It’s been 5 months, an arduous journey in and out of New York- once a week despite the weather, distractions, monetary issues, and it’s done. Time passes quickly, but for every step taken, always something learned.
My last trip included a walk on the Secaucus train platform from end to end. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in moving from here to there we neglect to focus on the present and our surroundings. I’d never walked the long platform, but always waited in one spot for the coming train. For 5 months, I neglected the beautiful views of the rails, the tile art, and crowds of people who hovered around the center of the platform- I even noticed rail signals I’d never seen. Today was different.
I’d learned only the night before that 8th Avenue merges into Hudson on the lower West Side and that’s where my last bar was- Whitehorse Tavern. Eighth Avenue has character, but mostly residential buildings in the between 23rd and 30th streets. I passed a Cuban restaurant in Chelsea called the Cuba Café where I picked up a menu. Another restaurant on the corner was of interest and yet another across the street. At the intersection of 23rd Street, I saw the Chelsea Hotel in the distance, a place I’d always seen from 7th Avenue, but never from Eighth. I took a picture from a different perspective; life is about- perspectives. A different view provides different inspiration- same day look at the same thing from a different angle, you’d be surprised.
Not too much struck me till I was below 14th Street- the architecture changed. There was this old marble building- a bank, and a gorgeous old building built out of red and yellow brick the length of a city block, possibly built in the thirties. A sign across the street got my attention- a Cast Call, so I crossed to look at it closely. It was for “Madmen” which I found perfectly fitting- BUT it was a con- a prize to be awarded if you filled out something in the store. I imagined all these salesmen hidden behind racks to wait for the first person to pounce on because of this ad. An invisible line- a trigger- the length of the door waited and as you broke it, spiky people came out and latched themselves on you like those annoying little spurs your socks gather in the woods. I’m far too aware of these advertising gimmicks, so I took a picture instead- HA, and I get the last laugh….
The most gorgeous building I’ve come across on my tour was at the corner of 8th close to Hudson. It almost appeared to be made of mirrors, but the glass seemed to move in this gentle swerving style. ALL window and it curved with the street to the East. The name on the building had to do with advertising, but I only observed from a distance. There was an incredible little curio shop called House of Cards & Curiosities at 23rd Eighth avenue: A small place, which reminded me of Evolution- a much larger and similar shop on Spring Street earlier in my tour. The small displays for the Mexican holiday for the Dead in the window attracted me. Little skeleton panoramas- colorful and comical and there was also the cabinet of Chinese Netsuke’s- (small figures the Chinese used to attach to belts for good luck). Inside was cramped, with only the most interesting things- there were bug shadowboxes, more skeleton panoramas, plenty of cards, stuffed rattle snakes baring fangs, trilobites and fossilized fish. The prices seemed very reasonable too. Places like this set my imagination on fire.
I went to Covent Garden in England years ago. Odd shops were there specialty. There was a grand mechanical museum, a cartographer shop that had maps dated to the 1300’s- places from all over the world and another much more eerie one. It was a place which kept animals in formaldehyde- oddities like two headed animals, Siamese twins, brains of different beings, and all in jars of the stuff- shelves and shelves of the things. It was spooky, dusty, and weird yet strangely fascinating. I didn’t spend too long in there, but it was enough to give me nightmares- vivid imaginations get twisted up by such strange things.
I passed a small square called Abingdon Square with a magnificent bronze of a WWI soldier and it’s dedication to the people of that area that served in WWI. Flowers filled the square and it seemed like a nice place to sit. A clip on the news the other night mentioned an outbreak of rats in one of the downtown squares. Someone had taken video of 14 rats playing around at night. It wasn’t this one, but it does make you weary of where you play.
The painting on the outside of the Whitehorse Tavern invites those who enjoy visually pleasing things. There are tables outside, an old bar in, and plenty of windows to watch through. Old mahogany fills the place and a brass bar to rest your feet is always welcome. I’d met the bartender Louva in April, he’s been there for the past 15 years. He has a wicked sense of humor and is quick to serve you your drink. We talked about the book and recalled my earlier visit, in which I told him with that accented Arnold expression, “I’d be back”. I expressed my joy of “getting er donnne” as I drank Newcastle Brown. I started a conversation with the waitress, a woman named Nancy. I’d recognized her accent as a North Englander and found she originally lived near Manchester, residing in New York for the last four years. I told her my family were Liverpudlians and asked about her family and if she got back there. She has an Aunt with Cancer back home and she told me of the difficulties with such distance. I told her about my COOOOL uncle Alan, a bus driver, who took me to the dockside bars before I was 20. I told her of the female head shaved punks collared in spiked leather who danced on the tables. AND he was in his forties takin me to this place…. Talk about cool, I knew right then HE was the shit- a party guy who knows how to live – DAMN fine sense of humor to boot (not the English boot- da boot). She perused the book and asked me questions in between customers. I had perspective, and here I rested, and drank… and drank… and drank…
The place got tourists and a lunch crowd. A Japanese bus tour came in and left shortly after. A man sat next to me- a director, choreographer, and production staging consultant named Ron Schwinn- who told me about his tours all over the world with Broadway shows. He told me about teaching in Alaska and we discussed the frigid temperatures, how you could throw a bucket of water and it instantly freeze- how if you didn’t get out of your shoes or boots at night your feet would stick to the bottoms from sweat. He told me about 40 degree below zero and how you got acclimated enough to be out with just a parka in zero degree weather. He’d been active in the theater since the late 50’s- he was involved in My Fair Lady in the 1990’s, 42nd Street in the 1980’s, Chicago in the 1970’s and a host of others prior to that. We didn’t really talk too much about his experiences in the business, but our experiences in life- going here, or going there. He told me about fishing off a large boat and reeling in a huge fish (Can’t remember what it was, although we discussed Marlin and Mahi Mahi) the way it went straight down after it was hooked and his battle to land it for a half hour. We talked about Hawaii and the islands, which I think he said he gets to once a year. He showed me a picture of his girl fiend and how they finally got together. I’m not sure how long our conversation lasted- we talked for hours, every bit enjoyable.
I didn’t find my way out of the place till after 6pm- perfectly content- but a little upset with myself. The place only took cash. An ATM is so conveniently located in the back, and I DID get money out. I wanted to charge the amounts, but resorted to what cash I had left. I settled 4 beers and a chicken sandwich, and went beer to beer after that. The beers were the average for New York- but my favorite- Guinness was $7.00 each. The last hurrah can be expensive and I was upset at my over indulgence. I kept saying to myself, I’m working harder, and putting in more time at work (my part-time job) to justify it.
I wanted to cool my jets when I left. I needed to walk, work off some of the alcohol I drank. It was hot, and I didn’t care what time I’d board the train- it was my last day. My 8 ½ hour day of work the next day would just have to suffer. I could write off another chapter of this life story as the result- a BEST bar Wednesday.
I’ve talked about death for the last few blogs, but essentially, there is no death when it comes to experiences, the death of one subject, becomes the life of another. If you look and see past the immediate- see the future, trust hope, live with integrity, have honor while doing so- you’ll leave a mark on those around you. It’s those who give you life; the places, the things, the people, the love, the hate, the observations- the wanderings- they all compile into the being which makes you. Those who think there is nothing but misery haven’t had enough good times to remember. They need to crawl from the wreckage and see beyond it, bring joy in close and nourish it like a child- protect it, like it will protect you. And it will…. Good times will always protect you and when you need to remember, put on some music, read and relate- trust your inner self- meet a couple of different people and compare notes. We are but products of those around us, and in circles of goodness- it’s bound to brush off or on. I’ve had good company through out my tour and I give thanks to you who have made me grow.
Be well- live life- and thank you for giving me this opportunity to share in this beautiful and delicious life I live. NEVER forget to live yours to the fullest; May the light be as bright as your every thought.
I woke up thinking of songs this morning:
“This is the end, my only friend the end…. , then I went to my music library and saw a picture of Iggy-”I am the passenger, and I ride and ride….” Next was a stunning visual of a skeleton with a flag, “Roll awayyyy the dew… Roll away the dew….” from the legendary Grateful Dead- Franklin’s Tower.
I wasn’t sure what it all meant, but I wanted to sing. My personality broke in two- one that wanted to put the seal in wax- finish this project once and for all. The other overwhelmed with grief, buried itself- shed it’s sadness in the loss of freedom, abandonment of “me” time for a greater good, find a way to get back to unfinished projects and move forwards. It’s summer and for now bills need to be paid- I’ll focus on work, maybe that trip to Coney Island and come back in Fall to be fully reinvigorated and charged to do it again. “Roll away the dew…..”
Great turmoil resides in the soul. Religion releases it in some- confession. Others feel a need to take a strange trip to a foreign land, some replace it with meaningless material objects to fill the void, and others turn to music. I wish I knew the person who created the phrase, “Music sooths the savage beast.” The crazed maniac must have had enough sense to recognize how it calmed him- gave him peace. During outbursts where he sought control, he retreated to find a couple of cavemen banging sticks I’m sure.
I’ve not indulged in much music through these past months and my insides miss it. This morning after I perused my iTunes library, I convinced myself to leave the iPod home instead of a walk of the city with earphones and music.
I had a roommate in college, Pete, who came from Ohio to study jazz. He played Saxophone on cruise ships prior to being a student at the school. When he arrived his biggest wish was to walk the city streets, absorb the music and smoke a joint while doing so. As much as I wanted to help him achieve his life wish, I was far too busy in my last year, so he decided to make it happen.
He crossed the George Washington Bridge alone, not being familiar with NYC at all. He recognized Broadway and exited off the main highway deep into Harlem. Pete was a white guy in a crappy car, and every time he was stopped at a traffic light, he was hit by the squidgy guys and asked for money. It was also dark, so he was harassed by guys who jumped on his car, until he had no choice but to run red lights. He abandoned his mission and got home frustrated as hell. Later, a fellow musician helped him make it happen.
The cities improved greatly since then, but neighborhoods change at night. I’m lucky to have the daytime opportunity to see these bars, get comfortable, meet fellow creatives and indulge. Observation- I’ve said over and over- is a necessary component to a rich life. “I am the passenger… and I ride and ride….”
I’m amazed some get so tied up living life outside the box that they pass before others could see the richness and discovery of their accomplishments. Vincent Van Gogh is the most recognized and whose visionary status is legendary. I wish my father could put his experiences into an art form. It seems company men who once devoted there lives to it pass into the dust of time noticed momentary in the confines of the company, but forgotten as change shapes it- there’s very little loyalty nowadays. I’ve known artists who have lived the artist life, who remain undiscovered who I continue to hope will make their mark on the art world- be truly great, and memorable, and rewarded BEFORE life passes. Others plod along- make strides in their fields and gain that so needed recognition and attention- make themselves worthy of a pat on the back, a beer or a toast. I toast you all.
The Smiths have a song called Cemetery Gates, which explores the dreams of man and compares them to the dead in a cemetery. The lyrics are poetry and when I moved into my last home, the power made its way permanently into my soul. On my train ride into New York I view an enormous cemetery that borders the tracks, like another 18th century one in Metuchen, NJ. A stanza in the song goes, “So we go inside and gravely read the stones, all those people, all those lives, where are they now? With love and hates and passions just like mine, they were born and then they lived and then they died. It seems so unfair, I want to cry.” How much more truth can be revealed? It takes headstones to tell you.
I’ve felt a need to return to the cemetery to explore, to read last thoughts, to turn to permanent words in marble and granite dear to the departed. The Victorians had a thing for poetry, a need to express themselves in times of death, unlike today. Time has rendered our minds oblivious to the world around us, has focused our attention on our gadgets- internalized our lives like “boys and girls in plastic bubbles”. I purchased a laptop in the hope to write in a field somewhere, but have made a home of it inside the house. Ironic, huh?
Today, I visit Whitehorse Tavern, a literary haunt of the poet Dylan Thomas. It’s had many artists, musicians, and writers through its doors. It’s the last stop in my Best Bar Wednesday Blog Series. “This is the end, beautiful friend, this is the end- my only friend, the end.” Some people take spiritual journeys to Tibet. I take a bar tour of New York. There’s a larger picture in this town. A melting pot that brings the world’s culture to one place accessible by one appreciative soul- one truly enriched person- me.
Hope you enjoyed your read. The last blog will be posted in the next few days, the shoelace will be tied, and off I’ll walk; Whitehorse Tavern the bar to end all bars.
Fuzzzzzzzy. It’s how my head feels. After a shot of Nyquil to sleep last night, and an absolutely crazy week at the part-time job- which almost feels like FULL time- I needed the aid of medicine to calm my racing mind. As a result, my clarity is off this morning and the fatigue overwhelms me. I agreed to go in early, which may have been a mistake. Short staffed, an influx of complaints, and not enough time to tie lose ends has forced me to deal with similar issues I once dealt with in the merger of one company to another. FUZZZZZZYYYYYY.
My blog isn’t about that though. It’s an escape really. Lately, I pressure myself to get it done. It’s taken the enjoyment out of it and made me more robotic then anything else. My focus obscured, by the forces around me weighing in and certainly affecting the clear head- BUT on to my blog.
The first of the bars I visited Wednesday was PJ Clarkes. It’s well known through decades of wear and tear from a once rugged neighborhood to a yuppie one. The place is next to an enormous postal facility and the aged exterior, I’m sure attracted those who could use a drink after work. Frank Sinatra and other famed people have been through its doors. They still keep this very interesting “vestibule” opposite the front bar whose shape reminds me of an old diner- stained glass ceiling with old coat hooks outside and giant urinals in. Frank commented on the size of these urinals that were indeed huge, but I’ve seen the same elsewhere in the city- McSorleys included. It was purchased by a group of investors in 2002, which included Timothy Hutton, Phillip Scotti and George Steinbrenner.
The place looked long and extended back from it’s modest bar at the front. The bar was THICK. Opposite the bar was the men’s room (what better place to put one?!) and another bar that sold t-shirts. I arrived about 11:45am and the place was already packed. I found a spot at the bar and about an hour later it was wall-to-wall people for lunch. I didn’t have time to look around, but did get involved in a conversation with a guy a couple of stools down, who waited on his friend. He was from Santa Fe, New Mexico and worked in investment banking. He was originally from Riverside, New York and was to leave for home Thursday. He told me about the comparisons in lifestyle- how out West was more laid back and your dollar went further and also how many people built retirement nests out that way. I overheard something like 100,000 investment bankers in New York City- always seemed overwhelmingly competitive. He told me you might pay the same cost for a studio in New York as a beautiful 2-room place in New Mexico.
We talked about art. I knew Georgia O’Keefe lived in Santa Fe and there’s a museum there of her work. I’d been to Albuquerque and seen only a small portion of the city when I was on business. I heard about the balloon festival and he told me of a place called Taos- where many in the entertainment industry make homes. I’d also heard of this place through a fellow writer I met at a Writer’s conference- one FUNNY Texan who had written a comedy with a HILARIOUS title. He invited me out there and was the last standing with me and one or two other writers at the bar of our gathering. It seemed only a handful of us, were really drinking, but his company was the best. He was fuckin funny.
The guys friend showed up and looked like Timothy Hutton; he sat next to me at the bar. They spent time catching up. I went quiet, listened, took in my surroundings and ordered a “Cadillac burger” on account the singer Nat King Cole who said back in the day, they were the “Cadillac of burgers”. It was delicious with my several Boddingtons and hit the spot. I hadn’t made my way to the back to look, because the place was filled. I missed my window of opportunity and decided it’d be in my best interest to move along around 1pm.
I must mention a guy prior to my visit named David Bernal- a fellow writer. He’s in the process of writing a children’s book and works for Cipriani- an enormous dining hall used for only the most elegant affairs in New York. Kings and Queens have visited and partied at this place- the ceilings are VERY high and its décor is old New York- chandeliers you can only imagine at Cinderella’s ball. I happened in there because I recognized the name and I could see only some of the beautiful interior from the street. It’s on 42nd. near Grand Central. He was at the door when I entered. I told him what I did and we talked- he told me he was on the same road. Sometimes it happens like this- a conversation out of the blue, which enlighten us. Something you fall into with no intention- a great gift. He had a degree in molecular science!
I passed a place called the Perfect Pint on Third Ave around the upper forties. The name was imprinted on a Guinness pint glass and looked about 4 stories. I could see a misting fan on the top floor. It blew mist on to what looked like a little Irish village from the street. It caught my eye and also my camera. I was SO tempted to go in and have a pint, but moved along to PJ’s instead. I marked it for a future visit and you’ll find it in my picture folder in Best Bar Wednesdays.
I hopped on an E subway when I left P.J Clarke’s JUST in time to find out I got it in the WRONG direction. I went to Queens! Ely was the first stop, so I turned around and followed it back to Spring Street where the Spring Lounge was. If I’d taken the 6 train it would have left me a block from the place- the E left me several LONG blocks away. I walked it and entered the modest surroundings of what was once known as the Shark Bar.
The Spring Lounge was a small place at an active intersection of streets. What made it fantastic were the earthy surroundings and the monumental views from the HUGE windows that overlooked the street. The bar had a shark mounted behind it- a hand crawled out its mouth like Thing from the Adams Family. There was a picture of Humphrey Bogart behind the cash register and the bartender was another writer & singer. She had a bubbly personality and good sense of humor. The bar had one older patron when I arrived who was most likely a part of the EMDS group, a society the bar relishes with its 8am opening- the “Early Morning Drinkers Society”. I asked the bartender how to become a member, to which she supplied, “we open at 8am- if you’re here before noon- you’re a member.” Kinda liked that.
There was another shark mounted on another wall- a quote beneath which read, “Life is short- drink early”. The opposite room had a few tables with a barred window. I wasn’t sure if that was to keep the riff-raff out, or the riff-raff in. There was some modest furnishing with old pictures around, but there were plenty of different beers to choose from which included those “oldies” such as Schafer & Pabst Blue Ribbon. For volume of drinks measured on shear space- the place was a winner: plenty on tap, plenty in bottle and a few oldies for good measure.
I was tempted to drink a Schafer. I think it was the first beer ever offered me by my Dad at a co-workers home back in the 70’s. The guy had a moose head hung above his fireplace and an enormous pond in the back with plenty of fish, painted turtles, frogs and snakes; a boy’s paradise. My father drank with his friend next to the pond in one of those old nylon fold up chairs. He took a sip, leaned back, and rolled down the hill right into the mud with his Schafer: one of those memorable moments and my association with the beer. My only question was if I could handle one of the gassy beers in my belly. As a mature beer drinker, I worried about the affect on my digestive track. I pictured loud and putrid farts as they filled a subway car filled with people…..I declined the invitation for the $3.00 beer, but was egged on by a guy named Mark who drank them next to me. He told me of several places where I could get great deals which I’m DEFINITELY in need of.
I had some talk with fellow drinkers. I spoke with two guys who came in from New Jersey. They were from Wall and joined later by two beautiful women. We’d talked of travel abroad and some other things, which escape me now. I had a few other words with the other side of the bar. Having a small bar is good like that because you can really talk over it without yelling. The bartender was also interesting and contributed to our talks. It was like a family. Small places unite the masses on shear space.
Near the end of my tour, I look back and see how I’ve deviated from the contents of the book. I always read about the bars prior to the visits, but with that in mind, I make little comparison on the facts stated herein. I take it, absorb the aura, the people, the drinks, the lunch, the neighborhood and explore my own subconscious through what a friend of mine once called “the filtered cheesecloth” of my mind. Recollections combined with present and past, to draw conclusions of my own character. Maybe it’s the fact wherever we visit in life brings us that much closer OR further to the idea of what life is about. Maybe the conclusion is not a conclusion at all, but a discovery at the root of what makes one themselves. Really, we are no one without the people around us, and even if they’re someone unfamiliar, they can profoundly affect us. Large windows for “people watching” lead to a better understanding of reaction, allow us to glimpse into how we are like or unlike each other and no place better than the window view from the Spring Lounge. So I’ll finish this blog with a poem I wrote many years ago- another favorite of mind titled Woodwork:
Woodwork
The guy you’ll never know sits beside you
He says interesting things, has big dreams,
But he’s just another guy,
Alone.
He looks for someone to believe in him.
He searches for that person endlessly, sidetracked by everyday life.
He sits, drinks, thinks, and lives in a place only he can dream.
He’s the guy you’ll never know.
He sits next to you,
Talks in a “grand” way,
Because he believes, one day his life will mean something
Here; you unknowingly bear witness to something.
He’s the forgotten conversation
The structure behind skyscrapers
An ordinary guy; a dreamer,
A man who sees his life as a wheel, which helps others turn.
Sometimes he loses sight,
But there are always others who guide him back,
To the guy who will always be;
The guy sitting next to you.
It’s incredible how things come full circle. Next week is the last of the bars, one with great history and one with an ominous past: Whitehorse Tavern. Hope to see you there.
Steve
Funk Thunder.
How about this weather?
It’s the opening question for any conversation with a stranger. It’s a muggy ninety-degree day and supposed to reach one hundred. There are storms expected later so, I brought my umbrella and a bag to protect my book. On the platform I sat in full sun and squinted to read beyond the reflection in the white pages of my book. Sweat accumulated around the black exterior of my T- a shirt which reads “Raconteur- 1) a person who excels in telling anecdotes, a story-teller.”
Have you ever thought to compare life to the weather? We do it all the time in one way or another- cold as ice, dog days of summer, he snowed me, she came in the room like a hurricane, etc. It’s as unpredictable that’s for sure. The dark gloomy skies before that broadcast- BEWARE, next the storm hits- beats you up, then the sun shines and you’re on top of the world. What I’m fascinated by is our ability to speak to one another, relate similarities, and compare each other by experiences, joys, pain- bonds forged by simple talk. Have you ever had such a wonderful conversation you never wanted to leave? There’s no knowing when or where that will take place, but it does. Sometimes it only takes minutes to realize; you think, “here’s someone I could really talk to, understand, listen to- enjoy.”
I’ve had a couple of moments like that on this tour; people whose stories lit me up. I could talk to a parking meter, have a conversation with a box, see words in the clouds, but my best work comes in the presence of “salt of the earth” people. Ones who get by with a smile on their face, conquer negative forces around them and live to tell about it- appreciate what it is they have. Crippling blows harden you and humble you too. It’s all in your reaction to them, which helps bring you through the FOG,… and then there’s the weather….
Recently, I spoke with a gentleman who over the course of a decade lost his wife. She’d suffered from Cancer. From the time of discovery, it went from bad to worse and ten years later she’d lost her battle. The pain of such a long drawn out death can’t be measured, and there’s no way one can compare unless of course they’d had the same love and suffered the same agony over time. The only way to fight the cynicism of such a traumatic event is hope.
I don’t remember how I was taught to be so blindly optimistic, perhaps it was my experiences regarding mind over matter. The only thing I could say in such a conversation was: Life is a balance- there are good times, and bad times. The only ability to heal through the bad times is to have had enough good ones to look back on- they guide you through. You take Memories for what they are, and you look to the future for the hope of experiencing something like them again. Without hope, you get nowhere.
My parents always lived that Zen like philosophy. They’re rich with experiences, moments they look back on, in their old age. The company of each other keep them moving forward. They’re eighty and eighty-three and married 57 years. A family friend as a teen told me they possessed the secret to life, and I never stopped believing it. It’s a bright and shiny day…. And there’s the weather…
I received an invitation to write a poem for a NYC publisher. My poetry has always been sporadic, but since I’ve started my tour it’s been nil. I’ve been in such a HAZE that I remembered my hearts been buried below my highly active mind. The multiple projects have kept my brain busy and have dominated my functions. The heart has been “on hold”, but this little reminder allowed me to see the need to take time to let THE DUST SETTLE, reopen my chest and rediscover the organ that’s been kicked to the side. Powerful poetry means unison between both mind and heart and lately it’s been an internal tug of war with victory given to the brain.
Excitement starts with a new venture. Persistence is needed to nail down the long-term projects, so Best Bar Wednesday Blog Series- roared like a lion in February and will shortly phase out in July like a lamb. Worn down by the routine. A few wise souls can and do give meaning to the words, especially when they see the suns bright rays through the storms, the fog, and the haze
But again, it’s all about the weather.
Thanks for reading: The Story of P.J. Clarke’s & Spring Lounge tomorrow. See ya.
It’s 5am Saturday morning. I’ve pasted my own deadline of Friday night to get my blog written. It’s been an insane week full of stress at work with a shortage of staff, a new computer system in place, customers who have little patience at waiting, on top of my blog project. The need for funds has forced me to add more hours to support my Blog project, which now draws to a close end. It’s a death in a way, precisely what I expressed a few days ago. There always comes an end to any project, despite how difficult it becomes to let go.
I arrived on my usual Wednesday with two bars not seemingly far from each other, Pete’s Tavern and Parkside Lounge, both Downtown. In some quick morning research, I’d found a rough walking route- Broadway. The order of the book was Parkside Lounge and then Pete’s Tavern but the opening varied- 11:30am Pete’s opened, 1:30pm Parkside and the 3:30pm train (my goal): made my order switch.
Pete’s Tavern is close to Union Square- the place I’ve enjoyed for many years. Old Town Bar is also close by, one of my favorites to date. I’ve always imagined myself as the kind of guy who’d sit in a pub- tuck myself away in a booth with either a pen & paper or a laptop and write. I’ve always preferred pen and paper for first drafts, especially in that kind of environment, but in the interest of time, I think it’d only be prudent to do it directly from the laptop. I may need to grow an umbilical cord for the bathroom, or change to part camel. There’s no place better than an old dark environment to get the imagination to run. As a novelist, consistent visits to a NYC place may be necessary and a place may revolve around the ending days of the Best Bar Wednesday Blog Series Tour- thank you Jef Klein.
Pete’s Tavern is a wonderful place and the book gave me a good background. Another writer, Richard McDermott, enlightened me after our meeting at Bridge Café. He’s a history writer, and has extensively researched the Bridge Café, Pete’s Tavern, the Ear Inn and a few others. He was kind enough to send me some research on Pete’s, which I’d read before my visit- thank you Richard. I’d also been told by fellow creative Glen Liberman about the bar he’d been to before. It seemed everyone but me knew about the place. It bills itself as “the oldest continuously operating drinking establishment in New York City, opened in 1864”. The place has a beautiful plaque in honor of it’s roll in literature and it’s contribution to the mind of the novelist O.Henry and his creation “Gift of the Magi”; a classic in literature, and Ludwig Bemelman, creator of the children’s story “Madeline”. Again we cross paths with Bemelman- his artwork adorns the bar named in his honor at the Carlyle Hotel – an earlier visit on my BBW Tour. He’d designed the walls of the hotel bar for payment of residing there.
Pete’s Tavern has that fine old décor. Dark woods, brick work and Victorian booths, like Booth 3 in which O. Henry supposedly penned “Gift”. What struck me is it sat empty until about 1pm. I intended on sitting there, but was torn between the bar and the booth. I prefer a place I can “Scoot” out of, and a booth is a commitment. The chairs were high backed and prevented others from looking over on to what you do- so writing I’d imagine was perfect here. The Booth had a few letters written by O.Henry framed in the back (you can see on our blog pictures). The area was great for seeing the coming and going of visitors. It was said he’d go there to listen into conversations in hope of inspiration.
The tavern has a virtual who’s who of the entertainment industry on every wall- movie stars, a president, sports heroes, you name it. From the front to the very back were pictures from the present to the past, from James Dean to Frank Sinatra, most of them autographed. It’s a wonderful place to sit and absorb your surroundings and they played music straight out of the Beat generation. There were a few TV’s and two back rooms that I only peeked at. The marble of the stairway to the bathroom was worn to the comfort of thousands of feet. I don’t think anything can really describe something, which has traversed time under such heavy foot traffic like a bit of Europe in America. A place I could be comfortable in for a long stay.
I ordered their 1864 ale, and stuck with that. It’s made specifically for Pete’s Tavern and was pretty damn good. It had an “old” feel to it. I don’t know exactly what that means except it creates the aura. Like the Patriot collection made by Samuel Adams years ago which duplicated recipes from 1700’s America- a set of 4 beers- one which actually tasted like buckshot. The bartender brought me the beer; I took a few pictures, and sat back down for a “think”.
I watched some men come in and sit towards the front. Every now and then I’d hear tough talk, a “fuckin this, a fuckin that”. The manager sat in the back and waited to seat people. He watched the sports game on the TV. Another man sat at the opposite end, and ordered a meal. In front of him stood an old comical sign which I’d taken a picture of- gold font on a black background that read, “How to live on $15 a week”. It lays it out as follows: Whiskey & Beer at $8.00, Wife’s Beer & Brandy $1.40, Groceries –on credit, Rent- pay next week, Mid-week Whiskey $1.50, Coal- Borrow neighbors, Life Insurance (Wife’s) .50, Cigars- .50, Movies- .60, Pinochle Club- .50, Hot tip on Horses- .50, Dog food- .60, Snuff- .40 and poker game- 1.20 totals- $16.40 – AND at the end it states, “This means going into debt, so cut out Wife’s Beer & Brandy”. It was one of those signs of yesterday which will never return. I heard on the news yesterday women have surpassed men in practically everything- through a article in some world-renowned magazine. Two men to every three women graduate college, more women are in middle management than ever before and some other information which points to men being the inferior sex. A discussion took place on how this happened and attributed the move in use of brain over brawn. A manufacturer driven economy- industrial revolution- needed physical strength to support its foundation, and when the economy turned to a computer based service oriented system, women excelled. What the woman on the interview said, was the role a man needs to play must revolve around communication. Agreed- I MUST say.
I ordered a hero special, which was about the same price as a beer. The bartender treated me to one, and my total bill came to about $25.00- I’d already bypassed a weekly allowance back IN THE DAY. I grabbed my check and hustled to Parkside at almost 1:30.
East Houston seemed a lot longer than I remembered it. I passed Katz Deli, an area I was familiar with, and continued into unknown territory. I’d passed Ave A, B and C without knowledge of the cross street- the neighborhood changed. It looked more “ify”, graffiti on the walls, people on the street hangin, and some questionable buildings. I found a school crossing guard and asked her if she knew where Parkside Lounge was- she didn’t speak English, only Spanish. It STILL drives me crazy how someone can come here and not learn the English language. If you’re going to be an immigrant here, you SHOULD learn the language- no if and or buts. When living in a foreign country, do as they do- its part of the respect of one’s nation. If you live in Spain- learn Spanish, if you live in Italy- learn Italian, if you live in the US learn ENGLISH. At this point, I could get into a whole conversation on the battle of immigration and border control, but I have WAY too much to say about that so let me continue.
When I arrived at Parkside Lounge, I knew I’d been there before. Several times I’d seen my friend Jefferson Thomas play in the back room. It was a small intimate place, with a pool table and very music oriented. Posters advertised who was going on when, and even a keyboard of tile surrounded the sitting area. The bartender, Josh, a tattooed young guy, looked more like an artist than a bartender. I went in there enthusiastic, with recognition of the place. I ordered an unfamiliar beer that I didn’t like at all. I had $14 in my pocket and that was $6. I felt I had to force it down regardless of its taste.
My father made me eat things I despised. Growing up around our house waste was NOT an option. My brother and I always ate like “birds” as my parents used to say. With their rationing as children, and use of all food, it disgusted my father if we didn’t eat what we were given. We’d heard things like people starving in Ethiopia and do you know how many people that could feed?? I’d excuse myself to the bathroom with cheeks loaded like a chipmunk of food I didn’t like. I was once forced to eat green beans and vomited. Only then did I get, “he doesn’t need to eat green beans from now on.”
The point was well taken, as I got older. I still have problems with waste, and after I worked in a restaurant, I took on the same disgust on how many just fritter away food, like a wealthy commodity when there are so many starving in the world. I’ll rarely waste beer, unless it reaches the point of brain altering health or a vomit throwing stomach.
I ordered a Negra Modelo after that and had some conversation with the bartender. He asked me if I’d like a lime in my beer, which kinda took me by surprise. I’d never heard of a lime in a dark beer before. We talked about it, and he even included it in his autograph in my book- “No Limes in Dark Beers”. He told me about the World cup and how they had a big contingent of Hollanders there. We talked about a trip to Amsterdam, and he told me of his Oktoberfest to Austria. Made me think about the trip.
A place like Parkside is more a evening spot with good music and vibes, there’s no place like night time in New York City. In the background the music was punk and most of the stickers on the bar reflected it. All around the place showed urban music- funk, punk, rock & roll. It was known to be one of the hot spots for new live music. An afternoon visit to Parkside lacked people, but to me, that’s part of the attraction in the day. I had two beers, and left content.
One note I’d taken and placed in my book that morning was Insight from the Dalai Lama calendar for July 14th, 2010- it read, “This human body is a precious endowment, potent and yet fragile. Simply by virtue of being alive, you are at a very important juncture, and carry a great responsibility.” It’s with that thought I’ll leave you to think- like myself on how to proceed with your day.
Only two weeks left- next week it’s PJ Clarke’s and Spring Lounge. There is sidetrack adventure still untapped- a trip to Coney Island with Jefferson Thomas which I need to somehow slip in before the summer is over, besides I want to shoot a freak.
Have a great day.
It’s not a subject most people talk about, in fact, I’d say it’s a topic most people avoid: death.
Death always fascinated me, not for the act of death, but the purpose and meaning it gives to ones life. I’ve read many articles, which show ones perception of themselves after a near death experience is changed. Some become more religious, some go from bad to good, most change their attitude, and still others claim to be unaffected.
I woke up thinking about the purpose of life. On last night’s episode of Deadliest Catch, admired and loved skipper Phil Harris died. The episode was a piece of artwork- done respectfully and with deeper purpose. The sons fought while their father lay in a hospital bed, their flow of emotions like a tornado. We see moments intended for only family members, as if we the audience have grown to be one- explosive moments and tender moments. Phil asks for forgiveness for not giving a better childhood to his sons, one he felt he could have made better. A clearing of conscious, a moment made right, by those sacred words- “It’s ok, I love you”; as the older Harris comforts his father. It’s a scene all to familiar to those who have lost someone close. We’re fortunate to catch this inside glimpse and when I watched “after the Catch”, the cameraman made it clear- every story has a beginning, a middle and an end- tonight was it was Phil.
I think what made it all so clear was his cognizance of his demise. The fact he knew his time was done, the fact he’d reached the pinnacle of his 54 years of life and wanted the cameraman to capture it- a man who went from Captain of a crab boat to famed personality of Deadliest Catch. It was his earthly way of showing others that when your time has come, you make amends, forgive and ask others to forgive you; in the end, family and friends is everything.
One of the toughest moments for any human is to face the death of a loved one. It profoundly shapes you. When I mourned the people of the Trade Center tragedy, I only recognized the scope when I faced the wall of remembrance, something I talked about only a few blogs ago. The thousands of fliers plastered on the side of the Armory, asking anyone who had any information to contact listed numbers- thousands. There was a flier for a father written by 5-6 of his children, his baseball cap attached along with pictures of the family in better times. He worked at Cantor Fitzgerald, the financial firm at the top of one of the buildings. The artwork was part hope, part realization, and all sadness. His age was about my own.
I’m not sure how long I cried that day, but sometimes grief walks a path of it’s own. I couldn’t go down there until 6 months after it happened. My memory burns with moments like that. I proceed with caution.
I was pooped on by a bird in 1998. I know that sounds funny, and in retrospect it is, however, my end almost came because of that shit. Over the course of a week, I suffered symptoms from a 106-degree temperature, to extreme pain breathing, and coughing up blood. Before I entered a hospital stay of two weeks my wife dragged my one year old daughter away at my command. I couldn’t convince her despite my academy award winning as they hooked monitors to me in the emergency room. Details aren’t important, but not long after I’d recovered my thinking changed. What-IF I had died? What would I have left? What could I have given her- scribbling, poems, writings, and a little money?
I met a 72-year-old artist at a flea market maybe a year later that contemplated these very issues. His art was extraordinary, his personality charismatic and his mind preoccupied with this work- something he believed would be the only legacy of his existence; the only contribution he could give his children. We had a beneficial relationship- he supported my writing and poetry with enthusiasm, and I supported his artwork with the same. We both respected and admired each other and our positions towards life and death- it worked its way into those early conversations and changed me. On Sept 11th, he was one of the first to call.
I suppose my desire to be a writer came much earlier, but these uncertain events solidified my position- I had to make a difference- not to a company whose memory is attributed to whoever is on its payroll, but mankind. It sounds, “fairy taleish” and perhaps it is, but I’m a strong believer in hard work, persistence, and low-key harmony.
I had an old cemetery in my neighborhood as a kid. My friends and I grew up going to the ghostly haunt late at night. I lived 11 years next to one, and found peaceful walks necessary in the turmoil of every day life. To see funeral processions and the fragility of humans is a sobering reminder. Our lives are finite and a walk around the cemetery reminds one why life is valued and how one person can affect another.
Death isn’t about one human life ending, it’s about all that surround one’s death living. Pain and suffering is inevitable, but how one is rounded can’t dismiss it. Life must include death, as well as death includes life.
Pete’s Tavern is today’s stop. O. Henry wrote “Gift of the Magi” there. A story about a poor young couple that for Christmas sacrifice something very valuable of their own for each other. Their sacrifices cancel each other out, but in doing so, it’s realized that moment is the most valuable thing one could give. He wrote the story in Booth 3. Parkside Tavern is 2nd on the list because it opens at 1:30pm. I only know the music there is supposed to be great in the evening. It’s always about the mystery.
More details to come, Friday night.
The subway wasn’t hot as I thought. I grabbed an uptown express, which dropped me at 72nd. There’s an enormous statue of Giuseppe Verdi when you exit. The Mannes College of Music and Julliard- the famous music school are also close by. P & G Café was originally 279 Amsterdam, but I was fortunate to have looked for it on line and found it had a new location as of a year ago at 380 Columbus & 78th Street.
The original P & G was established in 1942. It was a family business which was named for the initials of the founders sons- Pete & George Chahalis. The book said it had real character with graffiti and a mural, which had been covered up with the exception of part that remained on the back wall. From the on line article, they had difficulty moving the neon bar sign above the place because of water damage. It was a sore topic for the bartender I’d met. He’d worked there for the past ten years before the transition and after.
He just opened the place and I was the first into the downstairs bar. He served me a Sam Adams Summer Ale, which was pretty perfect for the hot day I’d already experienced in my short walk. The heat was already getting on his nerves- the fans blew on full in several areas. He started a conversation with me right away, and started to relax a little into my stay. Charlie, the bartender, was one of these really down to earth sorta guys. A guy who had a very interesting past- a guy who worked in security in the 1980’s and protected plenty of the early dance musicians- stuff I listened to in my youth- Lisa Lisa & the Cult Jam, Shannon, Salt & Pepa- a virtual who’s who of dance from the 1980’s. He was filled with stories of parties here and there, champagne & drinks for free, VIP’s and lists on which he was placed: A charismatic guy who lit up when he talked of those times. He talked of the old P&G and how much he enjoyed the clients, the money and the old time visitors, the regulars who would never show in this neighborhood, only about 6 blocks away.
Even though the new place was bigger and there were a few more rooms to hold pool tables and a music room, the dynamics had changed. This neighborhood had people with attitude and the politics between family and business were typical of those with money. The LAST place women would want to be seen in was a bar and many in the area had kids- obviously, a no-no for afternoon visitors. Where once he made money from those long established down to earth daily clients, he now made a portion of what he used to. He was also upset about the fact there was room, and what was once cozy and looked busy with 5-10 people, this place would scatter them and it’d appear empty during the day.
I’m sorry the original place was closed, but I was happy I still had this soul who transitioned to the new place. He was elected an award some years ago for being the best bartender and I could see why. It was his sense of humor. It’s like I told him, many come to bars to have a drink, get rid of some misery, talk-have someone listen, and try and find a laugh. If you get a cynical bartender or someone who has no desire to even BS with you, what’s it worth anyway? I know many times I’m lookin for that genuine laugh and I’d found it here- once we got past the heat and shitty things which bothered us.
I found my drinks went down clean, and I did my share of listening. I’ve always loved storytellers, who have interesting experiences, a worldly view, and a damn fine sense of humor. I’d found one here, that’s for sure. Charlie was probably one of the most amiable bartenders I’ve experienced on my tour. He talked to me about a security gig he had an opportunity at getting, and I hope he gets it.
I’d drank probably 3 drinks when first guy showed and disappeared into a back room. Two other guys came in- one had an accent and seemed to me to characterize the neighborhood- general yuppies. One raved about Cambridge and England to the other and sounded more like he was trying to impress either his friend or the people around him (which was only me and the bartender). I shook my head and Charlie went quiet, until another couple of guys came in who knew him. They talked about basketball and Lebron James. He didn’t miss a beat, started spinning stories about this and that, every one with a glow in his eye.
The time passed quickly. It was difficult to leave the place, but I knew I had to get downtown and time ticked. It was already approaching 1:30, and I hadn’t even hopped a subway- remember I had to get back to Penn by 3:30pm. They didn’t have food, which finalized my decision. I’d have a bite at the next place, sweat off some of my buzz- and MOVE along. I had him autograph my book and it just so happens he makes an appearance at the original P&G in a photo, which made it even better.
I hopped the express back downtown in a fraction of what it’d normally take. I exited at Chambers street to catch a local, but decided to “foot” it to South Street. I had to head to Broadway, turn down Fulton and follow that to South Street. It was fairly easy, but it was HOT and it was CROWDED and I was buzzed. I felt vultures’ overhead, I felt the heat off the blackened tar cause hallucinations of more and more people… WATER…. WATER…..
I eventually made it down to the water after a couple of distracting sites. By the time I reached Paris Café, I was ready to burst- not from a malnourished belly, but an over nourished bladder. There were signs ALL over which read- “Bathroom for customers ONLY”. I sat down at the bar with only one thing on my mind- I’d order my beer- and rush off to the bathroom with all the urgency of a medic to an old aged home. The bartender noticed my Thomas Edison T-shirt and commented about his visits to the Paris Café back in the day when he set up the first centralized power station on Pearl Street. He had a great brogue – but lets face it- when ya gotta go URGENTLY, you can only see one direction and conversation isn’t it.
After a breath of relief, the bartender had turned his attention on the many visitors to the bar. The large screen TV’s played the Cup and there seemed to be quite a few sports fans in the place. I took in the beautifully ornate bar.
The Paris Café has a great amount of history associated with it. Diamond Jim Brady and Thomas Edison used it like a home away from home. Celebrities like Annie Oakley and Buffalo Bill Cody, appeared in the early day- Teddy Roosevelt was a regular when he was a police commissioner, but there were also the criminals with it’s proximity to the Fulton Fish Market- it became a hang for the mob. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kids, Murder, Inc kingpins Albert Anastasia and Louis “Lepke” Buchalter used the place as a base. But like the P&G, the neighborhood changed.
The Fulton Fish Market, in the same location for 200 years, was moved to the Bronx, and employees that were once in excess of 5000, are now down to 2000. Many of the old warehouses have changed into lofts and condos, which of course brings more residents to the area. According to one of the mail men interviewed for the book residential deliveries were probably up to 20,000 from 3,000 years earlier. No longer fisherman, but financial types-bankers.
In New York, neighborhoods change- locations change and they change quickly. The one good thing about most of these bars I’ve visited are they’re pieces of old New York that remain in one of the most vibrant and ever changing cities in the world. Nothing excites me more than being in a place which has grown character through the years- has stories of the many who have passed through the doors- the stains on the walls, the old décor which was there when those who saw it years earlier, saw it with the same eyes as I. History is like that- generations and generations experience things in their lives which change them, or make them who they are. They might not be the exact same, but their reactions could very well be the same to how you react to the stimulus around you. We’re not so different from our ancestors. Times change and our reaction to the stimulus around us is based on the time we’re in. Even though we’re different now than then, everything is relative. Being a human, is being a human- love is love, pain is pain, sorrow is sorrow and they are facts which are always consistent (of course there are more, but you get the idea) Our reactions have most likely been experienced one time or another in centuries past- in different times. What I’m trying to say is there is a straight line which every human taps into, and it comes with being in the right place, speaking to the right person, observing your surrounding and interpreting how it is it effects you. Why else would I be in a bar?
Oh yea- drinks……
I had a ENORMOUS Swiss burger with my white beer. Ketchup and fat dripped all over my fingers, down my chin. The insides slid on to my plate and the pickles fell out one side of my sandwich as I dislocated my jaw to take a bite. I felt the bar was watching me pig myself up, but I wiped after every bite- both my lips and my fingers. DAMN was that thing sloppy, BUT it was worth every morsel!
When I’d finished, I was TRULY finished. FULL and feeling nothing but immobility, my mind raced. The time was 3pm and I had just enough time to get back to Penn Station for my train. The timing was impeccable, if I don’t say so myself. Sure, I would have enjoyed a few conversations at that point, but there was no topping my talk at P&G. I was content and ready to board the express. Everything from there was smooth as silk. I nodded in and out of sleep on my train and got home a little after 5pm.
Next week my visits will take me to Parkside Lounge at 317 East Houston Street and Pete’s Tavern at 129 East 18th Street. Thanks again for reading. Catch me if you can.
Steve
Why does the media push for emotion? Reaction?
People want to see what makes people squirm, how people explode when they’re boxed into a corner, how others deal with uncomfortable issues. It’s why some people watch hockey games for the fights or the car races for the accidents- it’s the danger. It’s sad to say, but we’ve become a nation of voyeurs- we want watch people pushed, see how they deal with situations and themselves. A thousand years ago crowds watched gladiators in the Roman Coliseum for entertainment; and now we have TV.
“After the Catch” is a program that sits the Captains of crab boats aired on “Deadliest Catch” to discuss their season and what transpired. They also bring on members of their crews and face them with film footage- facts- they’ve been able to share. Since Phil Harris passed, the producers still air film of him (Philisms-wisdom & philosophy from the Captain) and lets face it- the pain is still raw. Freddie, one of the Cornelia Marie’s deck hands worked with Phil for close to 10 years and was emotional as rough and tumble guys go. Jonathan, co-captain for the Time Bandit, got up and walked out of a discussion. Sig turned out the lights in the captain house when he found out. No man wants to show his vulnerability for the world to see.
In this sit down discussion, the men gather around a round table with beer, in a bar, music to the side and screen behind them. It’s informal, and reminded me of what I visualize as a Native American Pow Wow’s where different tribes met in a teepee to talk about differences between their tribes, disputes, the land, the weather, the effects of outside factors on home lives and come to resolutions, solutions for a better nation.
Today we’ve become members of a fractured society; each member fighting for themselves. No longer in a “group think” or larger unit, but small “me think” groups based on individual units. Families are split by not just distance, but time- divorce rates are high, neighborhood kids stay inside instead of playing out, and there now lives the expectation that all things should be handed to them on a silver platter. People need to be politically correct and we end up tip toeing around everything we say so as NOT to offend another person. Regardless of what you say or what you do, you’re going to offend someone…..
There’s a general perception today that men should be more caring more nurturing. I’m not denying this should be the way it is, but in the course of 100 years society expects to go from men who have internalized their “soft sides” to being out right open about it. Over thousands of years, men have grown and been brought up not to be soft and to be strong, hide those emotions and vulnerability to others, and only share with family and close friends. It’s not that those emotions aren’t there- they’re hidden, to keep us strong. It’s like we’ve been brainwashed, disarmed by the creations on which our world has grown in 100 years.
Women are strong, they always have been. They have gone through thousands of years raising families and multi-tasking, its no wonder they’re great in business. Over millennia they’ve been the “sensitive” ones who children look to for comfort, to heal wounds, to instill values they need to blend into society as adults. This was the tradition, and over the course of the last century the world is different. Transitional.
A comment made by the producer that bothered me was something like, “but the woman in Nebraska needs to see the emotion”- my answer is Why? Some business is off limits and tapping into the emotional psyche of a guy who grinds 80 hours at a pop- I don’t agree with. Certainly, there may be a need for communication to open up couples or parents, but via a TV show? At what sacrifice? The sacrifice of position as captain of a crab boat?
I had a very sobering look into the blue-collar worker years ago in the shadows of the Trade Center collapse. I’d gone down to the site to absorb the impact and found myself in a bar close by. Many of the ironworkers were there fresh from the site. A few played pool, a few bull shitted at the bar, all with drinks. The bartender was a woman and after a few beers I started to talk to her about the well being of these guys. She told me there was a facility on the site, which had psychologists to help them through, but she told me, “do you think any of these guys would go to them? NO. These are hardened men and what they see, they’ll take home with them. You can tell them, but there not gonna go. They’d rather play pool, drink- they’re not gonna talk to them about their problems- we all have them.”
Uncomfortable issues need to be brought up- over beers, with friends, with professional help, whatever it takes. Really, it’s all about trust, respect, integrity and understanding. Facts are facts, stamp out rumors, bring it to the table and work it out. HOWEVER it’s done.
Let me step from my soapbox……
I plan to hit two bars today in opposite directions- one on the upper West Side, the other in South Street Seaport. They’re both off the 2 & 3 Lines and I have a train from Penn at 3:30pm. Timing is essential and the heat is supposed to top 100 degrees, which means the subways will be a bear. If I’m lucky, they’ll be no mechanical breakdowns. I might even get a cool breeze off the water at the Paris Café. I’ll split my thirst between beer and water. Suppose it’d be prudent to have some food too. About now I’m thinking of an ice cone.
I stepped from my air conditioned office today into 100 degree heat, then into an even hotter car. I wound down my window to get out the hot air, cranked the air conditioner and drove home.
During my ride , I listened to a song by John Cougar Melloncamp- “Rain on the Scarecrow” which hit me. Occasionally, thoughts merge with songs or readings, or circumstances out of our control. There’s no helping HEAT and today, I’m thinking of the farmers.
I wrote one of my favorite poems during a HOT… DRY summer when I drove through water restricted farm fields in New Jersey. From my car, I witnessed a farmer as he plowed his field. The tractor kicked up mounds of dust as it dug through the soil and dead fields. I thought about him- about ALL farmers and how they rely on the weather to make a living. I wrote in my car driving 65mph to work in one swoop- my ceiling caving in, all windows down- no air conditioning.
I won an editors award in 1994 for that poem. It was in one of the few books I actually purchased because of my love for it and those rugged people who give their lives to feed not just themselves, but us too. With that in mind, and the Grapes of Wrath (thank you George Steinbeck), please read on. Thank you.
The Farmer
Ominous skies,
Lethal to touch,
The Vehicles blades-
So sharp.
Day after day, the time passes by…
Nothing is said
Their eyes they itch,
Their hands they burn,
Their partners they weep,
The weather so dry…
How volatile a life can be;
How mother nature can rule,
So strong.
A sweep of her hand: DEVASTATION
And they cry…
I exited Penn Station on Seventh Avenue. Normally, I cross-town immediately, but decided to go South. I passed my former workplace opposite a funky clothing store called Pan Zai. The place always had the funkiest clothes with many hip-hop clients in its base. I was fortunate to hit a string of good lights that continued my journey straight down to the Fashion Institute of Technology (F.I.T.) . I observed my surroundings and found two stores almost opposite the place- one called BRGR- a place made from grass-fed beef and OMG- the jean store. With such abbreviations, it made me wonder what communication has become in the time of speedy technology and faster and faster talk: Abundant in the language of today’s youth over the phone as they talk between each other couch to couch. I’ve seen one person opposite another talking on their phones rather than face-to-face.
I attended a friend’s final art exhibit in New York in the early nineteen nineties. One painting struck me strongly- a man and a woman sat in opposite rooms, each on a computer talking to each other- a room away. Both appeared to be married and chose to pick the computer to communicate. As a poet, it led me to wonder what happened to their love. How the sake of physical attraction was no longer needed or wanted. How does one enjoy emails more than face to face or body to body interaction? When I first started to work in my newest position, I was told not to call but to email for answers. I was never that kinda guy- I prefer to know people by talking to them. Sure people probably hated me, cause if I didn’t get an answer then and there, I’d go find them. Isn’t THAT customer service- getting answers? I don’t always conform to social parameters, but back to my story.
My walk took me to the same block I’d been several weeks earlier, where I visited Peter McManus and a place called Il Bastardo (how can you forget that name!) There was a beautifully decorated Thai place that had an open front (see pictures at www.myspace.com/funkthunder - under Best Bar Wedsnesday picture folder). I took a menu, and finally crossed town on 20th. Street. I had no intention of going down any particular street and just found one whose light turned at the right time. As I crossed the avenues I came face to face with a giant church of my past- I shouldn’t say church really- it was a Goth Club, back in the day- The Limelight.
The Limelight, in its heyday, was a dark gloomy JAMMIN club. It was built inside an old nineteenth century church, complete with stained glass windows and eerie secret passages that took you to the outer edges of the place. It now existed as the Limelight Marketplace- a high-end group of stores…. Talk about being upset. I mean from dark Goth to a rich, high end stores. I walked into a bright and springy front. Funky stores for the rich and as I walked through, I felt eternally sad. I mean from a place of worship, to a sinning earthly club, to money making materialistic play place. I’m still not sure what to feel about it really. When I’d finished taking pictures and absorbing what feelings remained, I headed back to 20th street where I found a group of Union protestors, making a ruckus outside what they dubbed as the cheapest contractor- Bernini Construction Corp. Laborers Union 325 named him as the worst contractor in New York and New Jersey. I can’t remember what the hell they yelled, but they had the two giant rats out with probably 30 protestors who chanted behind an intercom. I picked up a flyer and watched from a distance. I mean I needed to get to my location.
I arrived at Old Town Bar & Restaurant just after 11:30am. The doors were wide open and invited me with huge hand written signs that ranted about their spiked lemonade. Other signs raved about the freshly caught Little Neck clams from Long Island. This place had an aura of old New York; a giant mahogany bar with aged booths opposite, giant old mirrors lined the back bar that reflected the many bottles, old steins sat at various locations; and the one in front of me had two monkeys climbing a vine. The ceiling was a “crackle” between brown and white paint. I was the first there besides the bartender and a barmaid. There was a picture of Jackie Gleason toasting the bartender in one frame and next to him, on the other side of a lamp was one of Art Carney- the Honeymooners, drinkin at Old Town. Now, if that doesn’t give you a feeling of down to earth people, I don’t know what would. Pictures of Liam Neeson were above, all autographed to the place. The walls were filled with all kinds of interesting photos and posters. I took a picture of myself with the reflections of the mirrors.
After my first lemonade went down with the least bit of energy, I had another and thought about the money in my pocket- would I stop here, or would I need to charge it? Would I stay, or would I go? I thought of the opportunity of getting here again, the same opportunity I justified many times before and if it meant a couple of bucks extra on my charge… well…. could I have a problem?
I sucked down my third and made my decision rashly to go straight to the credit card, I’d order lunch- a chilidog, which was given rave reviews on the menu. I penned, quickly under the influence, the time was right and it was the first time I’d found myself through my journeys actually taking out paper and writing. Here is a spontaneous excerpt:
“What makes today different than any other day? I forget. There is no need to remember the what-if scenarios or the possibilities of this that or the other thing when you drink. You can put a mind at peace, you can’t put it to sleep in the tonic which makes those buzzing receptors crazed with emotion and soul; put them to sleep… it’s why I sit at a bar before noon. They say every writer has angst in one way or another, and I’m no different. It’s sunny, its beautiful, and I’m here trying to find peace- peace of mind. I’m not looking for friends. I’m not looking for conversation in a bar that appeals to me- a bar where I’m comfortable- like an old shoe. Jackie Gleason bumped fists, Art Carny had his share, and I’m at a mahogany bar alone… and happy. No thinking of what-if, no thinking of what could be, no thinking of anyone else but me…”
I later write, “I could see myself in this quiet place, writing and pressing my emotions as quickly as I write now- completely content. There is no other joy, or no other need to explore anything but the HERE & NOW. For now, it’s 12:20 and I have plenty of time till 3:30 where I need to be in Penn Station. I think to myself there will be a day I return to this bar, with my book and my cover, with a signature to hang on the wall next to Frank McCourts. There will be a day I’ll isolate myself in a booth here and write. I could be happy here regularly, I could be myself.”
I can now reflect as I write this. It is places like this that make me strive for success: a couple of blocks from Union Square and an ideal location. It has motivation in spirit, aura and the food WAS good. I’ve been looking for a place to write, a place in the future and I may have found it.
It was around 12:30 when the lunch crowd started to enter. It’d be shortly after I’d leave – a $20.00 bill in my pocket and a future expense left to pay. I knew Grand Street intersected Broadway, so I walked there. There were plenty of good sights South of Houston. A textile place from London had two enormous old Singer Sewing Machine displays from floor to ceiling and a giant loom. The streets were packed and the clothing was light.
I observed on Grand Street cleaned up fire escapes, some graffiti, an old police building, and a beautiful view of even further downtown. I found Onieal’s Grand Street Bar on the corner. The décor was clean and modern with a line of martini glasses on the bar – the tip jar was full of dollar bills. It had a small room for sitting in the front and a bar down the backside. The ceiling was old and seemed freshly carved with heads. There has been a bar on this piece of land since the late 1800’s, even Teddy Roosevelt (police commissioner 1895-1897 & future president) had drinks here. I definitely WOULDN’T say it had a manly feel to any more. The place had a definite woman feel to it. There didn’t seem to be any men behind the bar or in the front room. In fact, the place seemed pretty packed- packed full of women.
While I sat at my bar chair 20-30 women walked in from a “Sex in the City” tour. The martini glasses all had cosmopolitans in them. I had in front of me two containers, which held lemons and limes, shaped like breasts- and nothing seemed more obvious to me that THIS was a woman’s bar….
Now, I’m not a big Sex in the City fan, however I’ve heard they have a loyal following. They’ve filmed here clips from the show, it’s a bar called Scout. Here I was drinkin a beer in a crowd of what appeared to be very attractive rich women, who were here and gone in a matter of a half hour with their tour. I couldn’t have felt more unprepared-EVER- and they drank their high flutin drinks. Perhaps this wasn’t my kind of bar- I felt I needed a Mercedes to be here- outclassed by the furniture, muted fabrics and high-end liqueurs.
I did strike up a great conversation with a native New Yorker, a woman who I neglected to get a name from. I told her what I was doing, showed her my book and she seemed interested. She’d visited many of the bars on my tour. She was a T.V. producer- working with mostly commercials- we talked of pharmaceutical companies & cosmetics and where I saw excitement, she saw the one thing everyone see’s when they’re in their own job- a tough day to day grind. She was there to relax, but her time was limited before she was to meet her girlfriend. We all have things to do, and I outstayed her, and then disappeared after my 2nd beer to walk the streets.
The bartender told me the C or E back to Penn was on Spring Street. When I turned west to get to the station I found the most INCREDIBLE store called The Evolution Store. It was an eccentric store with odd things for sale that included skeletons of various kinds, bugs & butterflies in shadowboxes, minerals & gems, taxidermy of all sorts- birds and African wildlife, even a zebra skin on the wall. The place has been there for 17 years and was definitely a place I’d go if I had some cash. The website is www.TheEvolutionStore.com for anyone who has a genuine interest in odd things.
At Spring Street Station I had enough time to snap a picture of tile art when I heard the subway. I spun through the counter and jumped on to the E as the door closed. I arrived with plenty of time to spare and patiently waited in Secaucus for 40 minutes, but all in all, I’d arrive home just after 5pm.
Sometimes having no money (or little) pays….
It’s a gorgeous day, I’d say almost the perfect day weather-wise. After three days of grueling humid, ninety plus heat; a mid seventies day is wonderful.
I trucked my son off to summer camp at 8:30am. It’s his third day. I was told yesterday he was bored in the afternoon because he couldn’t participate in pool activities (2:30-5:30 daily) and felt for him. One kid splashed his cast (broke his arm 1 month ago), and with the hindrance, his activity is limited. Mornings, he seems to be fine.
I brainstormed for something to keep him occupied during this boring time. I was the master of self-entertainment as a child, whatever was around, I’d utilize it – create something to do. When Shane was little I had a whole class of kids (age 5) on the playground putting pennies on their elbows and trying to catch them- showing them how to stack them and catching the bunch; If you’d seen all the pennies flyin you would have laughed. I must have lost a dollar’s worth, but it was all worth the entertainment. I remembered Reggie, the homeless guy who made instruments out of pipes, buckets, iron grates and everything around him on the street and the light bulb went off. Since Shane hasn’t had the ability to practice his drums, I thought he could drum. Smacking the sticks into cement, tree trunks, whatever makes sound- experimenting with sounds and tones… that’s entertainment AND practice. Besides, I think there’s a fascination with drummers that might attract others who play instruments, attract others in general. I placed his sticks in his bag and told him my thoughts- he liked the idea.
Later, I thought there is more than one way to use a drumstick. There is the swordplay, burying it in the dirt, and a whole bunch of other scenarios occurred to me… I’d have to hope for the best and NO I didn’t suggest it- that’d just be asking for trouble. Fortunately, his behavior is good.
I woke my daughter out of a deep sleep to be Cinderella. Despite her tired woes, she needed to spend some time to help clean the house. In a few hours, she’d be at her best friends birthday party for the full day, and once again the “clean up” would be back in parental hands. Once again, I’m lucky to have another responsible child, so for now- I keep my fingers crossed. It all starts early, everyone- if you don’t hammer it into them as “littles”, you can’t correct poor behavior later- take my advice and nip it in the bud, if you don’t, YOU pay for it later.
I evaluated the bills this past weekend and overestimated the funds. Over the next few weeks we’re forced to live with little money. I’ve lived from paycheck to paycheck before- definitely nothing new, but it’s forced me to put a serious cap on Best Bar Wednesdays. I’ve banked out $20.00 and made myself a vow to tighten the straps of self-control. Ten dollars per bar- most likely one drink, possibly two. I left a message with JT about abandoning the trip to Coney Island until better funds were available. Being shore side with nothing would really be painful, so I told him perhaps he’d enjoy a scenic Manhattan walk.
The two bars scheduled today are Olde Town Bar on 18th and Oneil’s on Grand Street. Both look like places I could sit for hours with drinks, engage in fascinating conversation and lose myself. Olde Town had its share of literary types through the years, which included Frank McCourt (Angela’s Ashes). His book jacket is autographed to the bar and framed along with other signed jackets. The place is close to Grammercy Park, and Union Square. I printed out a map of the streets to guide me from one to the other. If you’ve read, you certainly know how easy it is for me to get lost in the labyrinth of streets down THAR.
No bells and whistles, no hullaballoo, just a gorgeous day for a walk and an early planned departure- if only I could make a living doing this.
Tomorrow- the really story of Best Bar Wednesday- Olde Town Bar & Oneil’s; see ya then.