ode to my pub

Vasmay Lounge, the only bar in Manhattan worth frequenting, closed its doors.

Most of you have never heard of the place. It’s (I refuse to talk about it in the past tense) situated on Suffolk and Houston, down on the Lower East Side. Getting there ain’t easy. There’s only one subway in those parts (the F), and you’re facing a semi-hefty walk if you opt to trek from Union Square. For that reason (among others), Vasmay is never overcrowded. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen more than 15 people present.

Not to bore you, but I want to describe the place. It oughta be turned into a museum or something. First off, the exterior is brick wall, painted an alarming red. Dozens of sun-whitened polaroids (mostly of the barkeeps, the clientele, and Jimmy—more on him later) adorn the inside of the windows, images facing the street. A sidewalk easel advertises the happy hour:

We’ll Drink You Pretty

2-for-1

Any Drink

5-8

Let’s move inside. Five or six swivel stools at the bar. A wide booth padded with red patent leather, puncture holes pock-marking the material—very Steak ‘n Shake. Creaky wooden chairs. Two standard bar tables. Hey, an old 70s-style pleather carseat next to the pool table, that fits. Few more throne-like wooden chairs, almost as tall as the juke. An outhouse bathroom door with “men” scrawled on the wood in sky-blue chalk. Peanut shells on the floor. Red candles. Curious satanic décor. A small shitty television over the bar broadcasting B slasher flicks. Full-sized silver Chevrolet hood above the aforementioned carseat, painted and mounted. Cheap-ass oscillating floor fan in the corner. Jennifer Connelly's look-alike behind the bar, sporting an inked arm. She’s slugging Budweiser on-shift. The juke pains the ears.

And then there’s Jimmy. Jimmy bears a striking resemblance to David Crosby (pictured at left) of CSNY and Byrds fame. Long white hair, fairly indistinguishable features, significant belly. The pink skin of a drunkard. He’s there EVERY SINGLE DAY. Jimmy occupies a stool in the right corner of the building, near the second television, and reads newspapers with a flashlight (the place is freaking dark). The only drink I’ve ever seen him consume is bottled Budweiser. Based on loose observation, I’d guess he imbibes ten a day. So let’s see:

10 x 365 = 3650 bottled Budweisers a year. At 4 bucks a pop, the going rate at Vasmay, that’s somewhere in the vicinity of $14,500 bucks a year spent on booze. Tips not included.

Well, now, I’m probably not being fair to ol’ Jimmy. Taking into account the happy hour special, he probably spends more like $11,000 or something. Still a hefty chunk of change. Jimmy's in the bottom left of the attached pic. A spitting image, no? I can't get over it.

I’ll share some fond memories of the place in a later installment. Too many to post in one entry. For now, it’s only fitting that I briefly describe Vasmay, Pt. 2.

Yesterday after work I walk southbound thru Alphabet City and into Vasmay’s neighborhood, hoping for a few games of pool and a cheap beer. I’d been in a bit of a Vasmay drought: nearly a month had passed since my last visit. So I’m two blocks away on the north end of the street when I see (what appears to be) a gate over the main entrance. My heart sinks. I tear ass across Houston as fast as my legs can carry me, make for the window and prop on my toes to peer inside. Nobody. All the neon signs have been turned off. I feel like Neddy Merrill in Cheever’s “The Swimmer.” Dumbfounded, terrified, I think to myself, “what now?” Leave New York? Swallow a bottle of aspirin? I make some calls, not knowing what else to do. Jes picks up right away. I unload the awful news on her with quivering voice and walk to Stanton.

Then a miracle:

I’m dragging my carcass in a westerly direction, eyes on the pavement, when something in me initiates a turn onto Essex. I come across a place called Essex Ale House and think, what the hell. All right. The bartender, a bubbly Polish girl named Hania, takes one look at me and asks what in God's name is wrong. I can barely get the words out. They’ve closed Vasmay, etc., I adored that place, etc., what now and who cares. She laughs. Check the sign outside, she says. Sure enough, there’s a small handwritten message in block lettering:

VASMAY STYLE

Turns out they’re only relocating. Vasmay lives!
...

concert weekend

Next Thursday (8/7) thru next Saturday (8/9) I'm attending three kick-ass shows. Check it:

Thurs: The Police's final concert, MSG

Fri: Iggy and the Stooges, Terminal 5

Sat: Radiohead, Liberty Island


Are you kidding me?
...

confessions of a faux writer

I’m a liar.

My entire post-collegiate professional (ha!) life, come to think of it, has been founded on a singular off-white lie. For months—years, really—I’ve masqueraded as a full-time writer. It’s no easy task perpetuating this sly hoax, and I’m certain that more than a few of my closest friends are on to me.

In casual company, though, it’s remarkably easy to sell:

When cross-examined, the faux writer need only play up the mysterious/pseudo-intellectual/vaguely bored persona for a few miles and methodically invent a series of pieces that are either “in the works” or, conversely, completed projects of gargantuan vision and scope, ink long dried, specifics long forgotten. All the while—and this is the difficult part—the faux writer deftly circles the block a few times and offers swift disclaimers explaining away the reasons for none of his/your shit being available on-line for perusal (links to your work? actually, no, because…), thus rendering the inquisitive boob incapable of calling your bluff. Compare your work to, say, Raymond Chandler or Graham Greene. Lends you cred.

I’m neither deft nor methodical, however, so perhaps I’ve fooled no one after all. Also haven’t read Raymond Chandler. I should probably get on that or name-drop somebody else.

My lies:

a) I’m 35 pages deep on a memoir.

b) I’ve created a number of artist bios for Nashville singer/songwriters.

c) I’m a contributor to Chicago’s Beachwood Reporter, an online music forum.

The truth:

a) Well, I am working on a memoir. That much is true. For those of you who aren’t aware, I’ve spent roughly half my life (twelve summers) employed as a caddie. That’s my memoir. Eight years in Chicago at a private country club, four in Bandon, OR (see the attached picture) at the world’s number one resort golf destination. Most of the memoir deals with the latter. I worked with some real shysters—three hundred of the roughest, crassest, most destitute cretins you’ve ever seen. And then there were a half-dozen or so female caddies (Bandon’s a naturally occurring contraceptive) who deserve ample mention and a nice firm handshake for swatting away leagues of frothing sex-starved alcoholic crazies and keeping their clothes securely fastened. I’m on page 21, not page 35, and there’s no hint of cohesion. What I have, basically, is slop.

b) I penned one bio (which was actually kick-ass) for Matt Wertz (who is actually a Nashville singer/songwriter...these lies are not all vaporous). He paid me fifty bucks for writing the thing but never used it. Three people submitted and Matt scrapped all of them, opting to write the thing himself. He made a lousy decision. Mine was super brilliant. Anyway, the lie in b) was in the “…a number of…” part. That’s made-up.

c) I once wrote a review of the Velvet Underground’s White Light/White Heat for Beachwood’s “Bin Dive” subheading (a folder of sorts containing articles on old and long-forgotten albums), and they dug it. Problem is, they didn’t want White Light/White Heat. Think Todd Rundgren. Think Blue Oyster Cult. That’s more their scene. Ergo, rejected. So I guess I’m not really a contributor at all. I’m a fraud.

I’m pretty ok about all of it, though, the writer-with-nothing-to-show shtick, because I’ve been keeping up a loose journal/diary/bloggish thing for a number of years. It’s all on Word. There’s well over a hundred pages (this, unlike my claim of 35, is not an exaggerated figure) of stories, insights, existential crises. Some of it I remember writing, some…not so much. Yeah, I guess I’m a writer.

Q: Why have you been lying about this, Mike?

A: Insecurity. I want to be an established writer. But I talk more than I produce. To keep up appearances I kinda fold the truth, just a little bit. I really wish I could break my addiction to Yahoo! euchre. That eats up a lot of my time. (Chews on fingernail, scratches knee.)

I’ve commenced this blog to make myself feel better. It's a purely masturbatory exercise. The more I write, the more I sell myself to myself.

If you like it, great! That’s a bonus.



Current Yahoo! euchre rating—1751.