A Bird In The Hand Is Worthless…

I recently saw a television ad for a “new and improved” Listerine, that began with the question, “Do you realize most people smile at least fifty times a day?” The point of the ad and selling point was that Listerine now has a “whitener”, so now your fifty odd smiles can flash like a kleig light. (Please, pass the Ray-bans!) But you know what crossed my mind, dear reader, the moment I saw that ad? It wasn’t that I should run out the door and purchase a lifetime supply (though as Jackie Mason would say, “It couldn’t hoit!”) I thought of a guy named Joe from long ago. Because Joe was not only forty nine shy of his fifty smiles per day, but the one that finally did part his lips came only after his first drink behind the bar. Near the end of his shift.

My grandmother owned a boarding house/saloon which I’ve talked about here before, and Crabby Joe was her night man behind the stick. And to prove that he was Crabby Joe just like his nickname said, each night before he poured his first drink he placed a plaque by the register announcing that fact. It read “Crabby Joe Is On Tonight”, which a customer had made up and Joe loved. It seemed to give him permission to be a grouch. Or at least to play that role because he really wasn’t as mean as he liked to act. Call it a defense mechanism. And given the way he looked one could see why.

He stood five foot four in his wing tipped spades, wore his apron up around his armpits, had a fist for a nose like W.C. Fields and his hair, a copper red, was thin and wavy. He looked like a character right out of Guys And Dolls. And just like the “guys” in Guys And Dolls Joe always had some action going on the side. He booked numbers for most of the patrons, was always hustling some odd contraband (everything from cases of Clark Bars to women’s make-up), and whenever somebody got in a jam Joe always knew some guy who knew some guy. Capish? But what really used to knock me out as well as make me laugh, above and beyond his folly outside the law, was how he claimed expertise on everything he touched. For example the day he bought a couple of canaries he immediately became an ornithologist. If he hondled a case of stolen sunglasses, Joe was now an optometrist. And God forbid if someone got sick, the man had more home cures than a Hopi Shaman. Which brings me now to this terrible tale of woe.

(Warning: If you’re squeamish, don’t read on.)

This lady came into the bar one day, a heavy set woman in a flowered dress who looked to be well in her fifties. She had a purse in one hand, a bird cage in the other which housed a solo canary, and a hangdog look on her face only whiskey could lift. She climbed up onto the stool and set down her cargo.

“Let me have an Early Times, Joe,” she said with a wheeze of despair, ” then the two of us need to talk about birds.” Since Joe had bought his canaries (immediately becoming an expert, of course) Joe was now, to all who knew him, John Audubon.

Joe got her drink… a pour to the line, a water back… then folded his arms and prepared to dispense his wisdom. “So what seems to be the problem, Kate?” he asked. With his customary frown.

Pointing to the cage she said, “You’re looking at it, Joe, this bird won’t sing.”

“He’s just in a strange place is all, all yer’ birds clam up when they’re in a strange place.”

“No, Joe, it ain’t this place, this damn bird don’t sing even when he’s home. Not a note‘!”

So Joe approached the cage, peered through the string-thin bars, then got that look on his face we all knew too well. That all-knowing-Joe look. “Aha!” he said, sniffing his nose for effect. “Now I see yer’ problem, his nails are too long. That’s why he’s quiet. This bird’s pissed off.” See Joe had recently come to the knowledge that wrapping the perches in sandpaper filed down the nails, and so proud was he of that new found knowledge he applied that cure to everything ailing sick birds. His “long nails theory”.

“See all my cages over there?” he said, pointing across the room (Joe was a boarder who lived upstairs and often brought his birds to the bar when he worked.) All the poles have sandpaper on them and that’s what files down the nails and keeps them happy. Birds hate long nails!”

“Well I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch,” said Kate, “I never woulda’ thought of that.” (Not exactly an All Creatures Great And Small episode!)

“Well now you know,” he said, tapping his temple. “But I’ll tell ya’ what I’ll do,” he continued, reaching into the cage and grabbing the bird. “I’ll clip its nails for now til you get that sandpaper. How’s that?”

“Would you, Joe?”‘ said Kate. “That would be great.”

So Joe took out his nail clippers, clipped away at the talons, put the bird back on its perch then walked away. And the only thing that spoiled this moment, this moment of veterinary triumph, was the scream let out by Kate that shattered the room. For not only was the bird unable to sing he was barely able to stand, as blood dripped down from each toe to the the bottom of the cage. Joe had clipped the talons well above the nail line. But typical Joe who’s never in the wrong and as if he had nothing to do with it, cooly proclaimed, “That bird’s gonna’ die.” Then he grabbed the bird, put it in his pocket, walked it back to the kitchen to put it to sleep. And Kate continued to scream at the top of her lungs. She was inconsolable.

“You killed my bird, you son-of-a-bitch, I’ll sue your ass forever. Do you hear me?!? I’ll sue you!!! A-a-a-a-a-a-h-h-h-h-h!! A-a-a-a-a-a-h-h-h-h-h!! You killed my goddam bird, you son-of-a-bitch. A-a-a-a-a-a-h-h-h-h-h! A-a-a-a-a-a-h-h-h-h-h! A-a-a-a-a-a-h-h-h-h-h!!!!!

Joe stayed in the kitchen til Kate ran out of gas, at least a good ten minutes, then walked back out to the bar and plied her with drink. He then gave her a bird from one of his cages, called her a cab from the pay phone, then sent poor Kate on her way from this night of horror. And again, as if he had absolutely nothing to do with what happened, he yelled to Kate as she walked out the door, “Don’t forget that sandpaper when you get home, dear!”

(Geez, if only that bird had “tweeted”, huh?)

See you soon, my friends, have a good week…

Red, White and Blue…

So I’m thumbing through the New York Post making my way to Sports, when what do I see jumping off the page but a picture of David Caruso almost smiling. You know, the guy who almost never smiles… that actor who found a second career after jumping ship from his first, on NYPD Blue, half believing he was James Dean destined for bigger things, only to fall on his freckled tookus til CSI Miami threw him a script, a pair of sunglasses, and apparently Clint Eastwood’s voice coach from the Spaghetti Westerns. To comical yet preposterously popular results. But I digress. David’s picture was just a grabber (it grabbed my attention, didn’t it?), simply because the man happened to be a redhead. That’s right a redhead! For the title above his picture read, NYPD ‘RED’ ALERT’… Hair-Bias Warning, and David seemed to be the perfect poster boy.

Here’s the Alert… “An anti-bias message went out this month to Manhattan sergeants and lieutenants, who were told that redhead harassment would not be tolerated.” Translated… no more disparaging words to the amber coif set, or a lawsuit could ensue.

And why, you ask, would this be a topic of interest to me? In other words why is your friendly bartender taking the time here? Because I, dear reader, was once what you’d call a redhead. That’s why. Or to put it in the verboten, I was a carrot top! And though my hair has gradually darkened over the years and I’m pretty much in the clear, I still can feel the pain these cops are suffering. And I can’t stop laughing. Because this is political correctness directly from Mars. You know, the “red” planet?

I mean did a cop actually go one day and complain about this to his sergeant, that one of those mean I-talians called him “Red”? Or worse, “Carrot Top”?  If so, a portion of New York’s Finest is now it’s Wimpiest, it’s politically correct-est. Which makes me wonder how Erik Thorvaldsson would’ve handled this. Certainly not this way…

“Oh, Halgor, Halgor, would you please tell that Sven to please lay off. He just called me ‘Red’ again.”

“But you’re Erik The Red, for crying out loud, why shouldn’t he?’

“Oh yeah, that’s right. Never mind, keep rowing.”

No, no one would’ve given old Erik any guff, as red as that bastard was, or soon they’d have found themselves overboard swimming back to Iceland. As well they should’ve been. So in honor of all the great redheads we’ve known (myself and Erik chief among them) I’ve put together this list to bring back some pride: Thomas Jefferson, Lucille Ball, Vincent Van Gogh, Red Barber, Red Skelton, Woody Allen, Maureen O’Hara, Napoleon Bonaparte (yeah, crazy Nap), Greer Garson, Danny Kaye, Winston Churchill, (no, not Carrot Top), Red Grange, Galileo, Mark Twain, (still no Carrot Top), David Bowie, and Elizabeth I to name just a stellar few. And the list goes on…

So to those who suffer from red, white and blue… that’s red hair, white skin and feeling blue ’cause you have them… buck up, old chums, you come from pretty good stock.  And to those on the New York Police Department who deal with some of the toughest crime in the country, and who have red hair, surely a little carrot cake ain’t gonna’ hurt ya’.

See you soon, dear reader, I’m off to paint the town red!

“Sacre Bleu!!!”

One of the things that used to drive your friendly bartender nuts, along with those um-teen other things he’s chronicled over the years, like a credit card payment for just one drink or a stranger asking, “What do you recommend?”, is when someone takes a seat at the bar and gags those already there with the perfume they’re wearing. And that goes for women too! Because dudes can stink up a joint as well with fancy sprays and colognes, and I have no qualms about telling those people what for. While fanning my nose and squinting my eyes I might lean into some guy and say (with a smile on my face, of course), “I assume you’d like a nice French wine because you, my friend, smell like a French Whorehouse!” Or simply, “I’ll take your order in a second, man, once I can see through the haze.” But with women I’d usually let the thing slide unless she’s a pal and can take it, as her perfume might’ve been a gift from a beau and who am I to rain on her “Charade”? But the fact remains I’m keeping my distance from either.

But all that having been said, dear reader, your friendly bartender also knows what it’s like to stink up the joint, to be the dreaded stink-er and not the stink-ee. And I blame the French for that.

Now before I go any further here, I’m not a member of the French bashing crowd who thought it was cute and patriotic to order Freedom Fries, I’m not in third grade. I like the French and I love their zest for life. But here the French are clearly to blame or at least a cadre of scientists closely aligned with them, for it’s they who must’ve assented as one, “Oui, oui, monsieur!” after sniffing their latest concoction. Which is called Old Spice. That’s right Old Spice! That revered and classic after shave whose slogan once jauntily echoed in song, “Look for the package with the ship that sails the ocean,” must’ve done just that… “sailed the ocean”! And to France for heaven sakes, if not in actual relocation then olfactory authorization, which I will gladly get to after this back story…

I’ve been using Old Spice (the after shave never the cologne), since peach fuzz first appeared on my cheeks my freshman year in college or shortly before that. Which is back when dinosaurs had the run of the land. And except for a few foolish forays into popular concoctions back then… exotic “Jade East” and “Canoe” for two, then English Leather my sophomore year when me and a few fraternity brothers literally gutted a room with the cloud that trailed us… Old Spice has been my chosen brand forever. And that of every man in my family before me. The name was almost eponymous for what it was. Like if you had a runny nose back then you didn’t go out and buy tissue you bought Kleenex. Or if you had to ease that post shave burn and wanted to smell like a man, you didn’t go out and buy “after shave” you bought Old Spice. And women, up until now, seemed to enjoy it. A few months back while standing in a bar a young woman standing next to me asked what I had on. She liked the smell of it. And I told her jokingly, “It’s new, it’s called Old Spice.” “Hmmm,” she said, leaning in for a closer whiff, til those all around her chuckled and gave me away. But the point is the stuff’s still passes after all these years. At least for me.

So the other morning I opened a new bottle, slapped some onto my cheeks, then noticed some curious writing staring back at me. All in French. Where it used to say “Original” it now had the word “Classique”. And where it used to say, “After Shave”, it now had the words “Apres Rasage” to replace them. “Well Sacre bleu, Depardieu! Qu’est-ce que c’est, mon frere? Should I be wearing a beret when I leave the house?” Or worse, “Should I leave the house at all, smelling like a trollop?” Because after I splashed this crap on my face, liberally as per usual, my eyes began to water after applying it. And not just because of the pungency factor, which believe me was considerable, but because another American tradition (just like real Levis) had gone down the drain. Probably forever.

But hey, I did have some errands to run that morning so I took my brand new scent out the door for a test drive.

Maybe it was just paranoia on my part but standing in line at Food Emporium watching the woman in front of me turn and look at me, as if to ask “Why in the hell so much of it???”, made me surmise my reek had entered her check-out space. And maybe it was just my shrinking self esteem in a bank line moments later, that caused me to have a similar pang when the woman in front of me made her own u-turn. I felt like I was a walking, talking stink bomb. And even after I got back home and tried to wash it off with soap and water, just like the gang on Seinfeld when they couldn’t get rid of the funk they got from that cab ride, a tinge of this stuff still lingered on my hands and upper lip. This wasn’t a brand new scent, this was a stigma!

And the worst part of all (save for the fact that Old Spice is no more!), I was thinking of having some lunch that day at a pub just up the road, but I didn’t want the friendly bartender there to ask if I’d like a nice French wine with my meal, so I passed. And you think you have problems!

Au revoir, mon ami, see you on The Seine…

Women In Bars

I just finished Rosie Schaap’s, Drinking With Men, her insightful, delightful memoir of a life spent in bars. And I do mean “life”. For each local pub she claimed as her own at various stages of her life going back to her teens, soon became more of a home than her own, its patrons more of a family than who she grew up with. And where some might say she drank too much or flirted too often with what you might call a “drinking problem”… while glorifying what to many is a horrifying pastime, especially for a woman… when you read her heartfelt take on that world along with her endless quest to belong somewhere, anywhere, you see why the warmth of an amber-lit bar… a mini cathedral of oak and mirrors sprinkled with interesting characters… became such a magnet. And great education.

With poets, painters, architects and teachers (the clientele she sought) sitting around her with her all alone at first, not to mention bartenders who took on the role of big brother (many of whom were artists as well as most of her bars were downtown), saloons to her were less party rooms than classrooms. Or as she put it, social centers where people happen to drink. But each new bar into which she gained entry had its step-by-step process… listen and learn, speak and be listened to slowly over time, matriculating though the system as though it were a college… til she reached what to her was that coveted status called “regular”. An unofficial member of a grown-up fraternity, she its only sister, where someone once told her (and which she cherished), “I love you because you’re one of the guys. But you’re not!”

Now do I recommend that life for a woman? No. Do I condemn it? Bigger no. It’s just a path this woman has taken in a quest to find herself, where each new bar marked a new beginning (the next in an evolution), and where each one she walked away from left her the wiser. Wise enough to not just survive but, just like the ring that’s etched in a bar left from a cocktail glass, she’s left behind this wonderful memoir as proof. She also writes the “Drink” column for the New York Times Magazine, and one night a week tends bar somewhere in Brooklyn. So “Cheers!” to you, Ms. Schaap, you’ve not only done yourself proud but the world I know well.

I often thought when reading this book how different it is for a woman to do what she did. To become a “regular”. To walk in a bar all by yourself, decide you like the place fine, then go about making that place your brand new haunt. Because a woman alone to the opposite sex can often send out the wrong message, innocently of course and even in this day and age, and some guys never fail to take it that way. If she’s reading a book or going over papers (which Ms. Schaap did in her teaching days), she’s pretty much sent out the vibe “I vant to be alone!“ But if she’s just there having a glass of wine or God forbid something stronger, the alley cats sooner or later will move in to scratch. And the bartender, if he’s alert, then has to de-claw them. All it takes is a glance from the woman without a word being said, and the bartender knows she’s not there to find Mr. Right. Or worse, Mr. Wrong. She just wants a drink like any other patron to simply pass the time, and to let the tension of the day wash away with each sip. But it’s not always easy.

And for her to move to the next level, to frequent a bar as a solo woman and then become one of it’s regulars… “one of the guys”… it’s never easy. But I’ve seen it happen over the years and it takes a special kind of woman, a woman who’s not afraid of the bullshit and bluster. And just like our memoirist did many times, the key is to ease yourself in and not barge in. Because once “getting laid” is out of the equation men can be very protective of their sacred turf. Their trust must be earned. And earned it is by the woman with smarts who backs it up with conviction, but also practices the intricate art of give and take. It’s almost like being in a relationship, sans the commitment. Which reminds me of probably the bravest of all when it comes to bar conversation, or at least the wittiest woman who “drank with men”… the great Dorothy Parker.

Ensconced in a booth in The Algonquin Hotel back in the 1920′s, surrounded by mostly male luminaries… Robert Benchley, Alexander Woollcott, Heywood Broun and George S. Kaufman, to name just an awesome few… Ms. Parker spat out her pearls of wisdom as easily as if they were pits spat out from martini olives.

To wit, (all you yungins’ who never heard of her):

“If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look who he gave it to.”

“The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue.”

“I don’t know much about being a millionaire, but I’ll bet I’d be darling at it.”

“Tell him I was too fucking busy…. or vice versa!”

“The woman speaks eighteen languages and can’t say, ‘No,’ in any of them.”

“This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force!”

“Wit has truth in it. Wisecracking is simply calisthenics with words.”

“Take care of luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves.”

“I don’t care what’s written about me as long as it isn’t true.”

“It serves me right for putting all my eggs in one bastard!“

“A hangover is ‘The Wrath Of Grapes”.

And her most famous of all… “You can lead a horticulture, but you can’t make her drink.”

(Ms. Parker wasn’t “one of the guys”, she was The Man!)

So to all you women who frequent a bar in which you’re thought of as a “regular”, may the company be good, the conversation rich, the bartender kind and attentive, and the drink made just to your liking because you’re a regular. You’ve earned it!

See you next time, dear reader, have a good week…

Patience Is A Virtue-oso

Or… Hats off to those who tickle the ivories!

Having plied my trade in a piano bar for more years than I care to count, I’ve seen first hand the ups and downs of piano playing. And believe me there are some. The ups of course are the cheering patrons, the tip jars filled with kale, the downs are those times when they’re singing to pictures on a wall. Or worse, the room is filled but with far too many who think that they are the show, and shout as if they’re spending the night in a sports bar. But whether the tempo is up or down or somewhere right down the middle, one thing that always stays on course amazing me to no end, is the patience most players display in all situations.

Because if I were trying to do my job which is mix a drink and pour it into a container, and some drunken A-hole grabbed the bottle while leaning into my face to shout his order, I doubt if I’d have the patience to (how you say?) cool it. In fact, I might just think about taking that bottle and permanently printing its logo on said A-hole’s brow, like a one-of-a-kind Dewar’s tat! But those are the things I’ve seen going on or at least their fair equivalent, to the guys and gals who play the piano in Barland. There’ll be someone grabbing the piano man’s mike (his version of a bottle), or someone screaming a request in his face while still in the middle of a song (his version of drink mixing), only to smile in return and keep playing through it. Which to me is astounding. For it not only shows a professionalism and patience beyond what I could muster in a decade, but a total grasp of the fact that the show must go on! Or better put… they’ve taken the words to Billy Joel’s classic and carried them out to the letter in content and feeling…

“Sing us a song you’re the piano man

Sing us a song tonight.

Well we’re all in the mood for a melody

And you’ve got us feeling all right.”

… no matter how many A-holes try to prevent that!

A guy I worked with for many, many years is a guy named Elliot Paul (currently playing at Graydon Carter’s Monkey Bar) who happened to be a master at handling these A-holes. In fact, given the things I’ve seen him put up with, the man is more like Job than the man called Joel. Because whatever the gods would drop from the sky for a drunken two point landing, Elliot would manage to “taxi” that guy to a stop (or the gal in some cases!). And always with a smile. For example, if someone grabbed his microphone while still in the middle of a song, he’d lure him into a duet then regain control. Or if someone shouted a request in his face from no more than two feet away (while still in the middle of another’s request for fuck sakes!), he’d just nod and wink which said, “I’ll do that song next.” And it worked. Where I might’ve shaved my head on the spot, stood up and done DeNiro’s “You talkin’ to me??!!” But that’s the difference between Elliott and me and all the others just like him who tickle the ivories, they know their job is to keep them all “feeling all right”.

And speaking of playing through “moments”, there were times now looking back on those days where some of the stuff that went down was just like a cowboy movie. You know, where a ruckus suddenly erupted in the place (in the cowboy movies, a shooting), the room fell silent for one scarey moment then I’d have to signal Elliott to go back to playing. Which he did. And the end result was it did usually calm things down. Again, just like in those cowboy movies where the dastardly owner of the town saloon would shoot some guy in the back, then quickly tell his piano man, “Play!!!”, as if to convey “Oh, nothing. We’re cool, have a drink!”

But those situations were very, very rare and most of the time the mood in our place was up. Meaning not just “up” for the piano man’s sake with everyone singing along and jamming his tip jar, but up for your friendly bartender as well because he then got to deal with a happy bar. Yes, the people who do that gig for a living, often under most trying circumstances, really do warrant our applause, our attention and praise. Just ask the late, great Frank Sinatra, perhaps the most praised of all, who right up to the end proudly claimed “I’m a saloon singer.”

By the way, since I mentioned Billy Joel’s “Piano Man”… clearly the most requested song along with Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” in any piano bar, I’d like to add my own two cents to its accolade. And that’s this. Where some might say “One For My Baby (And One More For The Road)” is the greatest saloon song ever, I’d have to disagree and say it’s “Piano Man”. “One For My Baby”, as great as it is, is just one man’s lament of a recent break-up, whereas “Piano Man” takes the saloon world itself and turns it inside out, how “it’s sweet and it’s sad” to every man… the patrons, the bartender, waitress and singer… holding them up to the light with a big aching heart. And that’s a saloon song!

In fact, in case you haven’t heard it in a while (here’s the earliest video of same) which I’m sending out as a tribute to all those who do this. Chiefly Rick McDonald, Bugsy Moran, and Barbara King (everyone’s favorite Jersey Girl), the three who along with Elliot knocked them dead at our place.

See you next time, dear reader, have one on me!

“Take Me To Queens, My Good Man!”

Just before the game on Sunday (you know the one I mean, it’s been in all the papers), Joe Namath appeared on screen for his personal analysis. And the first thing that came to mind when I saw him wasn’t his illustrious on-field career or shocking Super Bowl win which put the Jets and the AFC on the road to legitimacy, but rather his on-field antics in 2003 when a clearly drunken Joe Willy tried to kiss his interviewer. Who was Suzy Kolber. (Or maybe that thought had come to mind ’cause my friend’s wife sitting next to me brought up the incident. I can’t remember which as there were pre-game cocktails!)

But either way it does go to show how one sorry moment in a public life can dog that person’s career despite his accomplishments. We see it all the time in politics (right?) where some clown’s brains end up in his shorts and from that day forward he’s known as the guy who did such-and-such. Can anyone hear the name Larry Craig and not think about his Fred Astaire moment in a men’s room? Or Anthony Weiner’s “hot dogging” on his Facebook page? (I’d hate to think if I had been famous back in my oat-sowing youth, can anyone say the words, “one man blooper reel”?) Anyway, getting back to Joe’s “forward pass” which wasn’t nearly as bad as most things out there, Ms. Kolber handled the whole thing with class both during and after the incident (“A really good guy having a bad moment” is how she described the incident), and so did Joe in the aftermath as that incident proved his wake-up call to finally do some serious thinking about his drinking. Which he did and then quit.

After discussing Joe at length and seeing there was still some time before the kick-off, I shared with my friends another embarrassing wake-up call. And a rather funny one I think which occurred a few years ago.

I’d always been a night guy back then (I still am come to think of it), and every night when I came on duty I inherited the “happy hour” crowd which goes with the territory. But which also includes those pains in the ass who can actually kill the “happy” like this guy, Marty…

He was always drunk when I started my shift having been there since four or five, and I always had a problem settling him down. If he wasn’t babbling his bull to someone both loudly and non-stop, he was glad-handing this one or that one totally uninvited. Now I have to admit that he did mean well and he really wasn’t a bad guy, he simply had had too much by the time I got there. And since the day man seemed to like him just fine (rest in peace, Big Gene), I always continued to serve this guy out of respect. Until one day I finally had had enough having watched him annoy far too many, and I pulled him aside for a little bit of R&R. (That’s Rules and Regulations according to the Scribbler.) The “Rule” was to be he could only have one after I came on duty, and the “Regulation” stated he’d stay in his seat when he drank it. In other words no more working the room like a bad politician.

Well he followed the Rule part sure enough as I had control over that, but he just couldn’t stay in his seat which broke Regulations. So one day I cut the guy off completely and told him when I came on duty he’d have to leave. Period! And being, as I said, a good guy he thankfully abided.

Now cut to a few weeks later when a friend of his came in.

“Where’s your man Marty been?” I said to Marty’s friend. “We haven’t seen him in weeks.”

“You haven’t heard?” he said, suppressing a smile. Now normally those words might’ve signaled a death especially with a guy like Marty who was no spring chicken, or spring rooster, but again this guy was grinning so it couldn’t be that.

“No I haven’t heard a word,” I said, “what happened?”

Here’s what happened…

After Marty had left our establishment the last time he had been in, he moved on to P.J. Clarke’s to continue his evening. Another fine establishment. But his ongoing spree didn’t last very long as he showed up already blitzed, so the Clarke’s guys shut him off after just one drink. Disheartened as Marty was however he finally did get the message, Maybe it’s time to jump in a cab and go home. So he paid his tab, downed his Dewar’s and walked out. But then what to his wondering eyes should appear the moment he hit the sidewalk? A wonderful stroke of good luck is what the man reckoned. For right there sitting in front of the bar without him having to hail it, was a cab at a time when cabs are usually un-hailable. Especially when one is damn near legless which often causes a cabby to keep on going. So Marty thanked his personal gods, piled himself into the cab, and shouted in drunken bliss, “Take me to Queens, my good man.”

Well the gods must have been in a humorous mood because two good men were up front, and both were wearing matching uniforms as Marty had boarded a cop car not a taxi. (Obviously the light on the roof is what confused him.)

Shocked to the core and totally confused, Marty just sat there and tried to piece this together. Holy shit! he thought to himself, looking at the men in blue through a haze of Dewar’s, and that jail-like grating, Is this a freaking dream or am I in the hoosegow???

But the good part was these were good men and after a lecture on “when to say when” they actually drove Marty all the way home for his safety. A gesture to me above and beyond the call. And speaking of “call” this whole event turned out to be Marty’s wake-up one, as it scared him so and embarrassed him such that it put him on the path to sobriety the following day. (At least according to his friend who was also a colleague.)

Now did Marty stay with the program from that day forward? Well because I never saw him again and Big Gene was his favorite bartender, I’d have to say the answer to that is yes.

So in closing (and not to get too heavy here because that’s not why you came here), let me offer this bartender’s bit of advice. Any time you get a wake-up call, especially one this dramatic, it might just happen for a very good reason so don’t go back to sleep without at least pondering it. In other words, if you stumble home without your pants, sporting a facial tattoo and a bright pink Mohawk, and you work in a bank, to my way of thinking that might just be worth pondering!

See you next time, dear reader, and thanks for stopping by! (By the way, who did win that Super Bowl???)

When The Moo Goo Gai Pan Hit The Fan!

I’m reading Raymond Chandler’s The High Window (copyright 1942), just to enjoy the rhythm of his words and the wonderfully vivid descriptions he packs in each page. I’ve read all his books many, many times but I pick them up now and then just for the hell of it. Or, as I said, for the rhythm of it. I particularly enjoy his tough-guy talk, so rat-a-tat-tat-ly on point (emulated hilariously, by the way, in Woody Allen’s short story, The Whore of Mensa), and what strikes me most when reading these books is how the times have changed as to what you could say back then. And get away with. Like this little gem on page 46, or lump of coal to be sure on the PC Scale…

In describing a man across his desk, “He had a sort of musty smell, like a fairly clean Chinaman.”

Now I have to admit when I read that line I actually did a spit take, while the voice inside my head said “Shame on you!” But I couldn’t help it, for crying out loud, it was funny. Just as I would’ve laughed out loud if the line had been delivered to describe an Irishman. Or a Frenchman. And then I got to thinking about just why the word “Chinaman” no longer flies. Which I’m sure you’re aware of. Where you can’t say the word Chinaman these days in describing a man from China, but it’s okay to say either Frenchman or maybe Irishman. (Someone enlighten me!)

Anyway, all of this leads to a story of mine which I’d tucked away in my mental archives never to appear in print, simply because the word “Chinaman” appears in the telling, so as not to offend anyone. Well, not intending to offend anyone but simply to relate what to me was an hilarious phone call, I’ve decided this morning to go to my “archives”, shake off the dust and paranoia, and tell that story exactly the way it happened. And I hope you see the humor in it.

This happened back in the 90′s, and all because we bartenders tend to over tip.

I had recently done some apartment-sitting for this friend of mine named Jim, who called me after he’d returned from his trip and I was cozily re-ensconced in my Kleenex box of a studio over in Tudor City. Here’s that phone call.

“Hello?” I said, in that cryptic way I have of answering the telephone.

“Yo, man, it’s Jim.”

“Hey, Jimbo, what’s up?” There was an ominous tone in his voice which I couldn’t put my finger on. Had I spilled bourbon on his new beige couch on one of my nights of debauchery during his absence? Had I failed to hit the bowl a few times creating some bathroom tile no longer pristine? Had he noticed that all his aforementioned bourbon was gone? What had I done???

Mercifully halting my inventory, Jim cut directly to the chase. “You order Chinese when I was away?”

“Uh, let’s see… yeah, as a matter of fact I did.”

“The guy downstairs?”

“Yeah, where else? Their stuff is great.”

“You tip him?’

“Of course I tipped him. I’m a bartender, for Chrissakes!”

“How much?” he asked, plowing straight ahead like Sergeant Friday.

“Five dollars,” I replied. Which is when the Moo Goo Gai Pan hit the fan.

What??? he shrieked, perilously close to a Maria Callas high C.

“I tipped him five dollars.”

“I knew it,” he screamed, “I fucking knew it! You tipped him five fucking dollars for getting on an elevator and riding six floors? Are you fucking cray-zeee?”

“Well what do you care? It’s my money,” I said.

“I care because I just gave him two dollars and he looked at me like I pissed on his fucking shoe. You fucked up my Chinaman! Before you ever ordered from here he was happy with a two dollar tip, in fact he actually bowed when I gave him the deuce. Now, motherfucker, if I don’t give him a five next time he’ll spit on my fucking food on the way up the elevator. If he has the time to spit on my food on just an eight second ride which is all it takes. Jesus H. Christ, I can’t believe you did this. You fucked up my Chinaman! For life!!! Now I can never…

At this point I pulled the phone from my ear as his stricken cacophony of sheer lament took on that high pitch wail you hear when Arab women wag their tongues and ululate into the desert to express their grief. And then, a full sixty seconds later when I sensed a pause in his rant (evidenced at first by my drapes which had ceased their wafting), I said, “There’s a Thai place opening up on East 53d Street.” What else could I say?

Yes, Jim would’ve fit quite nicely into Raymond Chandler’s world, “musty” in thought like a “fairly offensive” American!

See you next time, dear reader, and sorry for all the blue language which couldn’t be avoided. Those were his words. In fact without those words this could’ve been a “Seinfeld” subplot.

Cheers!

‘Tis The Season…

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate, Happy Holidays to those who don’t and may all of you have a wonderful holiday season. It’s finally gotten cold in New York (enough already with the rain!) and my block is lined Christmas trees still for sale. Damn, I love this time of year!

Talk soon,

The Scribbler

So That’s Where The Word Comes From…

Hey! Anyone out there know how to make an Old Fashioned? Or a Side Car? Or a Stinger for crying out loud or even a Marty? Because it’s been so long since I’ve made a drink or even written about it here on this web site, I fear I’ve lost my skills, or worse, my way. (And you guys in the process!) But such is the terrible price one pays for not keeping up with his blog, and for being a man of leisure lo these many months. So before I fall even further behind and forget just who I am and why I do this, I’ve decided to climb back on the horse and put on my bartender’s apron (figuratively, of course), and ride to the dusty days of Barland past.

To the days of my childhood…

One could say your friendly bartender is “to the manor born”, if a boarding house/saloon in Pittsburgh can be called a manor. (I know, I know, it’s a stretch but let’s just go with it!) And the manor of which I speak, dear reader, run by my grandmother Milligan, was a joint aptly called The Column House because across the street sat a factory whose output was columns. You know, porch columns, pillars, posts of all sizes, even bannister newels which were turned on a lathe. I actually spent two summers of my youth working in that God awful place (for a dollar fifteen an hour, I might add!) while the children of a not lesser God spent their summers swimming. Or golfing. Or whatever the hell kids did that didn’t have to work. But it gave me a good education this job, a look at a slice of life I wouldn’t want to live. “Stay in school,” it screamed, “you don’t want to do this!”

The Column House featured thirteen rooms that made up the boarding house portion… twelve rooms up and one room down (the infamous #13 which was where I slept when I spent my summers there)… and each room to be sure was home to a character. There were drifters aboard and losers of all stripes, winners who had recently lost, guys I’m sure who were on the lam and guys whose wives had tossed them out for the night. There were also pensioners on fixed incomes who simply needed a room and a good hot meal. And Grandma Milligan, bless her soul, provided that. Everyone called her “Mom” in the place and each of those guys in her keep she treated like sons. She was up at six to cook their breakfast, she then launched into the lunches, and after her one hour nap at three she was up again to prepare their nightly feast. Then dinners wound down around eight or so after which she took another nap, then at ten she was up and running the bar til closing time. Don’t ask me how she did it, I can’t believe it as I type this, but this was the woman’s schedule six days a week. Her last name might’ve been Milligan which she acquired from my Grandfather Paul, but her German heritage I’m sure provided this work ethic. The woman was a machine! A machine with a heart as big as the sky above us.

Now since the “Blue Laws” were still in effect back then which meant you couldn’t serve liquor at all on Sundays, Gram ran an unofficial speakeasy there on Sundays. A side door leading to an alley next to the window to #13, provided access to those who knew we were open. They just rang the buzzer two or three times and if we knew who they were, by God, they were drinking on Sunday. I sometimes served as the let-’em-in-guy even though just a kid cause I knew all the players. “Make sure you know who they are,” Gram would shout, whenever I leapt to the door to act like a grown-up.

Well one day, a guy stopped by whom we’d known for years though he rarely frequented our bar, a big shot (and half a gangster I think) from the Teamsters Union. His name was (let’s call him) Armand and he looked like something right out of Godfather II… the “Michael” era. Heavily shoulder-padded camel overcoat, serious wide brimmed hat, shoes you could see your reflection in and a diamond pinky that dazzled if not distracted. No one looked or dressed like that who came to my grandmother’s bar, so it always was something special whenever he came. And I of course felt special letting him in.

“Hey, Kid,” he said with a wink, shaking my hand which was now a crisp dollar richer. Then he walked through the dining room, through the kitchen and made his way to the bar to join all our regulars. But when he walked up to my grandmother who was tending bar as per usual on Sunday afternoons, he filled her in to the following in a rather grave tone. “Mom, a guy is going to join me here in maybe a half hour, a friend of mine from Detroit who’s a pretty big deal. So make sure he gets in the door and we make him feel welcome, okay?”

“Why of course,” said my Gram, “any friend of yours is a friend of ours, Armand.”

“Good. But there’s one little thing,” he added leaning in closer. “You really gotta shout at him because he lost his hearing in the war and is hard of hearing.”

“Geez, poor guy,” said my Gram, displaying genuine sympathy, “I’ll be sure to speak up loud so he can hear me.” Then she made Armand’s drink.

Then a half hour later and right on cue his friend showed up at the door and gained entry. But after he made his way to the bar and was introduced to my grandmother, all hell soon broke loose (at least audibly).

“How nice to meet you,” the man shouted, “Armand’s told me so much about you, Mom.”

“Well thank you,” shouted my grandma, in an even louder voice, “as… I… was… just… saying… to… Armand… when… he… told… me… you… were… coming, any… friend… of… his… is… a… friend… of… mine. So… what… can… I… get… you?”

“I’ll… have… a… Seagram’s… and… ginger,” the man shouted back.

“And… a … Seagram’s… and… ginger… it… is,” shouted my grandma.

Well now there’s a knock on the front door and my grandmother fears that it might be a cop passing by. The knock was that loud.

“Shhhhhh,” hushed my grandma, waving her arms at the rest of the bar as she walked up to the window and pulled back the curtain. Then she dropped her head and let out a sigh indicating the coast was clear, as it was only a couple of strangers who’d heard all the shouting. They must’ve thought a party was afoot and wanted to join that party on a dry Sunday. But when my Grandmother walked back behind the bar to rejoin Armand and his friend, Armand was doubled over in a heap of laughter.

“What’s the matter?” said my grandmother.

“I have a confession to make is what’s the matter,” he said. “To both of you. See, Mom, before I got here I told my friend that you were hard of hearing… just like I told you, Mom, that he was hard of hearing. Well neither of you are hard of hearing I just wanted see the two of you shout at each other. And it worked like a charm!” Then he laughed even harder.

“Why you little pup, you,” my grandmother said, her favorite name for someone who had gotten her dander up. She also joined in the laughter after that with a face that was clearly redder than all the rest. “But if I had gotten a citation,” she added, once she caught her breath, “I guarantee you you would’ve paid it, Armand.”

To which Armand replied flexing his “I got connections” muscles, “If you had gotten a citation, Mom, no on would’ve paid it. Capeesh?” Then he bought a round for the bar and all was well

So not too long after that when someone said my grandmother ran a speakeasy, a light bulb went off in my head which I thought was brilliant. Oh… so that’s where the word comes from, I thought, “speakeasy” means “speak easy” so the cops who are walking their beat don’t hear you inside. (I know, “duh”, right??!!!) Geez, how clever! I kept on thinking that day.

And just to add some irony to the fire, who knew I’d end up working in a (famous speakeasy)?

See you next time, dear reader, thanks for stopping by!

Here Today, Gone Tomorrow…

Had a terrible shock on the way to the market yesterday afternoon, but before that shock came crashing down my patience was put to the test and not in a good way. A large crowd had formed on the corner completely blocking the sidewalk, so much so that I actually couldn’t get by. And just before my darker side made plans to rear its dim head… the side where I tell these people to “Make some room here!!!”… I noticed a little dog that wasn’t with its owner. Where’s Joey? I thought… the homeless guy I’ve known for years who always claims this spot along with this dog. Then I saw the flowers and candles on the ground and the written tributes that were taped to the wall of a building, and realized that Joey had died and was no more. And all I could think at that point was (along with an obvious sadness), I just saw him a few days ago and nothing seemed any worse for wear with his health. But when I questioned the crowd around me, the size of which was testimony to just how much this man had touched this neighborhood’s psyche, the consensus seemed to be, “He just died!” He just died? Jesus! Talk about “here today and gone tomorrow”! Fortunately a woman had the dog on a leash promising that she would take care of it, but I’m sure that dog was just as shocked as I was. And as sad.

So as a tribute to my late friend, I thought I’d link (this former post) that best describes the character of little Joey. In fact, Big Joey I should say given that “character”.

Rest in peace, my friend, til we meet again!

The Scribbler