Yesterday, I went to an Uncle’s 75th Birthday party in Brooklyn. The whole trip from my place was foreign except down the Palisades Parkway and West Side Highway in Manhattan. The advantage of taking this route was you have a plethora of things to look at then getting stuck on a highway in Staten Island and having nothing but people cuss you out. The party was very close to Coney Island. Recently, I said my friend Jefferson wanted to get me to there to drink at a bar and I’m even MORE likely to go there in the future because of several things my cousins mentioned 1) The Freak Show, 2) The Freak Bar 3) Shoot a Freak and the other attractions which continue to exist like one of the first roller coasters aimed to scare the shit outta ya- the Cyclone.
Well I’d heard of the Freak show, which I believe includes people who stick skewers through their faces, in their bodies and such, and a whole host of other odd things. The Freak Bar was a place that only recently celebrated the anniversary of the movie – THE WARRIORS- a movie about street gangs fighting over turf, which I believe takes place in Brooklyn. The Last- “Shoot a Freak” is precisely that, the place gets a homeless guy, or someone who they probably pay a good cent, dress him up in padding and he dodges back and forth between barriers while you try and shoot him with a paintball gun. I practically fell over laughing as I thought of a Bugs Bunny cartoon where Elmer Fudd or Bugs is in a giant pinball machine bouncing from one bumper to the next. If you ask me, that itself is worth the ride.
When I arrived home after my exhausting day- yes, driving in Brooklyn and finding a parking spot is stressful- I sat down to watch Doctor Who. I’ve never really been a fan, but lately started to watch more recent episodes. Last night involved Doctor Who going back in time to meet Vincent Van Gogh on account of a demon he saw in a window of Van Gogh painting. Essentially, the episode was about the demon inside the artist that no one sees, except in this episode they interpret it- allow you to see the demon, but only in the worlds of Doctor Who and his assistant.
For those of you not familiar with Van Gogh’s work, he was one of the most talented painters in the world, except he suffered many mental issues- even checked himself into an asylum for a period of time. He painted from his soul and barely sold a painting his entire life, being supported by his brother Theo largely, he made his way through the hard lives of people- painting those who portrayed the working man, people who suffered in poverty. He was generations ahead of his time.
I realized I hadn’t been to a Museum to see paintings in some time. For me, it’s very necessary to indulge in art and feel the emotions set forth by the great painters. I hadn’t done it for to long, and it’s left a hole, which needed to be filled.
Years ago, I had a great relationship with a painter I felt was a “living” Van Gogh. We became friends after I’d met him in a fleamarket peddling his paintings. I was so taken by his work (powerful paintings of homeless people, seafarers, whimsical sculptures) I had to see more. When I visited his home, his work BLEW me away, I actually wept- the first and only time-at a painting. I learned about this wise old soul, who suffered as a homeless man, grew up in Jersey City, and fought a tough life; who painted… He was influenced by Pablo Picasso but self taught and painted like no one I’d ever met- till this day. He was NO outsider artist, but a true GENIUS, generations ahead of time- like Vincent Van Gogh.
I purchased work of his over a decade ago, tried to even help him see the success he should have long gained by now, but we’re both temperamental artists. I’m a poet, who wrote the same way as he painted. We’re both highly emotional and explosive when it comes to the passion of our work, but we respected one another and could speak about practically anything. It dissolved because of issues that aren’t important here, but I’ve always maintained and will go to my grave knowing Pietro Barbera is the undiscovered Van Gogh of modern society.
My whole dank and dark mood I’ve been in for the past few days was stripped after Doctor Who. I discovered I was stagnant; dwelling into something I had no control over, but must continue till completion. I missed the philosophical conversations which filled my world with wonder, gave me the ability to create something from nothing and give me reason to move forward. I missed the SPARK.
Two weeks ago a couple of small bears were chased up a tree near my kids school. On Friday night, there was a doe and a fawn that feasted on the clover in my front yard. My yard has become a wild sanctuary in which young animals roam; groundhogs, squirrels, chipmunks, blue jays and now a baby deer. It’s like the Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom in my very yard. I thought how wonderful it is to be close to nature and close to New York City, and how truly lucky I am to be able to do what I’ve done so far; be blessed to wake up and do it again.
Funk isn’t always funky bad…. Most of the time funk is funky good.
Steve
Funk Thunder
PS-Check out previous blogs on our “Best Bar Wednesday Blog Series-MANHATTAN” for a little entertainment- spread the word….
Irony is what I’m about. The fact I was to visit two bars that were polar opposites was a good thing; one a “Spit & Sawdust” pub, the other a high end hotel bar which during the 20’s was the site of a literary group called “The Round Table”- like King Arthur’s literary knights. In circles the Algonquin will always be at the top of the destination charts for literary history. For Salt of the Earth people- it’s Molly’s.
My adventure started with a good walk, as it always does. In ninety-degree heat on the steamy sidewalks of New York’s streets and avenues I felt like a protagonist I created subjecting one self to the harsh elements. Extreme heat or cold brings out the soul, a grand appreciation for simple things too often neglected- an air-conditioned room, a furnace, a glass of water, a hot chocolate. Nowadays, gadgets, toys, and the necessities they’ve become spoil too many people. My neighbor in New Jersey used to drive her kids to the bus stop every day even when it was only 5 minutes to walk. Abundant resources lead to waste. Time really should be about essence; it should be a mandatory for kids to experience their surroundings instead of being in front of computer or video game, but enough of my preaching.
Molly’s was located on 3rd avenue between 23rd & 22nd streets. I decided to walk cross-town and NOT down Broadway, but Third Avenue. It’s easy to retrace steps, but I wanted something different. I hadn’t eaten breakfast and thought one of those bagel carts would be a good thing, but then I thought I should go straight for the pub to have a liquid meal- a Guinness. How many Irish places DON’T stock Guinness?
Building facades from the early part of the 20th Century fascinate me. The details are truly amazing and my walk took me past some interesting ones. I’d come across the Armory, a place I hadn’t been since 2001 when pictures were posted of the thousands missing from the Trade Centers. They called it the wall of remembrance: they littered the walls. There’s a giant eagle, which overhangs the center door from Third Avenue. It says in old script 69th Regiment and has all the glory of an old military establishment. A few fatigued guys stood outside and the presence of a military hummer on the side street made me think it was still military. In 1913 an important art show that revolutionized the American Art Movement took place here and it still continues. There was a plaque which read: “This plaque commemorates the armory art show of Feb 15, 1913 which revolutionized the American Art Movement by bringing to national attention the new art forms of Native American and modern European painters and sculptors and honors the artists who organized this historic event on this site.” I’ve read about this show and I think it might have had to do with the introduction of the Impressionists to the United States, but I’d have to check my facts.
Next to the building was another period building with early South Western influences, like Georgia O’Keefe meets Diego Rivera. There was a cattle skull, rattlesnakes, horses and Native American motifs. A woman named Annie stepped out of the building for a breath of fresh air. I looked like a tourist from Michigan facing the sky she said, so I asked if she knew anything about the building. Turns out it was a prior headquarters for the International Ladies Garment Workers Union which became very powerful in the early 1930’s. (I once owned a 1911 Union dues book from this organization and researched a New York event called “The Great Revolt” and the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire of 1911 in which over a hundred mostly immigrant women died.) Annie told me only architects or tourists seem to have an interest in the design on the building. The building was one of three the architect built in New York: one on the upper West Side, the other unknown. When I told her I was from New York she thought it strange-I found out she was from the Bronx. I thanked her for her hospitality and continued to the other side of the street where a wall mural with four incredibly intense faces on brick attracted my attention. They were three-dimensional and out of wood fastened by masonry screws.
Third Avenue is densely packed with bars, pubs and restaurants in this area. At the corner of 22nd was a place called the Lyric Diner. It was open 24 hours and I thought what an awesome place to shuffle myself away after a few drinks and write. Two businesses down from the corner was the humble black and white front of Molly’s Pub & Restaurant Shebeen (Irish for unlicensed establishment or private house selling alcoholic liquor and typically regarded as slightly disreputable)
I opened the door to a dark wood bar with old pictures. There were quite a few men already at the bar that watched the World Cup. Some gathered to face the American game deep inside the bar and the others faced the opposite flat screen that aired the England game. It was a critical one for the US- one which against all odds would take them to the next round. Now, I’ve always liked soccer (football as the Europeans say) and I was glad to be there- no place better to watch the World Cup than in an Irish pub.
I made myself comfortable and watched the England game from a sharp angle. Most people knew each other and I felt respectful NOT to go looking about. I knew little about the cup and spoke even less. During my second Guinness the USA scored it’s winning goal in the last few minutes of the game. An enormous roar filled the bar, clapping abound – I smiled and joined in. It was my lucky day as I watched USA advance to the next stage. After the game, a few people left the bar and left open seats deep inside the pub. I relocated to the opposite end where I started to probe the back room, absorbing the old photographs, the poet’s pictures and quotes, the Celtic jugs and various décor, the sawdust and the selection of liquor on the shelves. It’s here I’d eat fish and chips.
When I visited my family in Liverpool as a teenager I was taken to a little chip shop somewhere in Birkenhead where fish and chips where taken directly from the fryer dripping with oil and put in a REAL Newspaper to eat. It was delicious, fresh with malt vinegar.
My fish and chips at Molly’s were fabulous, spread with tarter sauce and malt vinegar-so much so I mopped up every bit. Jimmy, the bartender treated me to a drink. I just sat and listened to chatter, something I hoped would bring me inspiration. On my last beer a man in business attire sat next to me and ordered a coke. He told the bartender how he’d lost his job a year ago and had 3 job conferences set up today 8:30, 10:30 and 2:30. It was discouraging news and by this time I’d already started to fall into my own funk. The dark surroundings lent me melancholy ways. I thought at this point, as much as I should chat with the guy I needed to protect my already fragile persona. I listened and thought of the economy and how tough it is out there and what it must be like to be middle aged (he must have been about 50) and dealing with unemployment, especially with societies technological advances. It must make employers more selective and older people more difficult to accept in business. He ordered a burger.
Already, my mind was loaded with my own angst and juggles. The drink didn’t seem to help much and outside the heat was simply oppressive. I’d started in on myself about guilt, and how I thought in the best interest of all, it’d be better I was home.
Days like this I felt like writing- not experiencing. It was a way to get away- a damn cheap way to better myself and clear my head; instead I’d have to remain caged up, protect it until I could free myself later. I hadn’t talked to the guy, I’m sure he could have used a pick me up conversation, but I internalized, which can at times be necessary.
Most people know my enthusiastic side. I’m very much an optimist and like to think there is a better side to everything, but I do hit lows. It’s not a long process, I can usually bounce back pretty quickly, but I have my moments. It wasn’t long after the realization of goin downhill that I had to get to the other bar- a more upscale and expensive bar. I was more likely to be myself here than in a fine pricy place like the Oak Room, but I had to carry on. I left.
I’d walk uptown, on 3rd avenue to 44th and walk across. The heat made me want to retreat to several bars along the way, but I held out. Called my pal Jefferson to tell him how much he’d dig Molly’s and we talked about a place he wanted to get me to in Coney Island, a place I’d love. He gave me a little enthusiasm as I envisioned a seat in some strange place along a Coney Island boardwalk in the summer. I thought about a side trip next week to this drinkin joint with him- something different- no plan.
I’ve been the Algonquin a few times before, but I’d never seen the Oak Room. It was a secret room with an entrance in the back of the lobby; a concierge showed me a quick glance. New York magazine called the Oak Room New York’s best cabaret. In 1989 Harry Connick, Jr. was recruited to play there before he made it big. I understand there is a writer’s table installed in the lobby to encourage new writers, which I somehow missed. As it happened, the Oak Room was closed after they played their last show earlier in the month. Their cabaret series returns in September in the small and cozy place. There is way too much to say in regard to its history, but I’ll leave you to read it for yourself.
The Blue Room was the bar directly behind the Oak Room. There was no one there. Hirshfield drawings filled its walls. The drinks are expensive, and the World Cup played the next series of games. I continued to drift deeper into my funk, until my mind just seized- cluttered with everything but my main mission.
There was no freedom, no open air to breathe, and no joy, just stagnant and stale beer in which I swam. I thought to myself, why do I bother? I thought there must be a deeper meaning; I feel it as each day passes. I was reminded about “being in the thick of it”, and how the city is as necessary to my persona as the sight of my third eye. Vision is sometimes lost when everything is piled high. I once had an ego, which deteriorated long ago and the pieces I constantly pick up. I remember failure.
I heard Franklin’s Tower by the Grateful Dead this evening and just downloaded the Very Best of the Grateful Dead so I could hear some real strong memories- reflect. I rode the express train into the station of indecision and walked. I wanted to walk, I needed to walk and eat some hot wings before I returned home.
It’s Friday, and I just applied for a full-time position with my company.
It’s 9:15am and there’s a little voice inside my head that repeats over and over, “this isn’t right”- the voice of guilt.
My kids have a half-day at school and my youngest has a play date till 3pm (don’t think I’ll EVER get used to the word “play date”). I know damn well he’ll be taken care of but there’s always the what-if scenario I’ve discussed in a prior blog. What-if the mother can’t pick him up from school and I need to get him?
Before I quit my job in the city eight years ago, my wife called me in a panic. I was in Times Square shopping for a gift and she was going to rush my son to emergency because he couldn’t breathe. I ran for the train from Penn Station to my home and arrived 1 ½ hours later- he was maybe one year old. It was one of those pivotal turning points. What-if there was another emergency? I needed to be closer. I was sickened by my new job after they cut both my salary and health benefits after a merger, to the point it wasn’t worth the commute any more. What would you do?
Last night, I watched the “The Deadliest Catch” where one of my favorite captains Phil Harris learned of his son’s addiction to prescription pills. Phil was lucky to survive a blood clot that passed through his heart and was prescribed numerous medications, which included painkillers. Despite the issue, he returned to his boat, the Cornelia Marie, to fight not just for his business- but all his men. Last week, he went to get some pain medication and found his son stealing them. They had harsh words- but the argument was smoothed over after the truth was told. The son told his father he was an “Addict”. At the end of this episode, in safe harbor, Captain Phil was found face down in his cabin; he’d suffered a stroke.
Phil Harris, a man respected in the fleet, was one of the beloved captains who have been there since the beginning. Rumor had it he died this season. We know Phil was no angel- he had his share of trouble- but he was a responsible father. He brought in money doing what he did best and was able to teach that while his sons grew to fishing on the cold Bering Sea. He’ll be sorely missed.
No one holds the reigns of guilt, worse than the driver. Every person deals as best they can with their issues- parents and children suffer from them; we all do. I saw as a young man how it was manipulated to get things done to the benefit of those initiating it. I distanced myself from it, and hid it well. There is a toll it takes both mentally and physically- especially as you age- there will always be something, but as a parent it’s a whole different matter.
When I went from a full-time working father to a part-time father/creative/mother & job worker I felt the children to be my responsibility. I adapted well, but I have personal issues I’ll always have. I freely admit, I’m my own worse critic and imply a harsh criticism to my own self-enjoyment. My “Best Bar Wednesday Blog Series” was an exercise to expose me to different environments and pressure me to write regularly. I thought I’d enjoy it and I do (apart from the regular money spending) for the solitary time, the conversation, and the ambiance. Perhaps I’ve become selfish; perhaps I’m not as good a father as I could be.
Some parents toss their children to the side and ignore them completely. I was lucky to never have felt that pain. I was born into a very loving family. There are so many out there that lack a childhood where touch was involved. They say statistically that every child should be touched lovingly by their parents constantly- a pat on the head, a kiss, a gentle push- and a genuine emotional bond will be formed in their early years. The lack of such, traumatically affects them.
Guilt is a powerful thing when used without abuse. It’ll allow a young man or woman to make a clear discussion between right and wrong. Early moments profoundly affect our lives, but understanding and communication of it are the first and foremost tool for acceptance. Compassion is necessary and leads to a good basis for critical decision making- the broader the understanding, the more compassion- the more logical the decision- the ability to channel it correctly- the better.
I heard this morning a song by Crowded House- “Weather with You”.(see here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uIb6I8gtgtw ) We all search for solutions. Sometimes there aren’t any, but the better you know yourself; the better you can handle hard times and weather the storms. We reflect on times with such voice, it brings a comfort to others who feel the same. Music comes from the soul and every sense we maintain can be found there. Never forget its power.
Steve
Did I say my train rides were supposed to be about bars?? Let me leave that till tomorrow when I discuss my adventures at Molly’s, the Oak Room, and NYC. On deck next week- Old Town Bar & Restaurant & Onieal’s Grand Street Bar OR a side trip to Coney Island with musician Jefferson Thomas.
Old haunts are especially good places for inspiration. My best bar this week was McSorleys, I was in my early twenties when I first visited. I distinctly remember the sawdust-covered floor as a young man, something you might see in old England or Ireland- once used to cover spilt beers and spit which caked the floors. A spit and sawdust pub is defined as a dirty and untidy pub, not modern in any way and lacks what one might consider today as attractive. I like to consider a place like this perfect for the poet- a place to be absorbed into the heart of every writer, a place stripped bare of pretences and materialism which plagues the credit card rich American.
When you walk into McSorleys, you see age. The old furnace still used to heat the place, the old carved tables, the mementos behind the bar and on the walls, the bartender who wears a white apron and the man who takes orders in his outfit of gray. You see layers of dust that line relics and aged yellow papers in frames from decades of cigarette smoke. You’ll find more than your share of history; there’s even an original wanted poster for John Wilkes Booth for the assassination of Abraham Lincoln STILL mounted behind the bar. Granted this WAS an all male pub up until the 1960’s where men could go and share stories, drinks and plain debauchery. Lets face it, it’s not the sort of place you’d take your first date or find a woman saying, “Ooooooo what a lovely place”.
McSorleys serves only two kinds of beers- a light and a dark. When you order, you get two 8 oz beers (an imperial pint) which eventually leads you down a road of not knowing HOW much you drank. Every Christmas for the last nine years my buddy Jefferson Thomas gets his friends together for “International Biscuit Day” there. We fill a couple tables at the front, probably between 10-15 guys and do some serious bullshitting and drinking. Last year, I wasn’t there but I did get this lovely text message on totals which till this day I’ve saved, “2009 totals are in: 256 beers, 800 dollar tab w tip yesterday. An all time record.” – In some ways I was glad I wasn’t there. I just hand everything I have to who ever pays the damn thing.
The one year anniversary of 9-11, I joined Jefferson and our friend Tom at ground zero for the reading of the names, we moved from there to McSorleys on Tom’s recommendation to toss back a few. We found the place PACKED with firefighters from all over the nation- those who helped our great city in a time of serious need. We sat in a far corner and drank quietly in their midst. It was an amazing scene, where all these souls drank and shared, and drank… man did they drink. Anyway, we were invited in by a firefighter to enjoy and bullshit. It was a momentous occasion, a humbling fact, to see all these men who poured their own lives into New York by way of this horrific event.
Not one of us walked away without this grand appreciation of how great a nation we live in, and how lucky and honored we are to have people like this fighting and supporting us. Never take for granted you can speak your mind. You MUST remember-the sacrifices, which are made to let you do that. When you see the insides of McSorleys, the guts of the place, you see not just an old flag mounted on the wall, but you see Presidents, sportsman, policeman, you see people of the highest character- you see REAL people. The inspiration of the place led me to pen a poem in an isolated corner titled, “Sawdust fills the Floor”
In the book under McSorleys I underlined, “The Most important thing in a bar is people.” A few beers after I arrived, I opened up to a guy from White Plains, a place not far from my home. I found out he had a good friend down the Jersey shore, very close to where I grew up. He talked of bars like Donovans in Sea Bright, Bar A in Belmar- many bars I’d been familiar with in younger days. His name was Gary. It’s only at places like this I find that kind of down to earth guy. We had a good conversation, I had him sign my book and I was out shortly after to my next destination- Milanos bar.
The address was on East Houston in the vicinity of the Bowery. I didn’t think it’d be that far, so I’d walk. I’d eventually meet Houston and figure out which direction to go.
The walk was sketchy. I don’t remember much of the scenery, but I did pass one of my favorite places Katz Delicatessen, one of the oldest Deli’s in Manhattan famous for it’s clients and the scene in “When Harry met Sally” where Meg Ryan fakes an orgasm at a table with Billy Crystal. See here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F-bsf2x-aeE - all at Katz. I also passed a beautiful mural on a steel door that I took and finally arrived at the place.
Milano’s was small. They played the World Cup on a TV above the doorway and a few guys surrounded it. The bartender was an Irish woman with a thick brogue. I had only $10 left- enough for a Guinness. I sat right in front of a great photograph signed by some of the greatest Yankees ever- Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, Joe Dimaggio and Casey Stengel. I took a few pictures, which littered the walls. It had a good feel- small with a few tables in back. It was dark, which of course I liked and like I said- plenty of photographs. It’s changed since the picture in the book; cleaned up. I got up, walked about, looked at details and sat down again. They didn’t serve food, which by this time I was dying for (liquid lunch), so my decision was made on account of my stomach. Not much to say about the place, after only one beer I had little to say about the World Cup, so I’d move on to a place I could use my credit card for a meal.
Katz was the opposite direction. I continued up the street until I found a Cajun place called Acme Bar at 9 Great Jones. All I thought of was Bugs Bunny cartoons and Acme products funny enough on Great “Chuck” Jones Street. Their menu looked interesting and when I got in, they had a nice bar with that New Orleans feel. I had a last beer and something with chicken and spice for dinner. All I kept was the receipt.
I was fortunate to get the express at the junction- the ONLY one and I arrived home a little after 6pm. Not bad- three bars, a good walk, good drinks and a nap was icing on the cake.
Next week, I visit Molly’s Pub and Restaurant, Shebeen on 3rd Ave (sawdust and all) and the polar opposite- the Oak Room at the Algonquin. My trip will be on a delay due to an early dismissal (schools finishing) so I HOPE to get through them both. Thanks for reading and cheers!
How is it we define mission? Everyone has one, only more people define it by goals: to better themselves, better others- but are all goals achieved? Of course not. When one is set, it should be achievable- slightly out of reach- but with genuine effort be obtained. All contribute to the mission, success or failure.
My mission when I started Best Bar Wednesdays was to simply follow a pre-established order of bars as stated by the book, “The History & Stories of the Best Bars in New York”- visit each one and have an “experience”. The experience could take the form of a historical reference, becoming friends with strangers, the discovery of holes inside myself; it could be of any form as long as it became an experience.
As I close in on the last dozen bars, my obligations have increased, my funds have dwindled, and time limits have been strained, I find an alteration to the plan must be found. Time has shortened, adjustments necessary. No mission has ever been completed without adjustments and a question rises, “at what point do you abandon a mission?”
The answer is never. You can change, re-adjust or put it temporarily to the side, but you can’t quit. You plug away- over and over like an obsessive fiend until one day you find it’s complete. It’s no easy matter.
When I was in college I studied in a psychology course: motivation and morale. It was taught be a German professor who was here from Europe to give recommendations to the school. He deliberately made himself a teacher to see how students would react to his teaching methods. The students taught the class as he sat to the side like a psychologist with his patients. Your job was to thoroughly go through two chapters in the book, support the subject with case studies and know them backwards and forwards. The result would be a paper on your understanding of that topic and would be 75% of your grade, the other 25% made up of your teaching method. As you were up there, if he saw any sign of your not knowing what you were indeed talking about, he’d rip you apart- humiliate you.
The first day of class he asked me why I bought a Ford Mustang. I gave him some lame answer about it being economical, so he called me up to the board and further drilled me. “List the pros and the cons”, he says. I wrote maybe three under each. I was rather shy in college, so you can imagine how horrifying this was especially for the first day with a bunch of strangers. He sat on the edge of the room and grilled me for the next 20 minutes in front of everyone until he came to the REAL reason I bought my car- “to pick up women and listen to loud music”. I asked to sit down and remembered when I approached my desk; how everyone had their heads sunk low to avoid further questions. Half the students dropped the class by the next lesson.
It was a harsh lesson in realism. I’d never been humiliated like that, but would never allow it to happen again. I’d be prepared for that class, no matter what else pended in others. Bottom line was I learned more there than anything else in school. I’m sure if you went back and asked other “survivors”, they’d remember it the most.
It’s those people who pick themselves up, brush off the shit, and move forwards who succeed. There are always alternatives and when your back is up against the wall, it’s your mission to find the escape- not quit- but find another path. No one respects quitters. Think outside the box and when the pressure becomes too much- walk. Walking is great therapy- redirect, redefine, reclassify, revise then return. Pressure passes.
Originally, one bar a day allowed me to take a complete picture. It gave me time to utilize my senses, observation skills, engage in conversation and not abandon it too soon- but as with life, time is often defined by limited moments.
The New York Minute squeezes as much as possible into every minute of every day. Fox Five used to present a series of shorts all in one minute- it can be done. I call my minutes New York Minutes because going forward I’ll push more into each moment and include more than one bar. The total length of time will be cut and hopefully the bar bill also- a better solution for the long run. In the end I hope to have something to say, when I see the big picture. If not, I have a hardcore belief that Nothing is ever for Nothing….
Open Eyes are what make writers and artists truly magnificent. They absorb their surroundings, see that which others neglect every day and use their life experiences to explore their methods of expression. Without open eyes, you have monotony- boredom- and oppression.
Best Bar Wednesday shapes itself every week. It’s never the same, there is no plan, but to visit a single bar, have the experience of the décor around you, enjoy a conversation and take from it something which will enrich you. I always take from it perspectives I may never have noticed- and sometimes it pays in more ways than one.
To attempt to catch up with my weekly bar schedule, I’d planned on two bars this week: Marion’s Continental Restaurant & Lounge and Peter McManus Café- both downtown. I reached the city on the earlier of the two trains and decided, like I did once before to walk the opposite way. I’d heard rumors that Marion’s had closed, but had no intention of NOT going, after all, rumors are rumors- I like to see for myself.
I walked across town towards Lexington where the green subway lines take you down the East Side, closer to the Bowery. I passed one of my favorite museums- the Morgan and took a picture of its magnificent side gate. The place used to be the home of Robber Baron- J.P. Morgan. I always recommend a visit to its library. It’s typical of the lavish time period with enormous red velvet curtains and books from floor to ceiling locked behind ornate bronze & glass doors. He was a rich man and avid collector of books, which include some of the most important books in literature and history- Shakespeare & the Guttenberg Bible, practically anything you can think of. I understand the library is closed for renovations now, so should you be in the area, keep that in mind.
I walked down Park Ave. towards Grand Central Station. It was in the shadow of the place where I’d come upon a profound art exhibit, all bronze plaques laid into the concrete called “Library Walk”: each one the combination of writer’s quotations and symbolic pictures which complemented them. When you put together two disciplines and shape one picture, you get a foundation- an interpretation that builds a larger picture. What might stand-alone is enhanced with the beauty of the other discipline. Sometimes it doesn’t work, but in this case it’s perfect. I took pictures of every one- blessed to have been recommended this walk- it was the highlight of my day. I wrote a poetic verse this morning, one line per picture in the order on which I stumbled by- a spontaneous “ditty” which came as clear as the walk. Look when you have a chance. (All pictures are located on our music site at www.myspace.com/funkthunder Under Best Bar Wednesday Pictures)
On the opposite side of Park, was another building that had plaques also; each one represented a building in New York. I took a few of these, but felt architecture should be left to the buildings around you and not plaques on the street. You’ll also note a few facades I took for the beauty of early twentieth century construction. I had a conversation, which revolved around that and today’s lack of building art into the creation. Granted there are those who might take the time to create a piece of artwork from a building, but they are too far in between. Most want to just slap it up, make their money and move on. We need more Frank Lloyd Wrights in the world.
The walk downtown weaved between Lexington & Park. The day was overcast and light raindrops pelted the skin. A toss between a bus and a subway left a short subway ride to Astor Place where you exit to the site of Cooper Union. The Bowery starts there. It’d be a good place to look for 354 Bowery the location of Marion’s.
The neighborhood didn’t look great. The Bowery was always known to be like that, think of late 70’s CBGB’s (also located on the Bowery further down). Marion’s write up said it was established by a Hungarian Swimmer who freed herself from the oppression of Hungary in the early 1900’s. She made her way to New York after time in France, and having exotic looks as a model, she did well. She opened a small storefront on the Bowery and had many famous guests from the 1950’s forward. In 1973 she closed the place, had 3 kids and settled into Belmar- a Jersey town I’m VERY familiar with (grew up by the shore). In 1990, one of her sons reopened the place- a no-nonsense kinda place fit for its location. My only complaint was the rumor was true - the place had been shut- replaced by a Mexican bar called “Hecho en Dumbo”. I had to drink a beer there- a Kelso Nut Brown Ale- just for the hell of it. The place looked hellishly different than the pictures in the book. It had grey wood surroundings, like you’d see in Nantucket- wood worn by the sea- on the walls and the ceilings. The bar had what seemed to be a slate finish. On one end was 5 4×4 pieces of grey wood held by rebar that protruded from the wall. Each one held candles obviously lit at night. There was a selection of Tequila and various other beverages behind the bar and seating in the back. The ambiance was good and the menu looked good also. Very different than what I imagined, but nice nonetheless.
From Hecho, the weather worsened. Light rain got heavier, but still worth a walk to the next place- Peter McManus. On the way, I crossed paths with next week’s stop- McSorleys Ale House. It’s a place I’m very familiar with and a place you can only get two small mugs of beer per serving- light or dark. I HAD no choice but to have a “Dark” there. True, I am to visit there next week, but I cheated- JUST had to go in- the place is history. Now, the Bowery is distant from Seventh Ave & 19th Street- LONG blocks, but blocks of great interest. Rain was just an inconvenience and it wasn’t that heavy, so you plod through.
The area between 4th street and 20th street is probably the most foreign to me. I only recently went down there to visit Corner Bistro. It was a very neighborhood area, and perhaps it’s why I never ended up there much in my past. I probably passed within a stone’s throw of Corner Bistro and by the way- they do make a FABULOUS burger…
I arrived at Peter McManus just before the downpour. I walked in and sat at the corner of the bar. There was a woman there who was visiting from Chicago- a designer. The jukebox played Ziggy Stardust and a series of songs, perfect rainy music for a perfect melancholy day. I ordered a chiliburger and a Guinness. My friend- Patricia ordered some beer and we talked.
The place had old photographs on the wall, a small backroom and an electronic game next to the jukebox. The wood was dark and too the mood set by the played music; I suppose there are times your insides need to be ripped inside out and in a dark bar, on a rainy day, with a few drinks under your belt- well, you might just get that. Granted my company was great- even did a cool picture in my book- but the music… that sets the tone.
The burger was delicious and had it not been for the woman from IL, I might have been out of there much faster, but the conversation was good- philosophical. Designers have a way of the world, artists who can observe, who like I said above are disciplined in ways I can only think to write.
I fell into a hole of depression with every note, so you could say the music drove me out. I did little to rectify it with a few bucks I could have easily put in the jukebox, but let it rule my emotion till the point I needed to be free. I stepped out into the rain with the designer who decided to join me to the next. I could read a large sign a few blocks down called “Il Bastardo”. It had large red awnings, with no windows, but an open frame that overlooked the avenue. It had shelter with tables protected under it’s name. The bar was big; it was quiet and the selection plenty. It warranted a dirty martini, my company ordered a martini also. There was fascinating skull bottle which held vodka, so I said give me that in a martini….
He said, “I insist you try it first.” The bartender poured a small glass, I sipped it and gritted my teeth. “Didn’t want to give you a martini of that, we like the bottle.” It tasted like something you’d find on a pirate ship back in the middle ages, something to grow hair on your chest and grow holes in your stomach.
The martinis were good. The rain was plentiful and it was quiet. Reflection takes place in places like this and it’s like I’ve said- rain provides the stimulus for writing. Patricia told me about Chicago and the many beautiful sights there. She told me of working crazily and getting a well-deserved break. She told how she once lived downtown years ago and how she loved New York. She told me about the responsibilities she had and how she sometimes wished she had the opportunity to be free like the early days.
Responsibilities come with age. We all have them at some point in life and although they can be tough, our weathered selves prosper in ways we never see at the time they’re there. It’s only with refection can we see what things actually mean after we go through them. You can never tell when and where the meaning will come to you, but it does. It could be an obscure thought, it could be with a thick coating of paint, it could be with the loss of a head full of hair, but it does come. As long as you can escape temporarily, and resume the position with a new perspective- you grow. We all wish to escape the chains of responsibility, but we know reality is the balance- balance is the goal and the goal is completion. Live rich inside and all around you will prosper.
After the Bastard, I mean IL Bastardo we parted ways. I walked to 23rd Street where the world famous “Hotel Chelsea” is. It’s known for the many creative spirits who have resided there. I’ve always dreamed to write for a week in that place, work on a novel and be influenced by not just the surroundings but the aura of the place. Some of the people who have stayed there include: Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin, Patti Smith, Leonard Cohen, Arthur C. Clarke, Mark Twain, O’Henry, Jack Karouac, Tennessee Williams, Dylan Thomas, Sid Vicious (killed his girlfriend there), Robert Mapplethorp, Larry Rivers, Allen Ginsberg, several Titanic victims because of it’s proximity to the Pier- it’s seems a never ending list. There is always artwork in the lobby and I read transients are limited to 24-day stays only. I think that’d be enough time to jam out a book- no?
Tours of New York last for hours and hours for the wanderer. There is always so much to take in, to toil over, so much at your fingertips. One place to best end a journey is the library- not the one which serves high priced cocktails located on the East Side, but the Public one. A lovely monument made of marble that sits on top of Bryant Park. A little piece of humanity in which anyone can walk through it’s spinning doors- a wealth of knowledge bound by covers that seem only now limited. A time where electronic devices replace those beautifully bound volumes of worn paper, a time where newspapers future is uncertain, and bankruptcy seems inevitable because of Internet access and easy news. What is the future of America’s Libraries? Will society replace the public library with their own personal computer and neglect the contact with it’s own species? Will people be willing to communicate with one another, if they can sit back eat, drink and wipe drool from their mouths on a comfy couch? Who really can tell- but I can tell you one thing- I’ll miss the smell of freshly cut wood and aged paper- there’s no replacing a good scent.
Thanks again for joining me on Best Bar Wednesday. For next week- McSorley Ale House, a source of inspiration, history and damn good drinkin.
It’s been two weeks. Hard to believe.
It’s always been difficult to have a routine that stops abruptly. Anyone whose been reading knows last week, Best Bar Wednesday was cancelled because my son broke his arm. He only returned to school this week and must get through half the summer at summer camp with a cast- no easy matter for a nine year old. The summer has already taken a turn.
I watched the news yesterday morning on the crisis in the Gulf. It made me think of a wedding we’re to attend in Longboat Key (Gulf of Mexico) scheduled for September. As the horrible disaster continues (they say the spill is as large as Florida itself) it made me think of the disappearance of pristine white beaches. Realistically, three months from now, crude oil or clumps of black will end up on the beach. Think about the absorption of that same oil filled water into the atmosphere and instead of having “acid rain” , “oil rain” would contaminate important crops and foods from the South. We already know about the poisons to the sea life, birds and shrimp beds. They said the Gulf Stream could carry it around the tip of Florida and up the East Coast. This is all without the probable hurricanes which could churn it up, absorb it, and drop it all over the region. There’s a lot to think about for the long term.
They compared the handling of Hurricane Katrina to the handling of BP’s Mess and there were more people who thought there hasn’t been enough done for the BP incident. When you think about it, Hurricane Katrina was a catastrophic event which occurred only over the course of days, and we’re now over 50 days into the oil spill and the stuff continues to fill the waters. It’s plain scary. I’m sure anyone who ever thought of off shore drilling has to really re-evaluate their position after this.
I plan on two places today- Marion’s Continental in the Bowery and Peter McManus Cafe at 19th Street. I’d forgotten to send an email to the Best Bar Wednesday crew, which is just as well, I could use a little solitary time to get my thoughts in order. I did some improvised music this past weekend on the porch in a dark setting with MJV which may make a youtube video some time in the future, but that’s up in the air. I visit a beer festival this weekend with my buddy Brian in Pennsylvania. The world is spinning and I want off. I want to rest under a tree like Rip Van Winkle and sleep- wake with long white hair and a beard and greet a new world like a little boy.
What-if??? It’s the primary question we writers ask ourselves. What if I fell over a tree root and found the edge of a treasure chest? What if I was in New York and a thief stuck a gun in my face? What if I went to a bar and a stalker thought he was me? Fears and contemplations play on you, but as a writer, I see it as a benefit. The twists and turns aren’t anything new, but when you use your abilities and channel them constructively- all can benefit. You take anxieties or personal issues and vent them away- keep them from eating YOU away where they can possibly explode into a negatives which could do nothing but hurt you or those around you. Everyone needs a channel, to keep sane and level headed.
The conductor sneezed… what if he had swine flu? How many people could he infect? Think of Typhoid Mary- the woman who worked in food preparation and what she did to a population in Europe. One thought leads to another, and that leads to something else. Occasionally, they sync in unison, then you mix a little feelings in there and you have a soup which tastes absolutely magnificent. The creative process is amazing- the influences, the thoughts, and the scenarios. What if I never started Best Bar Wednesday, would I be better off? I’d certainly find better ways to utilize my money instead of self destruction (lets face it too much drinking does have a negative aspect). The thought leads me to a philosophical quote my funk brother used in our song “E”- “It’s not easy being great- one must destroy then create”- a road to destruction in sorts, stripping ones self- taken to an extreme, brought back, rebuilt, recharged and forward. An enjoyment which became a job, a demand, but it does come to an end.
I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before, but the painter Gauguin would spend an entire day painting and erase what he did; time after time building on the stains of his earlier work. A symbolic metamorphosis built layer after layer. A torturous process which probably made him wonder if it was worth it in the end, but only he could tell personally if it was. I think it was, every moment we build on top of another, establishes a foundation on which we grow- BUT without the process, we lose touch with our core beliefs. They get misplaced amongst the every day clutter we live in.
The secret to life is exactly that- bonds wrapped tightly in our soul, our core. Those that lead us to experience the world in a new way; solidify us to be fully aware of our surroundings- the effects of them on us and us on them. Encounters with people that benefit parties on both ends.
Learning is a lifetime activity.
When you’re forced into a diversion from daily activities and pressure you’ve grown used to, motivation falls wayside- at least temporarily. I’ve taken a step back from my normal routine of overindulging and writing about it, to caring for the injured, making up work (the p/t job) and realigning priorities.
Mighty Yang- grand master funk creator- comes to visit tomorrow. We have loose ends which have been pending for months due to our distance and inability to get together. The tracks we’ve done for the next CD have been stagnant, some in need of fine-tuning, all of which I hope to get done this weekend. We feel good about the CD. There are a few last minute tracks I want to run by him which need the Vella signature (guitar & electronic sound). It totals 14 tracks if all goes well.
Art means so much to me, and the poetry of a good picture for the artwork is as important, even MORE important than the composition of tracks. I leave that to one absolutely incredible designer, a visionist, better than anyone I could have imagined working with. My vision is the result of people around me, and when in the company of such personalities, it does nothing but enhance my own. It’s a win win situation. With that said, I can only hope to get the right photographs for her to work with. Our weekend will contain music creation and photography. More hasn’t been realized yet- the CD label, the back cover, the inside, and the other little details. It’s no wonder many bands fall by the wayside in the creation of a CD- coordinating, agreeing and getting it done is no easy task- that’s for sure. It helps when you work with the right people- those who understand each other and communicate well. I enjoy those around me, and hopefully they enjoy my company just as much. It’s the primary reason I do the things I do.
I create pressure for myself, it helps to move me from one thing to the next. I’ve been primarily focused on my Best Bar Blog Series for the past 3 months and will remain vigilant when it comes to the completion of that project, it lasts until August. I must admit, I feel a little empty today without a bar visit this last Wednesday. No experiences and I’ve radically shifted my focus on music temporarily which has led to a lack in motivation to do this; funny enough, I believe we expect rain tomorrow.
The name Funk Thunder was formed as the result of an enormous thunderstorm which crossed Long Island during our first session together. It’s always been a good omen, and whenever we’ve worked, the rain always followed; at least 75% of the time or more. We laugh because we always do our best work when its present. Improvisation follows and perhaps there’s a touch of supernatural forces at work- rain brings flowers, flowers bring insects, insects bring birds, birds bring cats, cats bring dogs, dogs bring owners who try and keep them under control, and crazy dog owners bring inspiration! It all works in cycles. (Music can be heard at http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/funkthunder or http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/funkthunder2 )
Do join me next week though, when I get back to writing “The Best Bar Wednesday Blog Series”. I’m sure I’ll also have something good to say about this weekend. Thanks for dropping in!
I sit here in the dark of my living room with my feet up, the Deadliest Catch on low volume, and my son uncomfortable as hell on the the couch. He snapped his arm earlier today, fractured his bones in a clean break from a Swing accident at school. It was in a competition for the right of saying, “I swung higher than you”. Unfortunately, when he was at his highest, he lost balance and fell to the ground on his arm. It could have been worse, it could have been his head, but it did deserve the emergency call from the school. His arm was bowed and obviously broken.
I was fortunate a co-worker heard my dilemma and highly recommended an orthopedist close by. The doctor kindly accommodated us with a phone call and despite my son shaking with pain, they got us in pretty quickly.
When the x-ray was taken, the doctor took me aside, showed me the x-ray and told me the plan. The two bones which support the hand in the forearm had snapped. The bones had come to overlap and had to be repositioned to have the arm straightened, essentially putting the hand back on to the bones. If he could get the hand back on the bones, they’d re-grow together and fill in with normal growth. If it didn’t work, it might need surgery in which he’d have to go in and pry them apart to reset it back on. YIKES…… he also told me parents have a much more difficult time dealing with it then their patients….
They hung his arm, gave him Novocain, and let the arm relax over a little bit. My son got talkative as the pain went away. When the doctor returned I had him hold my hand and tried to direct his attention as the doctor worked his arm. My son winced, but when the arm appeared straight moments later, he felt relieved. I guess you could say I did too.
When the x-rayed it again, the doctor did a great job of positioning it back on top of the bones. Granted, it was 100% straight but pretty close. He said the bones will grow together, but we need to have x-rays tomorrow and Friday, to make sure it stays in place, to prevent surgery. I keep my fingers crossed.
In the meantime, I’m having him sleep in the living room and I’ve become the “repositioning servant” who will be at his beckoned call. A job I have no problem with, in fact, I’ve volunteered myself. He’s my son for God sakes.
So Best Bar Wednesday tomorrow- a joint named Marion’s Restaurant & Bar in the Bowery will have to wait. Not sure how I’ll do it yet- I may double it up, provided the time allows for it. I’ll play it by ear.
Thank you for your understanding and support dear friends, and may the light always shine on you.