celticgods: Research of Tom's Purdue

celticgods: Research of Tom's Purdue: Doug couldn’t keep from wobbling no matter how hard he tried. Stiffening his muscles or relaxing them produced the same result on his...

Research of Tom's Purdue

Doug couldn’t keep from wobbling no matter how hard he tried. Stiffening his muscles or relaxing them produced the same result on his attempts to normalize his walking, in fact he resembled a small sailboat caught in variable seas with a strong starboard wind across its bow. His shoulder bag disconcertingly added to his stress upsetting his balance. The wide berth he noticed that other pedestrians were giving him as he navigated westward across Broadway and towards 6^th Avenue, served as further proof of this affliction. This predicament he found vexing as the day had been lovely and he had felt good being in it.

One pint too many, or maybe the addition of the several Irish whiskeys to the pints poured him by the affable Dublin refugee barman (aka “drink-serving terrorist”) that were stood him in appreciation of Doug’s long time custom (aka “fishing for larger gratuity”) and grateful for the company of Doug and his pals on a slow Saturday afternoon. Doug and his chums were all members in good standing of the Empty Leg Association, and fully paid up. After all, Doug had not been back to his old neighborhood in quite a while and though the plan had been to rendezvous at O’Faolain’s with the fellas and then to repair elsewhere to have an adult lunch over which much shit would be shot, and heading  homewards in the early evening sporting a pleasant, civilized, buzz. The rendezvous was successfully and punctually made but the action plan stalled there.

That original plan died pretty early in the afternoon and at a half-past three pm David (aka "the Englishman"), was the first to fall by the wayside blaming his early exit from the festivities at O'Faolains on the weekend train schedules (and his not seeing any solid sustenance on the horizon) up to Westchester where he was visiting with the in-laws.  I stepped outside to see him off and watched him careen his way up the street to the corner of Lafayette and hail a yellow cab heading uptown to Grand Central.

Jumbo (bless his poor sainted mother) was so-named by Doug for the size of his planetoid-girthed noggin, and next to him at the bar Ian MacLeod (aka Mac, or Piss-Face or “MacLoud” no one ever called him Ian) also possessed of a sizeable bonce - the terror of many a woolen pull-over.  Both were made of sterner stuff (aka alcoholic tendencies) and with D’Artagnan gone, the three remaining Musketeers turned again united in purpose(“All for one!”), towards the rail.  After a few pulls at our jars, Mac and Doug took one of the many regular and mandatory trips out to the sidewalk to indulge their nicotine habit.

Mac fired up a Winston with his Ronson and commented on David’s recent departure, noting “He can’t put them down like he used to, can he?” 

Doug grunted a laugh in agreement, drawing flame to his Marlboro from the proffered lighter. “Well, Mac… he’s married, and trying to stay that way, certainly it’s not been so long that you’ve forgotten?”  Mac produced a brittle laugh in response.

The foot traffic was constant in both directions, it being Saturday and we being in what’s now called (so-named by real estate weasels) the “East Village”. The demographics and appearance of the people passing in what was the Lower East Side had certainly changed since the years Doug had lived only a few short blocks away from where they stood returning to this place from Eire (yes, brilliant, right - he leaves NY and goes not to London, but Ireland whrre everyone he met asked him “What the feck are you doing here man?”) where he had tried to crack the music business in Dublin and Belfast and spent most of his time eking a living writing pop music criticism for pennies, tending bars but mostly drinking at them. Doug’s own long-suffering patient wife had made the journey over and back with him all the while retaining her patient, pleasant demeanour and her affection for Doug in spite of his several, erm, imperfections, let’s call them. True to Doug’s uncanny sense of (bad) timing, Dublin was swinging and the Republic of Ireland were now booming, money was flowing like the Guinness at Hogans or Bruxelles and the rest of the world now paid Ireland attention it had never received before. So of course, where was himself now but back in the Big Apple, which had turned sterile and become yupped-out and expensive all the way from the Spuyten Duyvil  down to Battery Park, and from Hell’s Kitchen to Loisaida. “Home sweet home -the bollix”, thought Doug.

Here I will pause for a comment on Guinness Stout. Those who hate it I can never hope to convince of its merit. Those who like it but who have never drunk it in an establishment that takes the dispensing of this delightful beverage seriously, have an epiphany in store for them. A proper pint is poured by a professional barman with care into an immaculately clean glass which must be shaped a certain way, or else the result for me is sullied. It cannot be ice cold as would a lager be stored but neither is warm Guinness desirable. When you order a proper pint of stout(the mother’s milk, motor oil, porter, black gold, etc.) the first taste is so delicious and physically pleasant it takes great willpower not to pour back the entire glass in one go. The texture is delightful, the flavour at once slightly bitter, yet slightly sweet, creamy, cool  and calming. My suggestion to those in the rural or suburban USA who think they like Guinness to go to New York for a weekend check into a hotel and visit as many Irish-owned bars as you can. This will be your schooling and if you like it still and desire more, go home and plan your trip to Ireland. The Guinness in London is pish, unless you find a place like the Finsbury Park Tavern that serves Dublin Guinness and not the inferior English stuff.  The perfect accompaniment for Guinness they say is oysters but I believe it is whiskey but gentle reader, that is a story for another day.

Jumbo joined them outside as they stood and smoked looking across at the few remaining brownstones and tenements on the north side of the block. Jumbo hated cigarettes but enjoyed a different type of smoke inhaling quickly one deep draught then bashing his lit number against the tenement wall and turning back into the bar followed closely by the other two.

 The fresh pint of porter stood waiting for Doug and Jumbo’s Bass Ale and Mac’s screwdriver had both been refreshed. Behind their glasses stood three empty shot glasses and the barman grinned his evil little grin at them from the other end of the long bar as Doug  (keeping his eyes fixed on the amiably malevolent,  ginger-headed,  pint puller) toasted his pals’ health and prosperity again and it was somewhere about this time he lost track of the time and the running count of the drinks he’d had, losing himself willingly in the pleasure of the good company that he had often missed when away from the place.

Mac related to them tales of his ex-wife who had mentally gone off the rails in a spectacular fashion in spite of his best efforts to help her and which he continued  even after they had separated and by contrast Jumbo only recently married to a woman with no misconceptions,  mentioned his wife not at all, but as ever was keen to tell us about some book by minor talents like Banks or T.C. Boil he’d found at the Strand or at Shakespeare & Co. hailing it as “Groundbreaking!” or “Evocative” or “Seminal!” or some other overwrought adjective he liked to apply to books he enjoyed especially if they were by William Butler Yeats his idol and literary inspiration. Mac who followed recent fiction as well as possessing an encyclopedic knowledge of music of many genres and eras would say he too had read it and usually politely deem it “All right, I guess” and switch the topic to something he found particularly stimulating.

Doug too loved books of fiction but had a peculiar bent that he always felt he had missed too many great works from the past and was therefore un-interested in modern or current fiction. He would read non-fiction and recent history but music for him had halted when the Pogues split again preferring to investigate rhythm and blues, jazz, country and western ever more deeply.

Darkness began to descend on the late summer Manhattan streets and the three stalwarts settled up their tab tipping the beverage banshee at a rate of about 60% of the total bill for being so free with his boss’ liquor. They turned left out the door following the path David had blazed some hours earlier. At Lafayette Greg bade the others farewell and headed south to catch the F train to Brooklyn and some bars nearer his flat as Doug headed west walking quickly and waving to Jumbo as he grabbed a cab uptown.

After a trek which felt like he had done the Rongai route up to the summit of Kilimanjaro but in fact encompassed only 2 avenues and 5 streets of the Manhattan grid on a pleasant late evening, Doug spied salvation in the form of the entrance to the PATH train and the promise of transport home.

The PATH train to Hoboken ratcheted into the sweltering station and Doug increased the pace of his weaving to get as far forward in the train as he could.

Christmas at Windfall Villa , San San, Jamaica

XMAS season Road Trip

We were in DJ's wife's car a Hyundai Veloster which he called the "molester", and which we both re-named the LFC, or "Look-Fast-Car". However what the Veloster lacks in internal-combustive propulsion it makes up for in handling prowess, we were flying towards Ocho Rios, DJ's right foot firmly planted on the floor in order to arrive at Arosa Meat Processors before the appointed 12:30pm closing on Saturdays.

We slowed our progress through Port Maria the Parish capital of St Mary as is usually necessary to allow for Police checkpoints, and increased traffic. As we approached the bridge which led to the exit from the town's main drag I reminded DJ of the usual police presence on the western side of the bridge as one approaches the court house and Parish church where Ian Fleming was married (and DJ's brother too for his third time). Sure enough there was a Suzuki Jimny full of cops pulling over a Toyota Hiace minibus full of people.

 We slowly pulled around and as we did I spied ahead of us a white Mercedes Benz M Class of recent vintage and imagined I detected a faint trace of Appleton VX in the air. As we approached the Merc's rear I was more certain that the driver of the vehicle was indeed Dr Ron Duquesnay the president of the Sir Henry Morgan Angling Association aka the "Commodore" as I liked to call him. With the strikingly beautiful bay of Port Maria with its birthday cake island in the centre on our right and the double-apex turn around the headland ahead DJ decided it was a good time to overtake our friend at a less-than-prudent rate of speed. Ignoring the oncoming traffic, DJ pulled us level with a stunned Dr Ron and his side-kick Bob the Acct. and I waved and yelled as we overtook them at light speed, narrowly averting a certain messy death at the hand of an oncoming truck.

DJ put the hammer down as we blasted past Blue Harbour, Noel Coward's beachfront home in order to make up the time we lost as I called the Commodore on the phone and arranged a rendezvous at our terminus of Arosa Meats. Suddenly DJ veered off the road almost directly across from the entrance to Ian Fleming's home "Goldeneye" in Oracabessa. Stopping, he abruptly jumped out and declared me the pilot for the remainder of the journey. I took up the challenge, shrinking the oncoming Commodore Ron's image in the rear view mirror by some nifty overtaking of blocks of three and four cars at a go as we passed through Oracabessa, Boscobel, Rio Nuevo and Prospect until it vanished completely and we pulled into the Arosa parking area with minutes to spare.

We finished our pork product purchasing and like magic Dr Ron and Acct Bob rolled up and true to form and like good Boy Scouts they were travelling prepared. In the back of the Benz was 2 bottles of Appleton VX & Estate Special, 5 litres of coconut water and a cooler full of ice.

Finding some shade under the tailgate we toasted one another's health and the New Year and a good time was had by all!

Merry Christmas, Happy and Prosperous New Year to All!

Bars

I'll admit that when I was young I was sceptical of bars, but that was understandable as my entire knowledge of them was my mother's warnings about the evils of bars and the alcohol sold within. I never knew my father to go into a bar. Then I turned 18 the same year they changed the laws to allow 18-yo.'s to vote and drink, so I got to vote for McGovern (r.i.p.) and enjoy ice-cold Heineken as we commiserated on Nixon's self-destructive soon-to-be-Watergate-contaminated victory. We went to a bar to celebrate Nixon resigning too!

Really I grew to absolutely love bars in New York City. Nigel and I pounding pints of Guinness or lager, smoking cigarettes, & scarfing down chips.

It was going to Irish-owned and staffed bars in the island of Manhattan that made me understand and appreciate good bar tending. There is also for bar patrons a certain etiquette and code of acceptable behaviours and real men understand and adhere to these and pass them on to the next generation, like not annoying the staff or other patrons, holding your liquor, paying your tab and tipping your server appropriately. Bar tending to me is one of the world's most important, vital and perhaps underrated professions in this world. I am not talking about people who tend bar while they are waiting for a call-back(talking on the phone to their agent or other actor friends) for a show/movie/play or to pay their way through college (leaning up in the corner with face in a book) though these situations do not necessarily preclude being a good bartender.

Patrick Conways on 43rd near to Vanderbilt hard by Grand Central was owned by two young brothers named Clancy and they were nice though business-like fellows. Their bar was always staffed by fellow Irish people. The bar men were just that, bar men. I never saw a woman behind the gleaming, immaculate, mahogany. For sure the restaurant had plenty of young Irish girls waiting the tables and working in the kitchen and dining rooms including the owners' sister. In my time I remember 4 of the barmen who went on to own their own bar and each of these was an attempt at replicating Patrick Conways' gleaming brass, wood and tile. We became such regulars, my brother Patrick, my friend Nigel and myself, that Friday didn't feel like Friday if we didn't see Sean, Liam, Martin and Edmond. The clientele was almost exclusively business people and the bar staff behaved accordingly -friendly but resserved, attentive but not intrusive in other words professionals.

In fact, the brothers themselves opened a second bar at 34th Street and 3rd Avenue called Patrick Kavanaughs which was similar but more of a neighbourhood place. The two brothers sold out eventually and returned home to Dublin as the nascent Celtic Tiger began to roar.  There were great Irish barmen all over Manhattan from the Plaza, to the Abbey, to Dempsey's, to the Central, to The Blarney Stone, to Swifts. 

The great NY bars were places for men, and not in a chauvinistic institutionalised way, but in the sense that men could congregate, be at their ease, talk or be silent, get drunk or not, spend a lunch hour, meet old or new friends, kill time or make a rendezvous for further perambulation with or without the social pressures of female society as one chose.

A good bar is and should be too a shelter from driving rain, blistering heat, or importantly the cold, cruel world. I've never been one to bend a barman's ear too much with personal tales of woe, save the one or two who were my pals outside of their place of employment, and even then I thought it best to make sure those were rare occurrences. 

My teetotal wife doesn't understand bars further than the fact that I am happy in them  and it is where I meet up with my like-minded pals ("Why don't you go play with your friends?") and that's as ok with me as it is with her.

Brian part 2

I was recalling an evening in the "East Village" today which was spurred by seeing someone's immediate Facebook location needlessly displayed for all to see on Facebook.
The eveningin question I had taken the train into Manhattan I recall from Queens, where Antoinette and I were crashing with her sister Peggy after our return from Jamaica. This was 1982 and my brother Brian was living between friends' flats in the East Village and Brooklyn. We met up near the 8th Street Playhouse
http://cinematreasures.org/theaters/4699
that lost treasure of a neighbourhood movie house where I saw my first Jean-Pierre Melville films under advice from the late great Andrew Sarris who was then the film critic of the Village Voice in its heyday http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andrew_Sarris

What was nice in those times was that the crowds on 8th Street and Greenwich Village in general thinned out in the evening as you proceeded eastward (the opposite of Horace Greeley's exhortation!) and as you passed First Avenue you were away from the tourists, bridge-and-tunnelers, and other non-resident downtown revelers and entered a real New York neighbourhood. Brian suggested we eat over at the Odessa on Avenue A http://www.yelp.com/biz/odessa-new-york
In those times the Odessa fed emigrés from Eastern Europe the food from back home at diner prices and we had pot roast with gravy and pierogies for like 4 bucks. We then went up Avenue A to a bar near 10th Street that had a jukebox with a terrific selection of old R&B and rock and roll.We had a beer or two and then crossed over and stood in the park and burnt some rope as was our wont in those days.

Our former block of E.3rd Street.

Tompkins Square Park and the streets around it were nearly deserted, this pre-dating the great homeless invasion brought about by Reagonomics and the ruthless gentrification of Manhattan by real estate interests.

The Joe Strummer mural memorial on what was King Tut's Wah Wah Hut bar w/yours truly.

Brian seemed glad to see me, glad I had come to hang out with him. He had been by this time suffering more and more from some inner angst or demon which could make him restless and of which his drug use, the heroin specifically was I now believe both a symptom and self-prescribed remedy. Brian was intelligent and perceptive and like most of my family extremely sensitive. He was that evening as usual well versed on almost every current topic culturally or socially - local news and international, music, books, film etc- and those that knew Brian knew he was a voracious and catholic reader and as likely to be carrying the Silver Surfer as William Burroughs under his arm or in his satchel and every time he changed addresses he left behind him a small library. In those times I saw him more than anyone else from our family and my trick was to limit my exposure to him so I could control my own sadness and feelings of impotence that grew inside me when I was around him.
His unease seemed to ebb and flow, sometimes Brian acted like he was hunted by or hiding from unseen agents-quiet, jittery, curt-but mostly he was easy to be around, good and interesting company, generous materially and spiritually.

This night was a good one, one that has stayed with me all these years, recalled many times over the years especially when we moved into that neighbourhood, Antoinette, Sean and me, and we witnessed first-hand the evolution and gentrification of the Lower East Side. In fact in a few short years I stood pushing Sean on the swings sweeping the crack vials and hypodermic needles aside with my Air Wear soles in almost the exact same spot, where the playground had been moved as a renovation of the park was under way.

Renovation of St Brigid's Famine Church under way, after the idiot Catholic Diocese tried to demolish it.

Tropical Storm

The sea has been fighting itself all day
pushing eastwards battling westwards, churning
Blue, black, grey, steel, silver
Now it's night and the sea heaves invisible
Lightning provides the amusement now
as bands of squalls shower us with rain
thunder booms Isaac's approach