From Tobi Tobias on her blog, Seeing Things, a lovely, link-free essay on why she loves living in New York. It has no images either. Just the ones she evokes, all over town.
I could try (and probably fail) to match her with an essay on Seattle, but I’ll stick to a question in response: Tobi: Does your bar write you letters?
From The Hideout to its customers:
There are just things that I forget about.
Maybe it’s the booze and the pills. I don’t know, maybe I’m just growing old. I was at the grocery store the other day and bumped into a friend that I’ve know for years. And I open my mouth to say hi and I say “hi….” Fucking blanked out.My eyes got big and I just smiled that dumb, unbelievable smile, the “I can’t believe this shit” smile. And then I bobbed my head and followed it up with a solid “whatcha been up to”, actually being serious, hoping that it connects some dot, triggers something in my brain, gives me a hint.
It’s like driving on empty up a hill- come on, come on, come on- you start talking to your brain like a cheerleader- come on, come on- you can do it. And you know all about them- you know the car that they drive and the name of their girlfriend and the funny looking bookshelf in their living room. Give it to me! Give me the name! Paul- yes, Paul- of course. “Paul it is great to see you.” And then I race for the produce section, repeating his name over and over again, hoping that repetition works. That if I say it enough my applesauce brain will capture it like a bug in amber.
The Dusty 45’s are back tonight – First Thursday. It is free and easy. It’s not a sales pitch, just a reminder of a good thing. So you don’t wake up on Friday morning and go – now I remember! Instead of playing Dig Dug on my iPhone for three hours, I could have been at the Hideout and watched Billy Joe play trumpet and guitar and sing all at once (what the hell, how can anyone do that?) or Jerry pick a guitar like a blue crab scuttling down a beach.
And that girl in the corner who you know but forget her first name, or you think you know but if you are wrong you’ll look like a total ass- just forget about it and ask her to dance or throw a shot back with you. It’s a special night and I want to remind you about it.
The 5 Cent Discrete Theatre Grant, remember that one? Drink all night at the Hideout for one lousy nickel. It is a sweet deal. All you have to do is propose some understated, not so obvious performance in the bar, and if we like your idea, you drink all during your “performance” for a nickel.
In a crummy economy everyone is looking for deals. So I am gently reminding you, that if you are coming up a little short, don’t stay at home reading junk mail, pitch us an idea and apply for a 5 cent Discrete Theatre Grant. You could meet your long lost father, be on a blind date, dress as a giant catapillar and drink Absinthe in the corner. I just wanted to remind you.
Regina, That was a lovely essay which makes me wonder where you find the time to discover all these little jewels.
As a former New yorker I am prompted to offer you a couple of neighborhood bar tidbits.
When I left the Bronx in 1979 it was a socio-cultural requirement for the bartender to give you your fourth drink free. In other words, buy three/get one free. I tried that at the Gold Coin in downtown Seattle when I first arrived and I almost got thrown out of the joint.
Also, unless things have radically changed since I’ve been gone then you’d better know something about the unfamiliar neighborhood bar
you’re about to frequent.
I had a now deceased friend named Anthony Dagnello who liked to play cards. He must have tried too hard to win because they found him in a dumpster behind The Blue Moon Bar one morning with all his fingers busted.
It was an Irish establishment called The American Bar that I hung out at and on St. Paddy’s Day there’d be free corned beef and cabbage for all the patrons.
After the racial make-up of the neighborhood changed, most of the Irish moved out and the American Bar was bought out by African Americans who promptly change the name to The Watermellon Bar. True story.
My family on both sides were from Hell’s Kitchen on the west side of Manhattan. It didn’t matter that we moved to the Bronx. Once you were Hell’s Kitchen you were always Hell’s Kitchen and my mother was perpetually entitled to jobs on Broadway in the theatre district.
I don’t believe the Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood exists any longer and I think they now call it Clinton. So sad.
For us, we lived in a tenement where there was one bathroom on each floor which five or more families shared. Each apartment literally had a pot to piss in and my grandmother had a cast iron bathtub in the kitchen which she kept under cover with her hand sewn finery.
The tenement had an odor that came from a multitude of cultures who fed their families in the manner after their own kind. Generation after generation added the spice of their existence to a smell that has no word worthy enough to describe it. I truly believe though, that my mind has an electrical pathway expressly reserved for the memory of that aromatic experience. If ever I encounter it again it will flood over my entire body and I will be overcome by tears, I am sure.
I enjoyed that flowery piece by Tobi Tobias but I thought it prudent to ad another slice of NYC life.
Not that I am a very experienced connoissuer of Seattle’s bars, but the Hideout is my favorite.