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

The Birthday Dilemma

Today’s my birthday, “Hooray for me”. I proudly stand as the last survivor (to the best of my knowledge) of the Crimean War. Oh wait, that was in a past life, the one where I was a Russian soldier named Sergei. Jesus, never mind. I don’t know about you, dear reader, but all these past life regression sessions, in addition to being so expensive, often get kinda blurry as to which of my lives I’m living. No wonder I said, “Nyet!” this morning when my tailor asked if I wanted more ruffles on my tux shirt. Good grief!

And yet staying with the Crimean War vet thing, he’s probably how I’ll feel tomorrow after I go out tonight and celebrate the occasion.

But now the “Dilemma”…

Each year, when October fifth will start to get close and a close friend asks, “What are you doing for your birthday? Any big plans?” I always take the macho approach and offer up something dismissive like, “Aw, probably nothin’. Birthdays are no big deal to me, they’re just another day, know what I mean?” But then long about nine or ten o’clock on the actual day of my birthday, and I’m working behind the stick where exactly no one has said a word about said birthday, I start to get sad or antsy for fear the night might pass without one note of recognition. Some tough guy, huh? And then just like the big ol’ boob that I am at least when it comes to sentimental stuff like birthdays, especially my birthday, I’ll somehow get the news out there in the room. I’ll say, “Jesus, I don’t believe this, today is my freakin’ birthday and I almost forgot. Can you imagine? And it’s already ten o’clock!” In a performance Jeremy Renner would have trouble topping.

Then of course, word would make it’s way round the room and before you know it the piano man’s calling the room to order announcing what day it is, he’s leading a spirited sing-along thing of “Happy Birthday” to me, as a waitress is bringing a slice of cheesecake lit by a candle glowing in the dark as she walks. While I in the meantime, I who is so surprised by all this, am blushing as if to say, “Shucks, you shouldn’t-a done this!” But god forbid if the night had passed and none of that would’ve happened, your friendly bartender would probably pout until dawn. Again, what a boob!

But I’m not behind the stick tonight yet still the dilemma exists, as I go to my favorite bar to visit with friends. I mean I can’t walk into the joint and say, “Hey, gang, today’s my birthday.” That would sound too much like, “Hey, look at me!” And yet I don’t want the night to go by without a healthy round of good wishes, not to mention a bunch of wet kisses from the fairer sex. Now that’s a dilemma!

Oh well, I’ve got a few hours before I leave so I guess I’ll figure this out, plus there’s always that lame old ruse I used when bartending. You know, that, “I could-a had a V-8,” smack I issue sharply to my forehead, followed by, “I just realized what day it is!” I’ll just have to see.

And now in closing, if you think I wrote this post today to elicit some birthday wishes from you in the comment section, perish the thought. I mean, c’mon, guys! “Birthday’s are no big deal to me, they’re just another day, know what I mean?”

See ya’ down the road, dear reader, have a great week-end!

This Bud’s For You…

In keeping with my present state of affairs as “bartender out of work”… I’m a customer now not a pourer… I thought I’d pull up a stool and share a story with you. It seems there are many things in my crazy past (my both great and inglorious past) that might just carry this blog til I’m back behind the stick. But know this. While sitting here at the bar with you I promise to honor the Barland code by not ever being a gas bag, by not being argumentative, by being truthful at every turn without adding extra ketchup (well, maybe just a little!) and I’ll try to entertain as best I can. And if ever you find that I’ve failed “the code” by breaching any of its precepts, just ask the bartender to move your drink down the end.

So here goes, this is me as “guy on the stool” with a story.

A long time ago, when the world was young and so was I, I worked on a television game show called It Takes Two. Vin Scully was the host of the show and three celebrity couples made up the panel. I won’t go into just how the show worked, it would take up too much time (that’s me not being a “gas bag”), just know that I wrote up one of four acts produced in each day’s show, each one leading to a numerical trivia question. In other words, this wasn’t a typical Q&A thing like Jeopardy.

So one day my boss, a guy named Les Roberts who is now a successful mystery writer living in Cleveland, Ohio, where all of his stories take place, told me to write up an act about Bud Abbott. It happened that Bud was to do a guest spot and I had to write up some business to introduce him. Now for those of you not familiar with the name, Bud was half of a comedy team called “Abbott and Costello” (they were huge in the 40′s and 50′s) and Bud was the straight man to his rolly polly partner, Lou Costello. And as far as what I could draw on when I sat down to write the script, I had their classic baseball routine called “Who’s on First?” (you can find and view it on You Tube), the perfect way to launch right into the act.

So after Les had read my script and gave it his stamp of approval, he asked of me a rather unusual request. He said since Bud had recently had a stroke and was now confined to a wheelchair, would I mind picking him up on the day of the taping?

Would I mind picking him up? I thought. Why I’d push his wheel chair from his house all the way to the studio!!!  See as a kid I couldn’t have been a bigger fan of Abbott and Costello movies, now here I was not just writing for him (well not for him but about him) but getting to drive him to and from the studio. Clearly a fan’s dream!

So I drove up to Bud’s house, a modest but nice, ranch-style home on Redwing Drive in Woodland Hills, and there to greet me at the door was his wife Betty. Betty was a former burlesque dancer who actually performed with Bud before his Costello connection, who remained the love of his life for fifty five years. Betty led me through the door, she introduced me to Bud who was sitting in his wheelchair… frail of body but sharp of mind… and Bud and I shook hands and the gig was afoot. I then bid Betty good-bye, told her not to worry that I’d take good care, then I wheeled Bud out to my beat up 66′ Mustang. I helped him into the passenger’s seat, buckled him into place, then we hit the freeway and headed for NBC. And all I remember looking back on that drive was me trying to act very cool, acting as though this was normal hanging out with legends. But I was terribly young and naive at the time and this was my way of trying to appear grown up. Pretty silly, huh?

When we got to NBC, a wonderful thing immediately happened when I wheeled Bud through the halls, as many of the old time stage hands who had worked with Bud in the old days (they were poker buddies when the cameras went dark), recognized Bud and ran up and shook his hand. This really meant a lot to Bud because he felt he was pretty much forgotten, and was only doing our show because he thought it might be fun just getting out there again. (And sadly because he’d get a Kelvinator refrigerator.)

So when it came time for his entrance after a short audio piece of “Who’s on First?” we’d acquired, Vin brought him on with my obvious  line, “I can’t make heads or tails of this but here’s a guy who might just know how to explain it.”  Then the curtain slowly rose, there was Bud sitting in his wheelchair in front of a bunch of blow-ups taken from his movies, and the audience rose to its feet with a standing ovation. I mean a long standing ovation which brought down the house. No, Bud Abbott had not been forgotten which this audience had clearly illustrated, but the celebs on the panel (whose names escape me) ran to him in commercial and emphasized the point. More than mission accomplished, Bud was a hit!

As I was driving Bud back home, feeling like the two of us had just won an Emmy, I noticed a tear running slowly down the side of his cheek. And he was staring straight ahead as if in a trance. One can only imagine the thoughts that he was holding but I had no right to ask and of course I didn’t. Then fortunately Bud broke the silence and came back to earth.

“You know something,” he said, “it was pretty goddam nice of those people to stand up like that.”

“You mean the audience when the curtain came up?”

“Hell yeah, that’s what I mean. I guess they probably thought I’d already died or something.”

Well now it was time for me to drop the “cool” thing.

“Mr. Abbott,” I began, “I’ve got to be honest with you. I’ve been trying to act blase all day trying to appear professional, but this is the biggest thrill I’ve ever had. And I really mean that. As a kid back in Pittsburgh when we went to the Saturday matinees, and they showed an Abbott and Costello movie in the previews, we stood on our seats, jumped up and down and cheered. That’s how big a fans we were. And so I’m sure those people in the audience today were just like me… long time Abbott and Costello fans.” He smiled at that but the tear remained on his cheek.

When we got back to his house, a bittersweet moment then grabbed my psyche upon entering. It was when Betty yelled from the kitchen, “How’d it go at the studio today, hon?” Like it was still the old days when he actually came home from THE STUDIO! (Not appearing on a game show for a refrigerator!)

“It went fine, dear,” he said, winking at me as he said it, “I actually got a standing ovation today.” I then chimed in and assured Betty this was true. Betty then asked if I’d like a drink, I accepted a glass of Coke, and Bud motioned me to the couch to have a chat. Now here’s where the story, to me, gets absolutely amazing.

I said, “Bud, I know you did it a thousand times but how did you ever keep track when you did “Who’s on First?”

“Are you kidding?” he said. “Lou was the one with the hard part, all I had to do was just correct him. Once I memorized the bases my part was easy. Here I’ll show you.” Then believe it or not, dear reader, after he walked me through “who was on what” he gave me his part to play, then he took Lou’s and we actually did the routine. Or at least a small part of it. And it was not unlike, given who I was and who was sitting across from me, doing a scene from Hamlet with Sir Freaking Larry!

And as if that wasn’t enough, after we’d finished he dropped this cherry on top. “Betty,” he called, “go on into the den and get me one of those records.” (One of those records!) Betty then emerged from the den holding a 78 LP of “Who’s on First?”. Bud took it from Betty, signed the label with a salutation, then told me there were only three of them in circulation. One he said was in Cooperstown in the Baseball hall of Fame, I forget where he said the second was (maybe in the Broadcaster’s Hall of Fame) and the third one was now clutched in my right hand. Can you believe it?

I thanked Bud profusely, told him again what a thrill it was to have spend the day with him, and just as I headed for the door he stopped me with this…

“Hey, kid, if you ever want to shoot the breeze or you want to stop by the house just give us a ring. You have our number now.” I got the feeling the day we had spent had awakened something in Bud, and he somehow wanted to keep that feeling alive. And the look on Betty’s face seemed to verify that. She gave me a smile and out the door I went.

And now the bad news. I waited too long to take Bud up on his offer of getting together, he died before we ever could meet again. And the record he so generously gave me? It got lost somehow in my travels over the years. Absolutely shameful! But I’ll always have that day which I’ll never ever lose.

Oh, Bartender, I’ve talked for a pretty long time here, how about letting me buy these guys their next round!!!

The 69 Steps…

What luck, what timing, what a terrible turn of events for your friendly bartender. For just when he thought the world was his oyster ready to slide down his throat in one sexy gulp, the world took the shell from his hand an tossed it away. And what, you ask, symbolically, was on that shell? Well I’ll tell ya’, loveable barflies, I’ll tell ya’.

First off, my long awaited and inevitable knighthood aptly scheduled on the heels of the British Olympics (I’m a scosh English), had to be suddenly called off to the Queen’s dismay. Then my marriage proposal to a Lady of the Court (maybe not quite as inevitable) had to be quickly postponed until further notice. And my recent invitation to St. Pat’s Cathedral where I’m sure His Eminence, Cardinal Dolan, was prepared to mention my name at the height of his sermon, had to be tossed in the ash can along with my hopes. And finally and most disturbing, the defense of my current and coveted crown in the National Marbles Tournament held in New Jersey, from which I refrained this year, had to be sadly forfeited leaving a wide open field and a victory for a sharp-eyed sixth grader.

So, are you starting to see a pattern, dear reader, as to what all these missed opportunities have in common? What, no idea? Well it’s the fact that each of those heralded moments require my kneeling on one or two knees at some point. Which I simply can’t do. For I happen to be “patella non grata” and have been for quite some time, as I recently went and received an artificial knee. A partial replacement. I guess all those years of pacing the mats ensuring your glasses were full and the party kept going, finally took their toll on my ragged left hinge. And rather than look like Chester from “Gunsmoke” (Google it, all you young-un’s) I thought going under the knife was a better way to go.

“But seriously, folks,” as the Borscht Belt comics were prone to say after bombing badly with an intro as I have here, I have been laid up for quite a while which is why I haven’t been blogging (Yeah, Scrib, let’s go with that!) and why I’ve kinda’ been vegging out here in general. Percocet also played a  hand in that for if I did try to blog while under its spell it might come off like a Timothy Leary manifesto. I’m not very good on any kind of drug regardless of whether it’s legal, I’d rather have a Maker’s on the rocks but that’s not a pain killer. So veg out I did!

However, I’m happily rounding the far turn now and heading for the welcome home stretch, and I’m pretty much mobile without the use of a cane. But the hard part remains (ergo the title) before and after my walks, the fact that I have to deal with 69 steps. That’s right 69!!! See I live on the top of a five story walk-up (all right, in the penthouse if you must), and they really have been a bitch for me to negotiate. I’ve thought about hiring a Sherpa guide to set up a base camp in the lobby, who can follow me up the escarpment in case I fall backwards, but try finding inexpensive Sherpas here in Manhattan. Ever since Sir Edmund Hillary you can’t touch ‘em!

But hey, I’m rounding that far turn as I said and even though all of those above events will not be a part of my legacy (one doesn’t get a second chance with Queen Lizzy), just bouncing around this city again is reward. Which I intend to do tonight for the very first time. I look forward to seeing good friends again and downing a glass or two, and look forward to doing some blogging again on week-ends.

And as far as my getting behind the stick which is something I haven’t done for over four months, that’s still on hold for now and I sure don’t mind it. We’re still in the process of trying to reopen and until such time you’ll see me on your side of the mahogany. (I’m the handsome guy at the end of the bar in shades who’ll be signing autographs, and showing the ladies his scar to play the sympathy card.)

But before I go I want to say “thanks” to all who have still stopped by despite my disappearing act, and I hope you’ll keep on coming in the weeks to come. But as I mentioned before in a previous post… not tending bar has sorely sapped my Barland update reservoir, so perhaps I’ll write about outside the bar for a while. After all, there was that Pulitzer Prize business that… aw, never mind, you read the papers!

All the best til next time, dear reader,

The Scribbler