Category Archives: moldies but moodies

Scratchy Collapsy

Well here we are again, May 12. Not my favorite day, even though it’s a beautiful day, I would rather the date itself be different. But it’s Mother’s Day today just like it was 22 years ago. There’s been a twist added the past couple of years. The cigar shack of course plays a part. In 2011 the manager of the store announced he was leaving which threw me for a loop. I did congratulate him as he was leaving and also his reluctant successor also got some praise. I explained sometime later to the departing manager why May 12 loomed large in my legend.

Last year around the date and on Mother’s Day he sent me a tweet saying he was thinking of me knowing that this time of year ain’t so good for me. I thought that was nice. On my Twitter account was a link to this here blog (it’s still there) and I guess my former manager had the time to follow the link. He read what I had written and in turn contacted my then current manager, the reluctant one- and told him about this here blog.

The reluctant manager was out in NJ at some Giants football cigar to do and more than likely had a few in him, so when he sent an email thinking it was going to his underling, it was actually sent to me. So I knew the score, the reluctant manager’s cover was blown and less than a week later I was released, shown the door and told that my services were no longer required. I haven’t been back since and I do miss chatting with my former co-workers, but then again we do touch base via Facebook.

It was not as devastating as 1991 I can tell you. So today has been nice, mellow. A phone call with Annemarie, with posting and seeing posts on Facebook from family and friends, emails from Irene Grant from where I grew up, wishing the best and filling me in on her mother’s condition (frail). But I’m not gloomy, nor am I resentful.

The past two nights at Maxwell’s have been slow. Friday night was busier than Saturday night and that’s not saying much. At least on Friday I worked the whole shift, last night I went home at 11:00. Bad scheduling I would say. Friday had five bands, the first one had the largest audience, mainly family members and their friends. Saturday, two bands, first one on at 8:00, headliner on at 9:00 and it was basically all over by 10:00.

And unnervingly the first band (or one guy) Johnny Nicholson sounded a bit like Port St. Willow, whom I’ve been championing on this here blog. At least Johnny Nicholson did when I checked out some of his opening slot. I went to far as to email Nick Principe aka Port St. Willow asking if he had heard of Johnny Nicholson. I was tempted to ask Johnny Nicholson if he heard Port St. Willow but I let the moment pass instead. The headliner Trixie Whitley was a little too twee for me to see more than I did.
Bill is off visiting his mother at the home she is currently residing in, up in Washington Heights/Inwood. I’m watching Ian Dury and the Blockheads videos since today is also Ian Dury’s birthday. That’s about all this is going on, on this end of this here blog.

And we hope Mr. Peabody is on the mend.





My Mom and me.

My Mom and me.

The Perfectly Blended

The past two nights at work- observed.
Last night, a scary looking grandmother came in. Saturday nights seem to be the night for moms and dads and their babies in strollers. This grandmother was having some trouble with getting the stroller in so I held the door and said to the infant in the stroller, ‘Hey little person.’ Something friendly I thought, but the grandmother asked in a nasty manner- ‘What did you say?’ I repeated what I said and realized that grandma was going to be weird.

All I want is a glass of wine and some appetizers. I set her up nearby, the baby chewing on a fork while grandma got her drink on. Then she realized the kid was hungry and should probably eat something, besides the French Onion soup which was spicy enough for grandma, but too spicy for an infant.

The current look for men these days is closed cropped hair on the side and slicked back or gelled hair, carefully quaffed and parted. And the tattoos. Nerds with tattoos still seems to be the way to go. I dislike tattoos and yearn for the days when having a tattoo meant you were tough. Now it means something that is not tough at all. The hip girls at work all wore their hair up in a bun, even when they’re not working.

The bar is crowded on the left side, the right side a few unoccupied bar stools. People come in and stand around the left side, not noticing empty bar stools on the other side. The service would be the same, if not better with less competition for beverages but these people are sheep like and go with the crowd.

A few drunks came in. So drunk they could barely stand but when they find they are cut off from drinking anymore they somehow find some sort of resolve to stand up and show their indignation. One drunk had friends who seemed to call the drunk’s parents who were nearby and collected him, carrying him into the back seat of their SUV while Mom sat in the front passenger side.

The bands that played were unknown to me but had enough people waiting to see them, sometimes even trying to get into the sound check. I did my best to prevent it, but realized that I had my own job to do and the door guys should handle it. They tried. The guy who checks ID’s suddenly quit on Friday and didn’t come in. It was up to me to prevent people from leaving with drinks. That was not easy and a few did get by, leaving me to collect empty cans of the worst beer, Pabst Blue Ribbon.

I think David Lynch is responsible for the resurgence of Pabst Blue Ribbon thanks to the Frank Booth character played by Dennis Hooper in Blue Velvet. It might have been ironic in the late 1980’s but nowadays it strikes me as dumb. But hey, it pays the bills and the tatted up hipsters in skinny jeans and slicked back hair drink it and the bartenders are happy to take their cash.

Last night I bummed a cigarette off a guy standing outside. For some reason he thought I was a singer and asked me to harmonize with him, and since I felt indebted to him I did. he suggested Silent Night of all songs and I proceeded to sing, quite ably from what I was told. After that we tried Cecilia by Simon and Garfunkel which didn’t go so well. We also did a bit of California Dreaming by the Mama’s and the Papa’s. I’m sure if we figured out who was Cass and who was Denny it would have sounded better. It was good to sing with someone and I found it somewhat spiritual.

I just remembered I got hit on twice by the same guy. The first time, as I was walking by him said into my ear that I smelled nice. A little while that he told me that I was a sharp looking man. He wasn’t bad looking either and I’m definitely not mad at him though it did take me by surprise…