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.