Friday, February 29, 2008
Now I Know Why Hello Kitty Looks Like That
I think it's because Japanese kitties look like this:
I know, I know, they're Scottish Folds, but judging by how many videos there are of the breed posted from Japan, I have to wonder if the Japanese like them because they look like anime characters.
I know, I know, they're Scottish Folds, but judging by how many videos there are of the breed posted from Japan, I have to wonder if the Japanese like them because they look like anime characters.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Temporary Insanity
I make no effort to hide the fact that most days, the needle of my mental state wavers between normal and mildly nutty. However, when I told my shrink friend that I thought that I had a slow, minor, 9/11-induced nervous breakdown that lasted for 5 years, he nodded solemnly and agreed with me.
Hard evidence, you ask?
Not only did I date this guy, I also dated this one.
Your honor, I rest my case.
Hard evidence, you ask?
Not only did I date this guy, I also dated this one.
Your honor, I rest my case.
His Casket Will be Draped In a Terrible Towel
Myron Cope, the voice of the Pittsburgh Steelers, died today.
He was the voice of Steeler Nation for 35 years. His Pittsburgh accent remained uneradicated throughout his broadcast career, and my growin' up years were punctuated by his voice saying "This is Myron Cope, on sports."
You had to hear it to believe it. If you want to hear what we loved about him, go here. May I suggest you click on "Brown Brings McDonalds Onto Plane," to hear a pure, unfiltered, old-school Pittsburgh accent.
He was the voice of Steeler Nation for 35 years. His Pittsburgh accent remained uneradicated throughout his broadcast career, and my growin' up years were punctuated by his voice saying "This is Myron Cope, on sports."
You had to hear it to believe it. If you want to hear what we loved about him, go here. May I suggest you click on "Brown Brings McDonalds Onto Plane," to hear a pure, unfiltered, old-school Pittsburgh accent.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
The Most Unfashionable Woman in the Fashion Biz Offers Fashion Tips
You know the state of fashion is in bad shape when I am routinely puzzled by some of the getups I see walking around in New York. I mean, you live in New York F-in' City, one of the fashion capitals of the world -- at least TRY, for god's sake.
It's true, I work in a fashion hothouse. Very few people come to work and just look nice. These women costume themselves every morning. Somehow, thankfully, my plain-Jane look melts me into the wallpaper, so my glaring lack of fashion sense, in the "fashion" sense of the word, is overshadowed by the glittering blonde butterflies who alight next to me in meetings. Truth be told, I'm just too old and lazy to try that hard, and have been for years. A good pair of boot cut jeans and a great turtleneck sweater -- that's my fall-winter-spring uniform. (By "great," I mean "not some shapeless, sexless Land's End cotton schmatte.") Oh, and of course, my Frye Boots. It suits my nature. Somehow, I think it kinda works. I've been told I dress "very L*****."
That being said, I somehow delude myself into thinking I can now comment on the non-fashion that I'm subjected to every day. Herewith, 10 of Jane's Fashion Tips and Observations:
1) Pants or a dress. CHOOSE ONE!
2) Lose this tote. It is just tired, tired, tired, and unless you're a personal trainer, too casual for everyday. Buy yourself a medium sized chic handbag. I happen to own this one, which I found after searching for a new black purse for a year and finding only hard, shiny, cheap-looking bags all junked-up with silver studs and large enough to carry a toddler, which annoys me and everyone else trying to navigate the subways. This one looks great, doesn't flash its designer name in invitation to snatchers, and holds my 13" laptop comfortably. I love it. If you knew how little I paid for it, you would probably want to beat me up. Oh, yeah, it goes great with my boots.
3) You know that little "X" of thread at the bottom of your skirt? Those are called "whipstitches" and garment manufacturers put them there so your skirt will keep its shape while it's on the boat from Indonesia. YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO CUT THEM OFF AFTER YOU GET YOUR SKIRT HOME, nitwit. I learned this when I bought my first serious interview suit after college (a navy blue double breasted Evan Picone, which in 198- was very fashionable, though I cringe now and think, "Double breasted? Agggh!" I looked like a minor mafiosa, but I thought I looked grrreat. ) Maybe young women just aren't wearing as many suits as they used to, but I see this at least once a week.
4) For you young men: That label on the sleeve is not an accessory. It's there so the salesman at the Men's Wearhouse can find your size. It's another thing you're supposed to cut off and get rid of before you leave the house.
4, the sequel) I know it's probably the first suit you've ever bought, but lose the flat-brimmed Yankee cap in gang colors. It's not adding anything to that air of businesslike sobriety you're trying to cultivate.
5) Those oversized hoodie sweatshirts with patterns all over them are just butt-fuckin ugly, man.
6) "She has a real sense of style," is never said about a woman whose primary wardrobe source is Ann Taylor. Except maybe by guys wearing pleated Dockers.
7) Just because it's fashionable doesn't mean you have to wear it. Are you short, chunky, Yugoslavian-calved women aware that tucking your jeans into your boots cuts your legline
in half and makes you look shorter, chunkier, and Hunkier?
8) Most women need a visit to an experienced bra-fitter. A good bra is essential to avoiding the dreaded quadraboobs and back fat over-under rolls. And ladies? Save that filmy unlined bra for going out or for your boyfriend. Your nipples aren't going to get you promoted. Own your sexuality after 5 o'clock.
9) More than one earring in each ear? Welcome to the secretarial pool!
10) Just because you have squeezed your ample bottom into size 6 jeans, it doesn't mean you are actually a size 6. Buy jeans that fit. Or a mirror. The last thing I need at eye level when I'm sitting on the subway at 8 am are your muffin tops and cameltoe.
Now, I have to pick out tomorrow's turtleneck.
It's true, I work in a fashion hothouse. Very few people come to work and just look nice. These women costume themselves every morning. Somehow, thankfully, my plain-Jane look melts me into the wallpaper, so my glaring lack of fashion sense, in the "fashion" sense of the word, is overshadowed by the glittering blonde butterflies who alight next to me in meetings. Truth be told, I'm just too old and lazy to try that hard, and have been for years. A good pair of boot cut jeans and a great turtleneck sweater -- that's my fall-winter-spring uniform. (By "great," I mean "not some shapeless, sexless Land's End cotton schmatte.") Oh, and of course, my Frye Boots. It suits my nature. Somehow, I think it kinda works. I've been told I dress "very L*****."
That being said, I somehow delude myself into thinking I can now comment on the non-fashion that I'm subjected to every day. Herewith, 10 of Jane's Fashion Tips and Observations:
1) Pants or a dress. CHOOSE ONE!
2) Lose this tote. It is just tired, tired, tired, and unless you're a personal trainer, too casual for everyday. Buy yourself a medium sized chic handbag. I happen to own this one, which I found after searching for a new black purse for a year and finding only hard, shiny, cheap-looking bags all junked-up with silver studs and large enough to carry a toddler, which annoys me and everyone else trying to navigate the subways. This one looks great, doesn't flash its designer name in invitation to snatchers, and holds my 13" laptop comfortably. I love it. If you knew how little I paid for it, you would probably want to beat me up. Oh, yeah, it goes great with my boots.
3) You know that little "X" of thread at the bottom of your skirt? Those are called "whipstitches" and garment manufacturers put them there so your skirt will keep its shape while it's on the boat from Indonesia. YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO CUT THEM OFF AFTER YOU GET YOUR SKIRT HOME, nitwit. I learned this when I bought my first serious interview suit after college (a navy blue double breasted Evan Picone, which in 198- was very fashionable, though I cringe now and think, "Double breasted? Agggh!" I looked like a minor mafiosa, but I thought I looked grrreat. ) Maybe young women just aren't wearing as many suits as they used to, but I see this at least once a week.
4) For you young men: That label on the sleeve is not an accessory. It's there so the salesman at the Men's Wearhouse can find your size. It's another thing you're supposed to cut off and get rid of before you leave the house.
4, the sequel) I know it's probably the first suit you've ever bought, but lose the flat-brimmed Yankee cap in gang colors. It's not adding anything to that air of businesslike sobriety you're trying to cultivate.
5) Those oversized hoodie sweatshirts with patterns all over them are just butt-fuckin ugly, man.
6) "She has a real sense of style," is never said about a woman whose primary wardrobe source is Ann Taylor. Except maybe by guys wearing pleated Dockers.
7) Just because it's fashionable doesn't mean you have to wear it. Are you short, chunky, Yugoslavian-calved women aware that tucking your jeans into your boots cuts your legline
in half and makes you look shorter, chunkier, and Hunkier?
8) Most women need a visit to an experienced bra-fitter. A good bra is essential to avoiding the dreaded quadraboobs and back fat over-under rolls. And ladies? Save that filmy unlined bra for going out or for your boyfriend. Your nipples aren't going to get you promoted. Own your sexuality after 5 o'clock.
9) More than one earring in each ear? Welcome to the secretarial pool!
10) Just because you have squeezed your ample bottom into size 6 jeans, it doesn't mean you are actually a size 6. Buy jeans that fit. Or a mirror. The last thing I need at eye level when I'm sitting on the subway at 8 am are your muffin tops and cameltoe.
Now, I have to pick out tomorrow's turtleneck.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Random Blabs
* Another trip to LA last week. Gray and dreary weather. I wasn't nearly as enamored this time around. Celebrity sightings: Julianne Moore on the way out, and Mary Kate Olsen on the way back. She got off the plane in LAX with her truly hulking bodyguard, wearing black leggings and huge sunglasses, and she looked like a fashionable spider. I was taken to dinner at Capo in Santa Monica, and it was okay, though there were some service missteps that would never happen in a white-tablecloth restaurant in New York: The bread was placed on the table as soon as we sat down, the waiter felt it necessary to advise us of which dishes on the menu were his favorites (as if I care), and my plate was cleared before my companion was finished eating. With entrees rounding out at $40+, Capo needs to button up its service to justify the prices. I've eaten in 4 restaurants in LA now, and for some reason I get the impression that everyone in them wishes they were someone. My dining companion told me the guy in the corner was one of the most powerful agents in Hollywood. Again, do I care? I guess that's what makes me a New Yorker. I was more impressed to sit next to Charlie Rose at Nobu than to see poor Jeff Conaway at The Ivy.
* On the flip side of it, I have two words: Business Class. I probably could have lit a cigarette and they would have let me smoke.
* I find it horrifying and uplifting at the same time that Lorin Maazel accomplished more diplomacy in one night in North Korea than Bush has been able to accomplish in 7 years.
* I think many things about people who read The New York Post on the subway, and funnily enough, none of them are, "Wow, you must be really smart."
* If those cheap Glad plastic containers are disposable, how come no one ever throws them out? By the same token, you only get out the Sharpie for the $6 Rubbermaids, don't you?
* Perez Hilton is living proof that there is indeed work for ugly people in the entertainment industry.
* Some of my secret vices: blue Kool-Aid, Raspberry Zingers, Orbitzgames Island Hop, America's Next Top Model
* Does anyone else find it interesting that even though everyone thinks the Clinton camp leaked the Obama photo (by now I shouldn't have to tell you what Obama photo), the first place it showed up was on Drudge?
* I wonder: Why is there a "d" in "fridge," but not in "refrigerator"?
* On the flip side of it, I have two words: Business Class. I probably could have lit a cigarette and they would have let me smoke.
* I find it horrifying and uplifting at the same time that Lorin Maazel accomplished more diplomacy in one night in North Korea than Bush has been able to accomplish in 7 years.
* I think many things about people who read The New York Post on the subway, and funnily enough, none of them are, "Wow, you must be really smart."
* If those cheap Glad plastic containers are disposable, how come no one ever throws them out? By the same token, you only get out the Sharpie for the $6 Rubbermaids, don't you?
* Perez Hilton is living proof that there is indeed work for ugly people in the entertainment industry.
* Some of my secret vices: blue Kool-Aid, Raspberry Zingers, Orbitzgames Island Hop, America's Next Top Model
* Does anyone else find it interesting that even though everyone thinks the Clinton camp leaked the Obama photo (by now I shouldn't have to tell you what Obama photo), the first place it showed up was on Drudge?
* I wonder: Why is there a "d" in "fridge," but not in "refrigerator"?
Monday, February 18, 2008
My Friend the Artist
I have a friend whom I see every month or so. She's a very talented sculptor and painter who walks dogs for a living. Somehow she's able to pay for her rent-stabilized apartment on West 11th Street by walking other peoples' pets.
We frequently go to museums, where she can tell me all kinds of good stories and tidbits about artists and movements, and in my artistic ignorance, I completely appreciate the mini-lessons in art history that she can provide. It's like having a private docent with me no matter where we go. What she told me about Edvard Munch's "The Scream" is quite eye-opening and unexpected. She makes the artists seem like real people, like when she told me that Picasso's friends used to hide what they were working on because they were afraid he'd steal their ideas. Apparently, he was known to do this. I loved learning that the most revered artist of the 20th century was a plagiarist, a hack.
What's inspiring is her approach to her own art. Her work is worthy of gallery shows and acclaim, but for her, it's about the process. She totally gets off on making art. She's not a blowhard about it, but speaks so passionately about what she does that you find yourself getting caught up with her. And she couldn't care less about whether anyone ever sees her art. In today's world, where everyone has their eye on the main chance, and says they want to be an artist, when in truth what they want to be is rich, famous, and acclaimed, her artistry is pure.
If you were to point this out to her, she would wave her hand and laugh her big laugh and give her version of "pshaw!"
Other people do it because they need to hear other people say, "Hurrah!" in order to get their validation. She does it because it's fun, because it charges her battery. She gets excited when she finds an undistinguished chunk of wood on the street and carries it home. Somewhere in it, she sees what it's supposed to be, and simply carves away all the things that it isn't.
Going to her apartment is like going to a little gallery in itself.
There's a part of me that is so envious of her for being a true artist. I realize that I am merely a highly skilled technician at my chosen craft. Yet there's the bigger part of me that enjoys being around her and her art in the same way I enjoy going to a great concert, or reading a fantastic book. You just have to appreciate the art for art's sake.
We frequently go to museums, where she can tell me all kinds of good stories and tidbits about artists and movements, and in my artistic ignorance, I completely appreciate the mini-lessons in art history that she can provide. It's like having a private docent with me no matter where we go. What she told me about Edvard Munch's "The Scream" is quite eye-opening and unexpected. She makes the artists seem like real people, like when she told me that Picasso's friends used to hide what they were working on because they were afraid he'd steal their ideas. Apparently, he was known to do this. I loved learning that the most revered artist of the 20th century was a plagiarist, a hack.
What's inspiring is her approach to her own art. Her work is worthy of gallery shows and acclaim, but for her, it's about the process. She totally gets off on making art. She's not a blowhard about it, but speaks so passionately about what she does that you find yourself getting caught up with her. And she couldn't care less about whether anyone ever sees her art. In today's world, where everyone has their eye on the main chance, and says they want to be an artist, when in truth what they want to be is rich, famous, and acclaimed, her artistry is pure.
If you were to point this out to her, she would wave her hand and laugh her big laugh and give her version of "pshaw!"
Other people do it because they need to hear other people say, "Hurrah!" in order to get their validation. She does it because it's fun, because it charges her battery. She gets excited when she finds an undistinguished chunk of wood on the street and carries it home. Somewhere in it, she sees what it's supposed to be, and simply carves away all the things that it isn't.
Going to her apartment is like going to a little gallery in itself.
There's a part of me that is so envious of her for being a true artist. I realize that I am merely a highly skilled technician at my chosen craft. Yet there's the bigger part of me that enjoys being around her and her art in the same way I enjoy going to a great concert, or reading a fantastic book. You just have to appreciate the art for art's sake.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Having My Mind Changed -- a little
I have to admit that I came to LA with a lot of pre-conceived notions and, well, let's just call them what they are, prejudices about the left coast, but I gotta tell you, dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker that I am, I don't hate LA the way I thought I would. I'm not ga-ga over it and dying to move here the way I was about the Rocky Mountains, but it totally does not suck.
Now, my rep tells me that I got extremely lucky since it rained buckets on Sunday, but by the time I landed on Sunday night, the rains were finished, and there was a very brisk breeze to keep things moving. It was about 50 degrees, and frankly, it was beautiful. I'm being put up at The Beach House Hotel in Hermosa Beach, and I gotta say, stepping out onto the balcony to look at the Pacific Ocean a hundred yards away isn't too awful, either.
The weather has been beautiful -- I keep comparing it to those gorgeous and clear high country days in Colorado.
Even better, I haven't experienced any of the fabled Los Angeles traffic jams.
LA really put on the party dress for me, I guess she knew that I was coming with a jaundiced eye and needed to have my mind changed a bit.
The work I'm out here for has gone relatively smoothly -- looked at 8 press forms over the course of yesterday's 15-hour marathon press check session (btw, the mailer is going to be guh-huh-horgeous), which meant that I didn't get back to the hotel until after 1:00 a.m. this morning, but it did mean that I got to sleep in.
And let's see, yesterday I was taken to lunch at the Pacific Dining Car, which has that hokey old power-broker feel to it. It felt like the kind of place where Los Angeles politicians might eat rather than celebrities. By the same token, it also had that air of being one of those "special occasion" restaurants, you know, where a family goes to celebrate their first kid being accepted into Harvard. A little bit fuddy-duddy and corny, but a fine meal nonetheless.
And to flip the card over onto its back, today she took me to THE IVY -- yes, the one you see in all the movies, complete with paparazzi flocked out in front waiting for someone famous to come out. I admit to being a little star-struck myself. We got to sit outside in a prime location where we could watch people coming & going, but alas, the celebrity sightings were minimal. Peter Fonda sat alone at a table with his sunglasses on, fiddling with his Blackberry. And celebrity tragedy/train wreck Jeff Conaway was there, looking a hundred, with his chief enabler, that truly terrifying girlfriend who shows up on "Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew." I mean, come onnnn -- Kenickie is a JUNKIE. How sad is that?
Now, my rep tells me that I got extremely lucky since it rained buckets on Sunday, but by the time I landed on Sunday night, the rains were finished, and there was a very brisk breeze to keep things moving. It was about 50 degrees, and frankly, it was beautiful. I'm being put up at The Beach House Hotel in Hermosa Beach, and I gotta say, stepping out onto the balcony to look at the Pacific Ocean a hundred yards away isn't too awful, either.
The weather has been beautiful -- I keep comparing it to those gorgeous and clear high country days in Colorado.
Even better, I haven't experienced any of the fabled Los Angeles traffic jams.
LA really put on the party dress for me, I guess she knew that I was coming with a jaundiced eye and needed to have my mind changed a bit.
The work I'm out here for has gone relatively smoothly -- looked at 8 press forms over the course of yesterday's 15-hour marathon press check session (btw, the mailer is going to be guh-huh-horgeous), which meant that I didn't get back to the hotel until after 1:00 a.m. this morning, but it did mean that I got to sleep in.
And let's see, yesterday I was taken to lunch at the Pacific Dining Car, which has that hokey old power-broker feel to it. It felt like the kind of place where Los Angeles politicians might eat rather than celebrities. By the same token, it also had that air of being one of those "special occasion" restaurants, you know, where a family goes to celebrate their first kid being accepted into Harvard. A little bit fuddy-duddy and corny, but a fine meal nonetheless.
And to flip the card over onto its back, today she took me to THE IVY -- yes, the one you see in all the movies, complete with paparazzi flocked out in front waiting for someone famous to come out. I admit to being a little star-struck myself. We got to sit outside in a prime location where we could watch people coming & going, but alas, the celebrity sightings were minimal. Peter Fonda sat alone at a table with his sunglasses on, fiddling with his Blackberry. And celebrity tragedy/train wreck Jeff Conaway was there, looking a hundred, with his chief enabler, that truly terrifying girlfriend who shows up on "Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew." I mean, come onnnn -- Kenickie is a JUNKIE. How sad is that?
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Did You Know... (Wonder-ful Trivia)
...that Michael Sembello, the same guy responsible for that crappy song "Maniac" from Flashdance, played guitar on FIVE Stevie Wonder albums, including the brilliant Fulfillingness' First Finale and Songs in The Key of Life? He even co-wrote a song on Songs, which by the way ought to be on everyone's Desert Island Disc list.
I KNOW.
...that Stevie wrote "Tears of a Clown" for The Miracles and "Tell Me Something Good" for Rufus & Chaka Khan.
...that some of the background vocals on "Pasttime Paradise" were provided by an actual gospel choir AND real Hare Krishnas?
...that Stevie had 3 Album of the Year awards by the time he was 27 and 25 grammys in all by 2007. Holy blind guy, batman.
Well, that's just a few tidbits. Can you tell I'm in a Wonder-ful mood today?
I'll finish with a little thought that goes like this:
If God is Love
And Love is Blind
And Stevie Wonder is Blind
Isn't Stevie Wonder God?
I KNOW.
...that Stevie wrote "Tears of a Clown" for The Miracles and "Tell Me Something Good" for Rufus & Chaka Khan.
...that some of the background vocals on "Pasttime Paradise" were provided by an actual gospel choir AND real Hare Krishnas?
...that Stevie had 3 Album of the Year awards by the time he was 27 and 25 grammys in all by 2007. Holy blind guy, batman.
Well, that's just a few tidbits. Can you tell I'm in a Wonder-ful mood today?
I'll finish with a little thought that goes like this:
If God is Love
And Love is Blind
And Stevie Wonder is Blind
Isn't Stevie Wonder God?
Scruffy Duffy's Farewell!
Kids, Scruffy Duffy's is CLOSING on February 6th.
I remember when it was just another 8th Avenue bar, way back when 8th Avenue was scary as hell, it was far too scary to even walk in the door. Then Pat and Eileen took it over from their father, renamed it Scruffy Duffy's, and opened their doors. I had a roommate who got a job bartending there, and Scruff's became a regular haunt. Those were the days when you didn't start getting ready to go out until 10 pm, and that was on a Tuesday night. I don't know how I did it, but in those days I consumed my fair share of brown liquor at Scruffy's on lots and lots of school nights and still got up and went to work clear-eyed and sharp. There were peanut shells on the floor, cable spools for tables, and the floor was see-through. We showed up for Karaoke Thursdays anyway.
In the late 90's there was a core group of regulars, your Janey included, who used to camp out at the front of the bar around the pool table. We would lounge in the two park benches at the front of the bar and the front windows and at the front of the bar. I plugged my five dollar bills into the jukebox and played "The Female of the Species (Is More Deadly Than the Male)" nine hundred and forty five times. I thank Alan the bartender for not hating me for making him suffer through it at least twice a night. The Rev used to come in on Ash Wednesday and give ashes. Shelly invented a drink, served in a pint glass. It was 1 shot of Absolut Currant and the rest of the pint was filled with club soda. It became known as the Shelly Cocktail, as in, "What'll you have? A Shelly?" You went to the john a lot, but you never got drunk, just mildly happy, and you could stay all night just cruising at 33,000 feet of buzzed. It was a neighborhood place. Roni and Sean were the most beautiful and in-love couple in the neighborhood, until they weren't.
Joe Pool ran the table almost every night. When he wasn't there, Tom W would take over with his funny break. Everyone followed the house pool rules (Rule #1: Don't be an idiot. Pretty good life advice, too).
There were scandals and hookups and fights and feuds.
The bartenders were part of our little family, Bob, Sean, Alan, Enda, Dermot.
Pat used to take regulars on "outings" -- to the Renaissance Fair, Booze Cruises, and once he even chartered a bus to take us to Great Adventure. We were on a Scruffy's booze cruise one night in August 1997, and we all drank tons of beer and I danced to salsa music until my feet in their strappy black sandals bled. We came off the boat and piled into cabs and didn't believe the cab driver when he told us "Princess Diana! She dead!" For some reason, none of us went back to Scruffy's that night -- we went across the street to JR's instead, where the Irish contingent of our group were all in tears. I remember the fine shine went off the night and I went home.
Pat would turn New Year's Eve into a "members only" night to keep out the bridge and tunnel riff-raff who would try to come in after watching the ball drop.
For my birthday in 1999 I asked Pat to hire Karaoke Dave from the early years, and he did it! I got to have my own private karaoke birthday party at Scruffy Duffy's. As a present, my ex-boyfriend gave me his Levi's denim jacket, perfectly worn in (falling to bits, actually), with the zebra striped collar he had had his grandmother sew onto it. He went home with a girl who wanted to be my friend and never would be after that. I still have that jacket and wear it occasionally.
Over the years, Pat made gradual improvements to Scruffy's, in lockstep with the upscalification of the neighborhood. The crowd got a little more uppish, and pretty soon the regular crowd scattered a bit, finding the crowds of suit-wearing Ogilvy ad guys and the ones from the financial firms that had set up shop in Times Square a little too "duuuuuude" to tolerate. The regulars scattered to other bars, other neighborhoods.
We do still drop in from time to time, and we always get a warm welcome from Pat.
So now, the Scruffy's era is coming to an end, not with a bang but not quite with a whimper, either.
Thanks, Pat. It was fun.
I remember when it was just another 8th Avenue bar, way back when 8th Avenue was scary as hell, it was far too scary to even walk in the door. Then Pat and Eileen took it over from their father, renamed it Scruffy Duffy's, and opened their doors. I had a roommate who got a job bartending there, and Scruff's became a regular haunt. Those were the days when you didn't start getting ready to go out until 10 pm, and that was on a Tuesday night. I don't know how I did it, but in those days I consumed my fair share of brown liquor at Scruffy's on lots and lots of school nights and still got up and went to work clear-eyed and sharp. There were peanut shells on the floor, cable spools for tables, and the floor was see-through. We showed up for Karaoke Thursdays anyway.
In the late 90's there was a core group of regulars, your Janey included, who used to camp out at the front of the bar around the pool table. We would lounge in the two park benches at the front of the bar and the front windows and at the front of the bar. I plugged my five dollar bills into the jukebox and played "The Female of the Species (Is More Deadly Than the Male)" nine hundred and forty five times. I thank Alan the bartender for not hating me for making him suffer through it at least twice a night. The Rev used to come in on Ash Wednesday and give ashes. Shelly invented a drink, served in a pint glass. It was 1 shot of Absolut Currant and the rest of the pint was filled with club soda. It became known as the Shelly Cocktail, as in, "What'll you have? A Shelly?" You went to the john a lot, but you never got drunk, just mildly happy, and you could stay all night just cruising at 33,000 feet of buzzed. It was a neighborhood place. Roni and Sean were the most beautiful and in-love couple in the neighborhood, until they weren't.
Joe Pool ran the table almost every night. When he wasn't there, Tom W would take over with his funny break. Everyone followed the house pool rules (Rule #1: Don't be an idiot. Pretty good life advice, too).
There were scandals and hookups and fights and feuds.
The bartenders were part of our little family, Bob, Sean, Alan, Enda, Dermot.
Pat used to take regulars on "outings" -- to the Renaissance Fair, Booze Cruises, and once he even chartered a bus to take us to Great Adventure. We were on a Scruffy's booze cruise one night in August 1997, and we all drank tons of beer and I danced to salsa music until my feet in their strappy black sandals bled. We came off the boat and piled into cabs and didn't believe the cab driver when he told us "Princess Diana! She dead!" For some reason, none of us went back to Scruffy's that night -- we went across the street to JR's instead, where the Irish contingent of our group were all in tears. I remember the fine shine went off the night and I went home.
Pat would turn New Year's Eve into a "members only" night to keep out the bridge and tunnel riff-raff who would try to come in after watching the ball drop.
For my birthday in 1999 I asked Pat to hire Karaoke Dave from the early years, and he did it! I got to have my own private karaoke birthday party at Scruffy Duffy's. As a present, my ex-boyfriend gave me his Levi's denim jacket, perfectly worn in (falling to bits, actually), with the zebra striped collar he had had his grandmother sew onto it. He went home with a girl who wanted to be my friend and never would be after that. I still have that jacket and wear it occasionally.
Over the years, Pat made gradual improvements to Scruffy's, in lockstep with the upscalification of the neighborhood. The crowd got a little more uppish, and pretty soon the regular crowd scattered a bit, finding the crowds of suit-wearing Ogilvy ad guys and the ones from the financial firms that had set up shop in Times Square a little too "duuuuuude" to tolerate. The regulars scattered to other bars, other neighborhoods.
We do still drop in from time to time, and we always get a warm welcome from Pat.
So now, the Scruffy's era is coming to an end, not with a bang but not quite with a whimper, either.
Thanks, Pat. It was fun.