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I somehow missed this
joint all those years in my twenties trolling St. Marks Place with
the rest of the youngins and other flotsam and jetsam. It was out
of pure curiosity after years of walking by this slightly subterranean
space that we entered its wackiness. If there was ever a bar that
reminded me of what a gnarly, divey college bar should be, this was
it. The place is just absolutely crammed with shit. Shit on the walls,
shit behind the bar, shit hanging from the low, pressed tin ceiling.
And all over everything hanging and pinned and tacked is a layer of
grime, possibly from the days when smoking was de rigueur in the city
and definitely from the funky miasma of sweat and booze stank that
permeates every corner of the sprawling space, including the sad,
smudged trophy case. There is something surreal about the whole underground,
windowless thing already, but adding to it the 70s fraternity basement
kitsch only heightens the disorienting timelessness and sense of place.
If I were a younger man, which I am in mind only, I probably would
find myself instantly nostalgic for this bar, despite it being my
first--and possibly my last--time here. So for a night for those who
don't mind the time-warpy feel of being transported back to a nondescript
time in his or her life that recalls carelessness and fearlessness
against disease, this is the joint for you. [MF]
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