man- only 2 blocks away. The place has one of the largest selections of beer on tap-more than a hundred along with a couple of cask drawn ales. I was the first there, and sat down quietly for a cask drawn ale- Burton Bridge Thomas Sykes Cask Ale- a 10% barley wine served in a small brandy like glass. As I swirled the beer in my glass a second poetic picture came- a mood, a feel- it’s the picture I posted as our shot. The art deco lamp, the glass, the menu, the oak bar- it was perfect.
When the moment hits, there is no way to describe it. Poetry is like that. When you’re in the midst of it, it doesn’t seem to show itself, however when you view it in retrospect as a whole, it paints a picture. Pictures paint themselves, and if you recognize it, even though you don’t necessarily know at the time what it represents, later- you may see what your gut told you was there. It’s what I love about the creative process. Vision from the third eye is more valuable than both of the ones you have. It’s in the recognition- a view of the future- a puzzle piece which remains on the sidelines until the others around it have been formed. Each piece is slowly put down, methodically until life is complete. If you’re lucky you’ll live long and each one of those pieces will form a gorgeous picture in the end. We all go, but it’s up to you how beautiful you paint that picture.
Keens Steakhouse is a gorgeous place, from the moment I entered I could feel the mood. I was greeted immediately and led to the far right through a threshold into the pub area with an enormous nude victorian (painting people) behind the bar. The place had a darker somber feel to it- very Irish, very UK. I looked around at all the old photographs which lined the walls, above shelving (more like a room lined bar) where a few men found a conversation and a few beers. There were three men who spoke with a foreign accent; they looked like older musicians- one tattooed up the arms was in center. On the other end, a few single guys.
I asked immediately about the Pub sized Mutton Chop. I did no thinking- I asked for it along with a beer then sat a few chairs down from the three guys. A few minutes later I was joined by a great guy who started up a conversation with me: Mike. We exploded into conversation and it didn’t stop the entire time I was there- with the exception of the time he left me to eat. He understood the value of the Mutton chop and had eaten it several times before, in fact he recommended it after I’d already ordered it. When it came, I think he was more excited to see me bite into this delicacy- than anyone. I could barely speak after or during. To me, this was SERIOUSLY the BEST piece of meat I’d ever had. I practically gnawed the meat from the bone. I think Anthony Bourdain described it best… HOLY $%#@!
Mike and I shared our views on the lack of every day people stories- the hardships and the battles people face- especially when it comes to the defense of our country. There are people who sacrifice everything for our well-being and some who never give an ounce of appreciation to that fact. It’s really sad if you ask me, when so many people give all the appraise to the next American Idol, and people are dying in Afghanistan or Iraq. It makes me think of those special entertainers who used to go over for our troops in WWII- people like Bob Hope, who risked their lives to bring a smile to our guys overseas. We need more people like him, more specials to focus on not the horror- we have enough of that, but the saving of tormented souls who must face the horrors of war- especially comedians who can bring a laugh when one’s truly needed. Bob Hope was a one of kind guy- a funny person who was ballsy enough to do it, help our guys escape for a short time before they had to return to get the job done.
Mike was a military guy. He travelled all over, owns his own business, and he has one day a week to unwind. Wednesdays. I hope to see him in my travels, because I saw his view, agreed and understood- sometimes that means more than everything else. During my INCREDIBLE meal when I went quiet as hell, he started a conversation with the three guys. Turns out they were from Belgium and were in New York for a few days playing somewhere- they were musicians. He offered to buy them a pub Mutton Chop after they’re meals were already served- they had some steaks which they raved about. He offered to get one which they could each try, but they kindly refused. It was funny- Mike noticed they drank Budweiser and commented how they shouldn’t be drinking that. When I found out they were Belgium I said, “you have the greatest beers in Belgium and you certainly must be homesick for that”. It was some great stuff, but cut my stay short because I agreed to check out another place Johnny Utah’s; referred to me by an earlier bar traveller- Roni.
I slipped out, and realized later I hadn’t even walked the place- looked at the pipes, absorbed the atmosphere, felt the vibe. I mean I did like the bar, I liked the conversation, but I do like to peek around. I wanted to see the Moose head- but it gives me a good excuse to get back…in the rain… for a mutton chop. On both hands, Keens Steakhouse gets two VERY big thumbs up! And thanks to Gary, a bartender who knows how to treat guys like us- generously.
Johnny Utah’s had a old Western feel, one where you’d imagine a country band playing, cowboys & cowgirls hangin in spurs with Whiskey. When you walk down the stairs and turn to the right, you see a mechanical bull! I believe it was the first place to have one in Manhattan. The bar is to the right with tables in the back. To the FAR left is a bank vault door with a large table inside the room. If you imagined guys counting money on table in a vault: Kansas 1920’s, you’d see this. Bank boxes lined the room walls. The Chandeliers were made from Deer antlers and at the end of the room, there were two old pictures- one of a scantily clad woman- Wyatt Earp’s Second wife (Gunfight at the O.K.Corral with 2 of his brothers and Doc Holiday) and another woman who was somehow related to Earp.
The place is between 5th and 6th avenues and I think 51st Street. It’s steps away from Rockerfeller Center and the media giants. What I liked about it was it made me feel out of place- which to me can be a good thing. I’ve always liked old West stories, documentaries on Billy the Kid, The OK Corral, the lawlessness and have written a few stories as if I was a guy back then. I have an entire collection of Time Life Books on the Old West which I purchased for research reasons that give everything from the Gunfighters, to Cowboys, Indians, the 49′ers, steam trains and such. Places like this give that ambiance I look for stories like that- good places to put pen to paper (this is my preferred medium when I’m out- computer comes later- rough drafts first).
I suppose I should have been drinkin whiskey at that place, but I stuck to beer instead. I had a great conversation and a couple of drinks with Roni; a photographer who works for one of the TV networks doing something else. She has an interesting job of censorship, which I found very entertaining. Someone who bleeps out cusses has their work cut out for them. Come to think of it, I don’t think a cuss came out in our conversation (from her mouth anyway)- I wonder if that’s a fact of the job….. She had to return after lunch to work and I stayed longer.
Someone graduated and they decided to put on the mechanical bull (it’s rarely on during the day). After a few people rode it I tried to get in on the action- signed a waiver- but the guy who controlled the thing disappeared after a few short rides. Got a stamp on my hand of a cattle skull- and everything! I sat back down and guzzled a few more.
I’m not sure what time I actually exited the place, but I know one thing- I only had a dollar to my name. When I went to catch the subway, my metro-card wouldn’t let me through so I dug in my wallet and found between all the dust a lone dollar bill. I thought it’d be in my best interest, NOT to go to the bank and walk back to Penn regardless of how long it might take me.
I “wisened” up to the fact of standing between Penn Station and Secaucus on the train, would keep me from accidental sleep, so when I finally got the connection- I was out like a light. Got home late, but so is the typical Best Bar Wednesday.
Next week’s visit is the King Cole Bar (a merry ole soul I’ll be) at 2 East 55th Street. Hope to see ya.
Water- the essential element of life. Most people hate it when it falls, I on the other hand, enjoy it. It makes me want to write, allows me to see through the clouds darkness, opens my mind to the aura it creates, especially behind urban decay. Most horror movies take place in spooky houses during rainstorms and in the dark- at least that’s what people tend to fear. It’s always the mood which sets the mind aflame. I choose to favor this kind of weather for whipping up a tale- a ghost story, a bar story- one of mass appeal.
Today, I visit Keens Steakhouse. It was established in the late 1800’s and is known for it’s mutton chops. Had I known this prior to Tues. night, I would have saved my scruffy face and shaved a couple of very English hairy chops, but alas, this weekend I went for the clean look. Spring brings change and I abide by that seasonal clean up.
The good thing is they’re known for their extensive clay pipe collection- the fragile old Dutch pipes you might imagine an 18th century New Englander smoking. Back then, frequenters to an inn or pub used to “check” their pipe, much like people check their coats today. It used to be logged and when the guest entered and requested it, a boy would retrieve it from the pipe vault. At Keens they have pipes that belonged to Babe Ruth, Theodore Roosevelt, Wild Bill Cody, Douglas MacArthur amongst others. I read somewhere recently a woman came in to claim her great grandfathers pipe. After some time of looking the match was made and a sentimental place in her heart was filled.
The decor of the place looked like Victorian England, which my parents as well as I, love. The old classic portraits, old fonts, pipes, and old stained oak will be the perfect setting for a rainy miserable day.
I’m familiar with this area of the city, so I don’t feel I’ll miss much when it comes to walking around. I did hear the Rolling Stones were in town for the re-release of 1972’s Exile on Main Street. They were at MOMA Tuesday night doing some sort of promotion. Since it is one of my favorite albums, I may need to visit and look more into what’s represented. I heard the re-release next Tues. will include ten never before heard songs. I may have Stones Fever return after years. It’s been too long.
Recently, I was sent a magazine called the The Dramatist and a book on How to stage a play from my friend Joey. Joey’s this gentleman in his early eighties who’s spent most of his life in the arts and around the stage in Manhattan. The name Joey I always associate with young hyper kids, but in his case, it’s as if his name aged backwards from Joseph. I believe he sought to motivate me and he actually may have. I never thought about writing for the stage, but it may be something I’ll need to experiment with. I’ve written a couple of screenplays I intended for movies, but writing for a play? Well, I’d imagine thinking is different- the audience and reaction stripped down from special effects. The magazine gave me a look into screenwriters and they’re not any different than your every day novelist. I’ll need to consider it for a future project, but if you ask me- there is no greater motivator than a little cash. Anyone want to pay me for a screenplay?
I keep my fingers crossed I don’t have the return of the gout. Think about it- Mutton Chops, Old Dutch pipes, Victorian Paintings, rich thick beer- I may turn into Ben Franklin after all!
I didn’t know what to expect when I visited J.G. Melon. It’s in a neighborhood which I’ve had very little contact- the Upper East Side. I heard about bar row- an area which has the most concentrated bars in New York, which I thought was around there, so I’d stroll.
I’ve been arriving earlier in the city taking the 8:12am train, the one right before the 9:37am. It’s more expensive because it’s a commuter train. Recently, they’ve done away with off-hours tickets due to the severe budget crisis of New York. Instead of $13.00 for a round-trip, it’s another 4 dollars and change. I’m not so concerned about the rate hike (only once a week I’m taking it), as much as actually GETTING the commuter train. I wait for my son’s bus, and must run to catch it. As you can see, it’s almost an hour and half difference, and that’s a BIG difference when you walk and explore.
J.G. Melon is located on 74th and 3rd. Avenue- Penn Station at 32nd and 8th. After the success of walking Downtown last week, I thought I’d do the same uptown.
I took a familiar route, weaving the streets through Herald Square and on to Bryant Park. I wanted to see the Public Library because I’d spent many an hour people watching on its steps. Scaffolding surrounded the whole front for a major clean, but the giant stone lions were still free. When I turned the corner I saw a shoe shine guy who’d been on that corner for years. He smiled and laughed with a child on looker. He looked disheveled, especially with all the well-dressed people getting to work, but it seemed his sense of humor was intact. The day was beautiful.
Bryant Park is a place of serenity. On this cool morning, chairs were set up all over it’s lawn. Behind the library is a statue and an eating establishment. Small pathways go from the library down to 6th, where there’s a granite fountain at the end. The architecture around the park ranges from early 1930’s to a decade old facade. I wrote one of my favorite poems here in the park called “Only Human” which I have in my poetry archives on my writer site here:
http://www.robertswriter.net/roberts-humn2.htm#hnm
Many times I’ve spent time writing here and I miss it. Being in the presence of one of the world’s most famous libraries is inspiration enough, but when you combine all the external factors- well, you draw from it. Crepes on the park? Chess anyone? They do that there to. Is it no surprise I find myself back here? No, not one bit.
After my little distraction, I thought I’d b-line to the place and search the area for items of interest, with little clue on WHAT to look for. I walked cross-town on 42nd to Madison and continued North. Madison is such a ritzy area, and the stores reflect it. The people who traverse it, are much the same, business suits, well dressed, nannies walking carriages, tourists and such. At this time, it was quiet, after most people become building bound and attend jobs they were lucky to have. The TREMENDOUS drop off on Wall Street yesterday and a 900 point drop- human error or not- shakes people up enough to step back and realize the importance of a job. Look at Greece and the turmoil due to their failing economy, but let me not digress. Madison is great for the wealthy shopper, plenty of high-end shops and not as much foot traffic. I continued till I realized I was at the back of St. Patricks Cathedral. I’d never seen it from behind before and it’s as beautiful as the front. I took some pictures from across the street -a hotel called “The New York Palace”. It was an intimidating place with a magnificent courtyard. I had to wander in because of an enormous chandelier. Inside, I found a well-crafted marble fireplace on the second floor and early classic paintings. It looked like the residence of old European wealth- a place not for me- BUT I did admire the surroundings.
Again, I continued cross-town where I stumbled on Bloomingdales old store front. Next to it was Bloomberg’s building- a round modern one, which seemed to be heavily guarded. The cars- mostly Mercedes- filled the interior. I enjoyed the building and imagined it was the center of his high-powered financial empire (whether or not it was, I couldn’t tell you – I’m a wanderer). I grabbed a cup of coffee from a street vendor and hit 3rd avenue. On the corner was a “Candy Bar” for all you sweet-toothed sugar addicts. It was kind of funny to see a candy bar. I imagined a bunch of children acting like adults speaking like auctioneers after their 6 or 7th lollypop at the bar. In the window I could see candy from South America, and different areas of the world. I didn’t pop in- I was scared. I have enough fillings as it is.
Basically, from here, I became bored. I missed Bar Row, which was probably further South. There weren’t a lot of people out and the buildings weren’t really interesting. I didn’t seem to stumble on anything with the exception of the first Savings Bank Building in New York established in 1817 noted by a cornerstone. It was only the shell of the building-and now housed Talbots Dept Store. In a sidenote, the Limelight- old goth club housed in old church is now a shopping place full of high end stores- is this a sign of the times?
John Steinbeck’s residence was on 206 East 72nd Street. It overlooked this old bank building, but was replaced by apartments. There were a few attractive brownstones next to where it was SUPPOSED to be, but history changes for some, and progression can’t be stopped. I tried to imagine what Steinbeck saw as he exited his building and walked around between 1951 through 1968 when he passed. I thought to myself how the landscape had changed, but even so- this area seemed to be devoid of character.
It’s strange how masses work. (See my poem- The Masses: http://www.robertswriter.net/roberts-humn.htm#vis ) When someone becomes successful, others try and emulate them. They become a general stereotype which everyone wants to be like: people dress the same, act the same, be the same and before you know it there is general population all based on several people “ideals”. God forbid someone steps out of bounds, instead of being part of the majority; they suddenly become the minority in which others won’t “claim” to associate with. This whole neighborhood seemed to have it- a general consensus of group thought. Granted, I felt safe as hell, but I saw a lack in not just buildings but character. Call me strange.
I arrived at J.G. Melon’s before 11am, I asked if they were serving, but the bartender replied not until 11:30am, so I’d continue to walk around. There were only a couple items of interest. A shell of a restaurant called Carpe Diem. I found it ironic a place called Carpe Diem should be closed; inside- the bar looked ripped up and only a portrait of a young girl behind the host stand remained. A truck who’d picked up a lot of stuffed cartoon characters- Mr. Bill, Stewy & others (see pictures)- on its grill was parked in front of a hotel. It was as if the truck had hit them and they were bugs stuck in the grill. There was a woman who wore one of the best ad’s for window covering I’d ever seen- “Dress your naked window at Metropolitan Window Fashions”, she wore a body suit beneath two large boards. From a distance I thought she WAS truly naked. (a shapely woman wearing a white dress ran to catch a light in front of me- as I turned to look –her naked tush popped into view- I SWEAR! Only in New York…) Anyways, the woman with the Ad was from New Zealand. She’d been here for 2 years and missed her home country. I figured the contrasts between somewhere like there and here must have been more than enormous. I had a quick chat and off I went to explore the Steinbeck neighborhood.
At 11:40 I returned to J.G. Melon. It was already hopping and I was lucky to find a place at the bar. I ordered a dirty martini, sat and watched CNN on the large screen TV. The place was small and the bar a little crowded. The place was known for it’s burgers and even famous chefs have commented how good they were so I’d need to get one. After the second martini, my appetite soared, so I ordered a Swiss burger medium. All I can say is the words I read about the burgers were delightfully true. After that meal, I wanted another. It was absolutely fabulous and I’d categorically say it was the best burger in Manhattan!
I attempted to have a few conversations, but was shut down quickly. I overheard some words about Michael Douglas and Lenny Kravitz and added to one I’d heard on painting and the sale of a Picasso that fetched I think 100 Million, but the place was popping and I don’t expect much in such an active retreat (especially at lunch). I asked about a table dedicated to Steve Gordon, the writer of “Arthur”, who by chance I found out finished his screenplay here. When I come across that kind of information, its as if some destiny had led me there and it’s significance as it pertained to my life. I kind of wanted to sit at the table, but it was occupied, so I continued to glance around my surroundings and listen with another martini. A woman walked in, whom I’d recognized from another street on my walks. It was because of her fashion- an unusual hat, dark 70’s sunglasses and wild colored skirt. I offered a drink, but she refused and went to the other end of the bar. By this time I felt a streak of poetry come, so I wrote. When it strikes, you capture it.
Not shortly afterward, I made my exit and a string of phone calls as I walked. I thought I might return to Penn on foot, but at 60th between 5th and Broadway I found Jeckyll & Hydes Restaurant; a place I always wanted to write in. The eccentric décor and odd character of the place was attuned to Victorian England and a step closer to the movie “An American Werewolf In London”. At midday, the place was quiet, perfect for me.
I watched the host from the sidelines approach a few groups in his “steampunk” wear and entertain with comical conversations. We struck one up ourselves when it came to his enormous glass, which I thought might contain Vodka. Here I felt more at home, amidst the odd and strange- a bathroom hidden by a bookcase, a suit of armor, a werewolf’s head from the wall, a fortune telling machine upstairs, and eyes which would occasionally move from behind paintings. The place is great to take kids or other kid minded adults- provided they’re not too young. They always have a show.
The subway was right outside the place and with that convenience; I couldn’t resist a quick ride back to Penn. I had purposely waited to catch the express- the ONLY one- back to my home. Wouldn’t ya know it- that occasional narcolepsy took hold and when I realized the train stopped, I was too late to run out it’s doors. “Newark, next stop…” A switch, a wait, I’m late and …. Damn I hate the train.
For next week it’s Keen’s Steakhouse at 72 West 36th Street, only about 5-10 minute walk to Penn! The neighborhood I know, so we’ll see what trouble I find next week. Thanks again, for tuning in. See ya then!
Steve
Funk Thunder
Did I cross my T’s, dot my I’s, do my Q’s? I only know if I make a list. I have a compulsion to write it down- any mundane task so as not to forget it. I used to even write- brush my teeth- for the satisfaction of “crossing it off the list”. There is a method to this madness- it brings joy to such an activity; a logical way to assign order to important and unimportant tasks. With constant distractions, I’ve always found it easier to read than hold it in my memory- only to lose it when a book next to me dropped. It allowed me to become a shell and absorb the environment around me, let my creative centers work and not be sidetracked by the other important things which must be done. I made a list last night of every possible thing pending and I felt in control. Perhaps its that which is the whole issue here- control.
Type A’s seek to control our environment. Even though we know there are things which will always be out of control, we nonetheless attempt to put it in order. If I’m out of control things erupt viciously- I flounder and waste time, and I simply don’t like that. If I have sectors of control, places of order, I have somewhere to retreat. I lash out, get nasty when I clean, especially if things have been “out” of order for some time. I’m downright mean. I suppose it’s the fact I can’t understand how things can remain out of order for a period of time- a coffee stain which remains for days is just not acceptable.
I digress…. today is supposed to be a beautiful day. I’m going to the upper East side and feel ill prepared. I know I need to take the subway to 77th street and walk down to 72nd. I was also referred to a bar from a patron at Dublin House, a place called Malachy’s on Columbus and 72nd. This morning I found John Steinbeck lived from 1951-1968 in a brownstone at 206 East 72nd Street. At the time the book was published (Literary New York-1976) the building was boarded up and could be demolished- so I can only hope it remains.
I went through a John Steinbeck phase because a Miami English professor who told me my book “The Fleamarketeer” sounded like his story “The Pearl”. I read that, then the Grapes of Wrath, then “Of Mice & Men” and I was hooked. His whole aura shaped on tough living, depression, and challenges faced by men. I’d like to compare myself to the author but that’d be plain ballsy; after all- who am I?
Well… that’s a story yet to unfold.