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….