After winning his first Academy Award for his role in Kramer vs. Kramer, while making the point in his acceptance speech about how he didn’t really “beat” his fellow nominees, that you really can’t judge such a thing (which in theory I agree with), he finished by saying he’s sharing the award with all those struggling artists out there and those actors driving cabs working on their accents. Noble, right? But then why did he act like this to an out of work actor…

Back when I first started in this business (I think I’ve mentioned this before), I worked as a waiter at P.J. Clarke’s, the legendary bar still thriving on 55th and 3rd. And back in those days there were many celebrities, Mr. Hoffman sometimes among them, who found it a place to drop by for burgers and drinks. In fact, if they weren’t at the famous Elaine’s on a night, P.J. Clarke’s was the spot to do all your star gazing. Anyway, one night Dustin came into the place (or “Dusty as “Cruise” referred to his co-star in every post “Rain Man” interview), with a group of five and took up a table in the back. A guy named Paul, an actor, served as their waiter.

“Can I get you folks a drink?” asked Paul, approaching the table of six, and each person, one by one, politely ordered. Until “Dusty”. When it came his turn to order from the waiter (this out of work actor/waiter) he instead leaned into his lady and said, “Tell him I’ll have a Michelob beer on draft.” (Amazing, right?) And yet damned if he didn’t repeat the procedure with food.

For again after each had placed his order, “The Graduate” (acting like an undergraduate somewhere in the fourth fucking grade) leaned in again to his lady and said, “Tell him I’ll have a cheeseburger rare and an order of well done home fries on the side.” But before his lady could pass this along (and this I really enjoyed), the actor/waiter interrupted with, “Tell him I heard him!” To a stunned Dustin Hoffman. And “working on one of his accents” as he walked away from the table, he muttered in his best Brooklyn-ese, “Fu-u-a-w-w-w-k him!!! To which I thought, “Bravo!”

Now I understand that celebrities have a right to enjoy their privacy, especially when out in a restaurant relaxing with friends, but waiters are often the ones who ensure that privacy… they’re the buffer… so why in the fuck couldn’t he speak directly to this waiter? Was it guilt because he’d made it and this guy hadn’t? Assuming this good-looking waiter was of his fraternity. Was it insecurity on some other level that only his shrink could define? Or merely a case of utter, systemic ass-hole-ery? I choose to think the latter because I once waited on him.

He sat in my section one day at Clarke’s along with a boy of about ten (I don’t think he had a son at the time so maybe this was his nephew), and before I could even open my mouth to begin my waiterly ritual, Mr. Hoffman picked up the bowl of sugar cubes, turned it upside down and began playing Lego. While I with my pad just stood there for a good two minutes. Unacknowledged. Even after I’d said, “Would you guys like a drink first?” I mean, c’mon, man, what’s the deal? Is your head that far up your ass you can’t even hear me? Or are you setting some ground rules? But either way when he did speak, lest they both go hungry, he annoyingly did it through the boy without looking up at me. Leaning into the kid’s ear he said, “We want a couple of cheeseburgers, pal, don’t we? And some cokes, right?” Maybe looking up just once to acknowledge my presence. The whole experience was a study in “You’re not me.”

Yet compare that act to Martin Sheen’s whom I waited on a few days later. Before I could even open my mouth to ask what he wanted to drink, he half stood up, extended his hand and said, “What’s your name, young man, my name is Marty.” And even though that’s the other extreme, a gesture you never see, dammit it goes to show ya’ who are the good guys. And who are the guys who take themselves way too seriously.

There are other stories of Mr. Hoffman’s rudeness, many of which are well known, so I won’t list them here ’cause this ain’t my terrain. That of gossip columnist. In fact, this is probably the first time I’ve written such a post about celebrities. Celebs, I believe, deserve anonymity which is something I’ll always give them (even when occasionally out of line), because they, like everyone else, have a right to unwind. Like in the old days, when stars like Mitchum and Bogart were around throwing cocktails back by the bucketful, with no one hearing the details ’cause it wasn’t their business. In short, I’m not a “pour and tell” and never will be.

But watching this “man of the people” last Sunday, this champion of out of work actors, delivering his smirk and remark before he presented, brought back all of his crap and I just had to write about it. What can I tell ya’? Drunk and disorderly is one thing when it comes to a difficult customer, sober and calculated rudeness is a whole ‘nother story. And that’s his story.

I just hope he comes into my bar one day along with his lovely wife, and asks if I have a Cotes Du Rhone by the glass. I’ll just smile at his wife and say, “Tell him I have it!”

See you next week-end, dear reader, and let me say directly to your face, “Have a good one.”

She was attractive enough all right, as some might say a real “head turner”, but more in the vein of what you might see on a “Real Housewives” show. Perfectly coiffed and expensively clad, awash in a sea of self-centeredness, she was a perfect candidate to head up one of those “me-fests”. Even the way she ordered her drink fit the profile…

“And what can I get you, miss?” I asked, after the three who were with her had already been served.

“Hmmm, I don’t know,” she purred, putting her index finger in her mouth while scanning the bottles behind me like a Tiffany’s display case. “But I want something g-o-o-o-o-d, I do know that. Something r-e-e-e-e-l-y good! So what can you suggest for me that’s good?” (My least favorite question!)

“Well what kinds of drinks do you like?” I asked. “That’s a hard question to answer. Do you like sweet drinks, a nice cognac, or how about something mixed like a Cosmopolitan? (She definitely looked like Cosmo material to me.) Give me a hint so maybe we can narrow this down.”

She smiled sourly at my question, her eyes taking on that Miss America glaze when the contestant is asked, “How would you change the world?” Two blank pellets. But the Miss America sweetness did not accompany.

“Well I’ll give you a minute to decide,” I said, “first let me go to the other end so I can…”

“Don’t go,” she interrupted. “I haven’t given you my order, tell me what you have!” (She didn’t stomp her foot but she might as well have.)

“What do I have?” I replied. “You’re lookin’ at it, miss… about a hundred and fifty bottles for your drinking pleasure. So please, just tell me the kinds of drinks you like and let’s try to figure this out.” She was obviously used to being pampered, I could tell when she walked in the door, and I for one was not about to stroke her fur. Patience, as many will tell you, is not of my strong suits. And especially with someone I know is playing the princess.

“What are those bottles behind you?” she asked, pointing to what I was blocking.

“Those are scotches,” I said, hopefully rounding third base. “So how about I pour you a Johnny Walker Black, that’s good.”

“Do you have Double Black?’

“No, sorry, we don’t.”

“Oh, too bad,” she said, “see that I would like.” (I’m sure you would, lady, “double” anything would suit your expensive tastes!)

Then I stood there, and she stood there, for at least a full three minutes, each of us shifting from foot to foot as if in some strange kind of dance, with her still leading that dance and doing it badly.

“Then how about something like this?” I offered, cutting into our dance, pointing to another line-up further down the bar. “How about I pour you a nice single malt scotch?”

“Do you have double malt?” she said, almost before I finished. (What the hell is with you and all this “double” stuff? And do they even make double malt? Double your pleasure, double your fun… please, dear lord, gimme’ a double barreled shotgun… to use on my-self!)

Now it should be pointed out here that the bar was busy as hell, I could see peripherally a few raised hands from people not ordering “double Cabernet’s” and “double Heineken’s”, so I decided to bring this song and dance to a halt. I went over and grabbed the most expensive we have, a bottle of Macallan 18, I poured it into a snifter and set it in front of her. I figured “expensive” is what she wanted more than what was “good”. And thank God I was right. For after asking for the obligatory glass of water, she sipped the scotch, smiled and said, “Mmmm, I like this.“

“Good,” I said, “’cause you’re drinking the best we got.” And that was that. Then a few minutes later (and only a few minutes later), after catching up with my regulars who’d been dying of thirst, I looked down the bar and Double-Your-Pleasure was gone. Just like that! Which means she’d spent more time ordering her drink than drinking it. Which was fine as hell with me because I had a life to lead.

Now cut to two hours later to another bar…

I stopped by this place for a wind-down drink, something I do every Friday, the bartender there is a friend and one of the best… he can talk about anything. And he’s also always in a sunny disposition which makes you feel like your welcome the moment you walk in. Even someone like the woman I had just encountered. And how do I know this? Because damned if she wasn’t sitting at the end of the bar. This time by herself. And if this is where she had been all this time since she left my place in a flash, the first thought that came to my mind when I saw her was instead of a tip should I offer my friend a cyanide pill? Or a tall glass of hemlock!

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I said, to my friend whom I’ll call Marty, “I had her in my place earlier tonight and I wanted to make a goddam citizen’s arrest. The woman drove me nuts.”

“I know,” he said, “I heard.” (Word travels fast in Barland!)

“And I only had her for fifteen minutes, you mean to tell me you’ve had her here all this time?”

Marty just smiled, nodded his head, ever the professional. “And what can I get you?” he asked, not breaking his grin.

“Ketel and soda,” I said, “and get yourself a Purple Heart while you’re at it.”

Then he poured my drink and walked back down to Miss Double-Your-Pleasure. They chatted for a few more minutes, Marty served up his advice and his patience, then walked back over to the register and wrote up her bill.

Now remember that grin I said Marty gave me at the beginning? That one when I asked if he’d had her here all this time? Well widen that grin times three and add a big chortle. Why? Because Double-Your-Pleasure had just quadrupled her bill. That’s right. Her tab totaled fifty three dollars, she rounded it off to two hundred, which means she left him a tip of one forty seven. Not bad, eh? But the way I figure it Marty earned every damn penny of it. And as far as her being generous, I never saw it coming.

“So, Marty,” I said to my friend before the woman left. “When you get a chance… would you mind introducing me to that lovely lady sitting at the end of the bar? She seems very nice.”

See you next week-end, dear reader, and remember… patience is not just a virtue it might be an investment!

See ya’ next week-end,

Scribbler

Now before I begin with this week’s post, a re-post actually (with one or two edits) of something I wrote a few years ago, I thought I’d give you some background material with this one. A little history lesson to hopefully give it more meaning.

You’ve heard me speak in the past about the legend that is our bar and how the building itself goes back to the mid 1800′s, well long before it was stocked with bottles and the hushed word spread through the city that we were a speakeasy, this brownstone served as a residence for three different owners. And one such owner who called it home along with his socialite wife, Laura Williams, both of whom owned additional residences in Newport and Paris (though they definitely preferred their New York address at Christmas time), was an ex-major in the Civil War who shared the same given name as his famous grandfather. Who was Clement C. Moore. That’s right… THE Clement C. Moore who wrote “A Visit from St. Nicholas”, which is known more readily to most as “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas”. Pretty cool, huh? And as irony and history would have it, he wrote that poem for his grandchildren, one of whom was this guy… our former landlord!

So with that in mind and the meter of that poem, I offer this most humble spin-off straight out of Barland…

‘Twas the Day After Christmas…

‘Twas the day after Christmas and all through the pub

Not a creature was stirring and there lay the rub.

The glasses were cleaned, all the fruit cut and peeled,

With hopes that a customer soon would need healed.

But history says they’re all snug in their beds

While visions of invoices dance in their heads.

“To go to a bar,” they might sadly lament,

“Is just what we need but we’re too overspent.”

So I in my apron and waiter with tray

Had just settled down for a long tip-less day.

When out on the street there arose such a clatter

I sprang from my post to see what was the matter.

There to the window I flew like a flash,

Threw back the shutters and pulled up the sash.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear…

Santa Claus seeking both solace and cheer.

But gestures were clumsy, not lively and quick,

I knew in a moment this can’t be St. Nick.

For here was a man who was still on a tear,

A department store Santa in nobody’s care.

I ushered him in, nonetheless, I dare say,

For under that costume a broken heart lay.

Yes here was man who had spent all his “cheer”,

To whom was left nothing but whiskey and beer.

A bartender knows this… the lonely man’s gaze,

It’s something he’s seen over too many days.

And drinking to hide it at this time of year

Does nothing but heighten the trace of a tear.

“So how about coffee?” I ventured with hope,

As he slid on the stool fairly struggling to cope.

“It’s not what I want I must tell you, alas,

But that’s what I need ’cause I’m drunk on my ass.”

Then coffee was served and a cup after that

As he told me his story right there as he sat.

For his was like many it’s too sad to say…

The orphan on Christmas and then the next day.

The story’s as old as the Yuletide itself,

Poor souls discarded and placed on a shelf.

Where these should be days where we reach for each other,

Claiming to all we are sister and brother,

We toss to the wind these most noble of notions,

Reaping instead needless stress and emotions.

But that’s what it is and that’s what we’ve wrought,

Now that our Christmas is paid for and bought.

So then when the coffee had managed its trick

I threw in some breakfast for ersatz St. Nick.

Grateful, he thanked me with words quick and clear,

For gone was that cloud and all signs of a tear.

And then with a wink and a nod of his head

He soon let me know I had nothing to dread.

He sprang to his feet, to a cab did give whistle,

Away he then flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim as he rode out of sight,

“I really was Santa at least for a night!”

See you next week-end, dear reader, have yourself a good one!

How odd this tableaux might seem to some if they saw and heard these proceedings… revelers holding their cocktails aloft (“the devils brew” they might say), crooning, “Hark, the herald angels singing,” or a Christ child born in a manger one “Silent Night”… but that’s what the chorus is singing and all seems right. As it should be. And when Bing Crosby’s classic “White Christmas” tees up or “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”, conjuring images of Bob Hope’s audience of soldiers singing along on one of his road shows, the mood can move you to tears with its heart-tugging melancholy.

Is this a saloon or is it a church? I think, as I watch these moments unfold, then, “Bartender, I’ll have another!” soon snaps me back. But I love every minute of it.

Now before you reach for the phone, dear reader, to schedule a dental appointment due to all this sweetness I’m pouring, let me now toss some sours mix into this cocktail. Because fate just threw me a great big lemon of a customer.

This guy stopped into the bar the other night, a guy I’ve seen around Barland for years who aside from the lofty opinion he holds of who and what he is, is really not a bad guy and has never been trouble. At least not with me. So he ordered a Bacardi and coke, gave me a goofy smile, then turned to face the piano to do a little sing-along. That is, he tried to. Because somehow the words he was mouthing didn’t match the lyrics. But, hey, that’s okay, I thought, celebrities blow the national anthem every other game. No, observing this customer’s progress from there it wasn’t this lyrical brain freeze that tweaked my antennae, it was the swaying I started to notice that didn’t match up. For you don’t slowly move from side to side in a tick-tock, metronomic arc, when the song you’re swaying along to is jaunty “Jingle Bells”. Or “It’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride to gether with you“. Something’s not right there.

But fortunately after his second drink he seemed to realize this fact, as he scribbled his hand through the air meaning, “I’ll take my check.” Which I gave him. And as I watched him fill out his credit card dupe that took him at least ten minutes (no exaggeration), squinting and swaying and trying to add with more intense deliberation than a kid taking finals (God knows how many drinks he had had before he got there), I said to myself, Thank God he’s calling it a night! He’s saving me the task of cutting him off, never an easy endeavor, and heading off maybe any danger to himself in the bargain. Nice end to story.

Ah, but ten minutes later (you think this is easy?) he called me down and ordered another Bacardi. Like nothing ever happened.

“I can’t serve you any more, David, I think you’ve had enough,” I said holding firm.

“What?” he barked incredulously. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“I’m not kidding at all, you’ve got to trust me on this.”

Then he summoned the maitre’d to his side, someone he knows quite well, and started to plead his case as if that would matter. Which it wouldn’t. It’s my call and mine alone and the maitre’d knows this.

So when I shared that call with my human metronome, my palm tree swaying in the breeze, he did what “cut-offs” sometimes do, he got indignant. “Then give me my goddam check,” he shouted, both knuckles down on the bar in Orangutan threat mode. To which I smiled. ‘Cause he’d already paid his check so I knew I had him.

“David,” I began politely, “you’ve already paid your check and that proves my my point. Because you don’t remember doing it. And it took you at least ten minutes to fill out your receipt.”

“Bullshit!” he shouted. “Let me see that receipt!” So I pulled his check from the stack and showed him the proof. And if he had been sober at all when he stared at the slip, a condition he stoutly claimed, his scrawl alone would’ve told him that wasn’t the case. It looked hieroglyphic. But that wasn’t the point, the fact that he’d paid this bill was my smoking gun. So with nothing left to pursue in his case, save for further humiliation, he turned, tripped over his feet and stumbled out the door. Real end of story!

But I don’t tell this tale to dance on his grave or to show how I won this encounter, I tell this story as a cautionary tale for you. Meaning… ’tis the season to party, dear reader, to eat, drink (more) and be merry, and that’s the reason to make sure you do it with caution. Even more so! And if your friendly bartender, whoever he is (or she is, if that’s the case), tells you you’ve had enough please go along with it. It’s for your own good. For we don’t do this stuff to embarrass or scold we do this stuff to save you, from yourself, so switch to a hot cup of coffee and you’ll thank us in the morning. Because you’ll be there in the morning!

With that I’ll see you next week-end and “cheers” through the week!

They are anger… frustration…more anger… uncertainty… and even a dollop of sadness if truth be known.

Why? Because the landlord who owns the building where I ply my merry trade, is trying to end the run of our legendary bar. That’s why. With callous and utter disregard for what he is ending. For we’re not just any old bar on the corner with bottles and a couple of stools, or one of a thousand chef-of-the-month, haute cuisine-eries dotting the culinary landscape, we’re a legend… a one-of-a-kind, never-to-be-seen-again New York fucking institution about to go south.

Going all the way back to the Roaring Twenties when we first kicked up our heels, when we first pried open our illegal door if you happened to know the password in order to enter, we stand as one of the last authentic speakeasies. With everything in place. (Albeit now on one leg if this bum has his way.) There is more history and more New York lore embedded in one single inch of our well-worn bar surface, or in our ornate back bar, than half of the bars in Manhattan I dare say combined. Our halls fairly sing of what used to be (along with a few friendly ghosts), and the walls bear that out by the photographs pinned to their chests. Still proudly. In fact, to put it into true prospective and at the risk of sounding dramatic, we’re a museum much more than a bar which sadly has fallen into the hands of a heartless curator. (And how apt this happens at Christmas time (eh?) for the name Henry F. Potter sure comes to mind!)

Now am I hopeful? Yes I am. The power of positive thought can go along way. And there are legal avenues not yet explored which will give us a standing eight count, to extend the fight for maybe a tenth round knockout. We’ll see.

But I’m also in many ways a realist. I’m someone who knows quite well these ropes having seen this fight before, where some guy comes in and buys a building, to him just concrete and wood, and with a concrete soul and a wooden heart he makes some kind of a move to fatten his wallet. Regardless of who’s being hurt or what’s being lost.

So with regrets (to say the least), this is the reason I’ve been remiss and why I haven’t been “pouring” these past two weeks, I’ve been pissed! This landlord stuff has thrown a pall over everything. But also let me say in that very same breath (lest this sounds like a pity party), this isn’t about me personally here and the fact that I might lose my job (well, maybe a just little), it’s about the fact that this city is losing a legend. Yet another one! And that to me is the real god damn crime in this drama. For your friendly bartender can always find a place to do what the hell he does… tilt some bottles and chat up an eager customer… but Barland will never, ever find another “our bar”. And that’s just a fact.

That said, I realize this wasn’t an enjoyable pour or what you’ve come here to drink, but I thought I’d put this out there for one simple reason. And that’s this. If there is indeed any power to this thing called “positive thought”, maybe you could send a little our way. Whaddaya’ say? For as Jackie Mason (now a regular) would say, “It couldn’t hoit!”

See you next week-end, dear reader, with something (I promise) a little more like what you’re used to. Because even in the worst case scenario here (bite your tongue there, Scribbler!!!), we’re going to be around for at least a few months.

Here’s to you and yours for a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday, cheers {Clink!} and I’ll see you next week-end.

Your Friendly Bartender

The guy in question was very well dressed, standing next to an empty stool over which his jacket was draped and where his brief case sat. Like a person. So when a new customer walked in the place, a friend of mine in from Florida, I approached this guy and asked if he wouldn’t mind consolidating. Meaning… either sit in the chair or give it up so I can fit one more person along the bar. There were no other spaces

“Ohhhhhhh, I see,” he said, after my reasonable request, with enough acidic tone to etch a piece of metal. “You want me to give up my chair so your friend here can have a seat, is that what you’re asking?”

“No,” I replied politely (amazingly politely), “just trying to make a little room here, my friend, that’s all. And you and your empty chair are taking two spaces.”

“Oh, is that what me and my chair are doing?” he continued. (Remarkable, right?)

“Sir, please!” I said, “unless you’re holding that chair for someone how about giving up the space, do you mind?” And so he slid the chair over to where he stood and took a seat. But not without a menacing glare, a glare I would see later on with much more intensity.

As the evening progressed from there, while engaged in a “serious” business conversation with an associate who was only drinking Coke, this clown began to switch up his drinks all over the place. Like a kid in a pastry shop. (And believe me this “kid” was every bit of forty years old.) For having seen on his tab that he’d already had two Ketel’s and soda, when I asked if he wanted a refill he moved to Jameson. On the rocks. Then after two of those he switched to a martini. Of which he had three. I repeat three! But the bastard wasn’t getting drunk so I couldn’t really say anything.

Until finally, deciding to wind things down after his friend had long since gone, he ordered a bottle of Stella and called for his check. Now remember that menacing glare I mentioned earlier? Well here it flared up again as if shot from a laser gun. Because when I placed his check in front of him, he repeated that look and shouted, “Where’s my credit card?”

“What credit card?” I asked. “You gave us no credit card.”

“Ex-c-u-u-u-u-u-u-s-e me,” he said, “there better be a card back there or you’re in big trouble. That was a black, a black American Express card. Do you know what that means? Do you know what a big fucking deal a black American Express card is?” Then he slammed his employee ID card on the bar with his picture on it. “That’s my Morgan Stanley card, I work for Morgan Stanley,” he roared with pride.

Now if there’s one employee ID card out there that’s likely to summon less immediate respect from yours truly, or carry less moral weight, it’s one that says I’m a stock broker down on Wall Street. And take that how you will. And this guy was showing this not just as a badge of honor but a means of intimidation. Like “little old drink maker me” should be shaking in his boots.

But of course I wasn’t. And excuse me here for the language to follow but this is really what happened as I was really pissed!

“First off,” I began, “you better change your  fucking tone or we’re really going to have a fucking problem, do you know what that means?”

“What tone?” he muttered, slightly taken aback.

“This accusatory tone like we did something wrong here. Like we stole your credit card. This is a respectable place, pal, we don’t do shit like that so calm the fuck down. Now let me go check again just to make sure.” So I walked over to the register where I keep all the cards to the side and no card was there. Which I then told him.

“Okay,” he said, running a diversion. “So how much is the bill? Not that I care of course, I just want to know.”

“It’s right there in front of you, it’s eighty one dollars.”

“Eighty one dollars? That’s nothing (then why the fuck did you ask?), what’s important now is I gotta find my credit card!”

“Well look through your wallet again and check,” I said. Which he did. To no avail. Then he placed his sacred ID card back in that wallet. (My first mistake.)

“Look, this is fucking serious, man,” he started to ramp up again, “I’m from Morgan Stanley and that’s a black credit card.” Then he stared that menacing glare again for emphasis. And intimidation.

“Were you anywhere else before you came here?” I asked. Totally ignoring his horseshit set of laser beams.

“Of course not,” he replied, with a look of “As if!”. “Hey, man,” he continued, “I gotta cancel that card because someone’s running around Manhattan right now with a black card!” (And now here comes my second mistake and my worst.)

He pulled out his cell phone, ran to the lobby for better reception and the moment I looked away the bastard was gone. Fucking Vamoose-o!!! And all I could think was, “Wall Street Strikes again!” With arrogance. With deception. With that same horrible sense of entitlement that’s roused those tens of thousands to picket their buildings.

And looking back now, as hindsight is always 20-20, of course I should’ve kept his ID card when he slammed it on the bar like a police badge, and of course I never should’ve let this guy hit the lobby, but who knew? Certainly not me. I’m just another dumb schmuck from the 99%!

But I will say this to the firm of Morgan Stanley… you who might not be seen in the best light anyway… you happen to have an asshole in your employ who not only has a drinking problem he’s a thief! A big thief. And that’s a 100% fact, not 99.

See you next week-end, dear reader, and don’t take any wooden nickels in the meantime like me.

“It’s really a great apartment but do I really want to piss away all that rent money? Shouldn’t I buy?”

“I’d definitely take a big hit in salary but this is a chance to get in on the ground floor. Isn’t it time to jump ship?”

All important questions, right? Serious questions freighted with import like many your friendly bartender has heard over the years. And will again. Ahh, but none to him carries more heady weight or serious drama in the outcome, than this exchange he’s apt to hear on a night.

“I don’t know, man, it’s up to you.”

“No, no, this is your call. You’re the one with the  curfew.”

“Hmmmmm… I don’t know… {long, long pause}… all right, how about this? How about one… more… drink. One and done! Then I gotta get home or my wife’s gonna’ have my ass. Sound good?”

Okay, okay, maybe I’ve overdone it. Maybe that doesn’t quite  measure up to the posers I stated earlier, the outcomes of which could really impact someone’s life. But believe me you’d never know it if you witnessed the depth of the furrow in curfew guy’s brow. From sheer deliberation. Why you’d think this man was the prisoner in “The Lady or the Tiger”. Which borders on the comical!

But just last week I had a similar situation with two suits talking it over, and overheard something I never thought I’d hear in my lifetime. Let alone in a bar!

Guy#1: “So whaddaya’ think? Should we have a final-final or wrap this thing up? I’m happy to have another but if I don’t get home pretty soon my wife’s gonna’ kill me.”

“Guy#2: “It’s up to you. Me I am fine with the time, the time is not important.”

Guy#1: “What… your wife doesn’t care?”

Guy#2: Of course my wife cares, in fact she rules me.”

Guy#1: “Meaning?”

Guy#2: “Meaning… (here he breaks into a smile)… she rules me with two simple things, patience and kindness.”

(It should be pointed out here that Guy #2 is from India, Guy#1 isn’t.)

Guy#1: “So what the hell does that mean, how does that work?”

Guy#2: “It means she is very aware that what I do can demand that I meet for a drink which might make me late, and that’s where her patience comes in. And because she displays that patience with such a sweet kindness, it makes me want to never abuse that privilege. It’s a very simple formula.” (Damn, I thought when I heard that, someone gimme’ a yoga mat to break my fall. This is sheer poetry!)

Guy#1: “Well, that may work for you, my friend, but my wife doesn’t have the patience part down so the kindness part doesn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell!”

Guy#2: “Then as I said, it’s your call.”

And the call was… they had that final-final, then each scurried off to his personal heaven or hell.

But wasn’t that something? The almost zen-like nature of that arrangement? Of those words? But then I really shouldn’t be surprised if I stop and think about it. For even though we shouldn’t make sweeping generalities in this “politically correct” society we’ve come to embrace (which I think is bullshit!), I can personally attest from personal experience, both inside the bar and out, that the people I’ve met who come from India almost without exception have been some of the sweetest, the most polite I’ve yet come across. And that’s just a fact. Like the Irish can spin a great yarn and most Italians emote more passion than fifteen of me. Which I think is great. I mean who wants to switch to homogenized milk when the world “could’a had a V-8″ to soak up this life? Not me. And that said, why not that very same sweetness I mentioned alive and well and thriving in that Indian household? No surprise here!

And why not the same for Guy#1 you might ask? Well perhaps he abuses that late night privilege which kills any patience in his wife, ergo any slight chance of a kindness to follow. No surprise there!

And so it goes…

See ya’ next week-end, dear reader, and until such time let’s all try some patience and kindness. Even I might!

And so I wait. And I wait. Til he finishes all of these frivolous things like book signings, public readings in book stores, (this podcast), and God knows what other venues to occupy his time.

Okay, that’s enough! Of course I’m having some fun, Lord Jim, so please take your good old time as the wait will be worth it.

In praise of Wolcott…

Since I haven’t yet read the book itself (a point I’ve made groaningly clear) except for the excerpt in Vanity Fair called “Norman Mailer Sent Me”, I have to share a feeling I had upon reading it. The part about how James Wolcott met Norman Mailer. See when James was a student at Frostburg State he sent off a letter to his favorite author with a copy of an article he had published in the school newspaper. The topic was the Gore Vidal / Mailer duel on the Cavett Show. And with little hope of his letter and article making their way to their target, or as Wolcott put it so perfectly in his book, “How I got to Mailer was the equivalent of firing a paper airplane out the window and having it land at JFK,” they not only made it to Mailer’s desk with a perfect three point landing, it prompted a return letter from The Man in which he offered these words of encouragement, “I think you have a career.” Then he set up an interview with Dan Wolf, editor of the Village Voice, and the rest is history. Jim immediately quit Frostburg State and followed his dream. And when I read that, that amazing coming together of idol and fan, I thought to myself, Damn, what must that be like? To get a letter of praise like that from someone you happen to hold in such high esteem? Then it hit me, I know exactly how it feels because it happened to me. Here’s how…

See I and my humble blog over here owe a huge debt of gratitude to Mr. Wolcott (a colossal debt he would wave away as being nothing ’cause that’s who he is), for plucking me out of relative obscurity and linking me onto the map of his celebrated web site. And I remember the day he did that just like it was yesterday. And looking back at that heady day as I read that Vanity Fair excerpt, I felt like I was him with a letter from Mailer. That’s how big a deal it was. And remains so. And I bring this up (believe me, dear reader!) not to toot my horn, or to place myself (good grief!) in that celebrated company, but to simply say I know what that feeling is like. To be a fan of someone for over twenty years, to not know that person from Adam, and suddenly get a word of praise from that person. So yeah I know how Jim must’ve felt when he got that letter from Mailer, but when I recently shared that sentiment with him in an e-mail I sent his way, he promptly dismissed the notion by stating, “Believe me I am no Norman Mailer.” Well no, maybe not, Sir, and clearly I’m no “you”, but the parallel still exists from my humble perspective.

And now here’s the real point of this post…

If you want a great read where you’re sure to grin at least two or three times per paragraph, as you constantly come across THE word or THE phrase which are Wolcott’s stock in trade, and you want an insider’s look at seventies New York, warts and all, I highly recommend you buy “Lucking Out”. In fact that’s an order!

See you next week-end, dear reader, and please let me know how you like the book as I wait… and I wait…