The Blarney Cove

    

The Blarney Cove seems to be one of the only bars in the East Village that didn’t receive the memo that the 'hood is now about expensive drinks, NYU kids, and shrieking woo woo girls who truck in from the 'burbs for a night in the big city.  Even those who visit divey shithole bars as hip anthropological experimentation tend to steer clear of the Blarney Cove's front door.  I loved it because it was a place for professional drinkers to lose themselves without inhibition. It reminded me of the line in "It's A Wonderful Life":

Hey look, mister- we serve hard drinks in here for men who want to get drunk fast and we don't need any characters to give the joint "atmosphere".

It was always dark in there regardless of the time of day. The only light I can recall noticing was the faint illumination from the bar. It gave off a weird sort of glow that made everyone look like they were terminally ill.  I would go there because I knew I didn't have to impress anyone.  I certainly was not going to run the risk of running into future wife material and if I happened to rub shoulders with anyone I might've known from my outside life, it was safe to say that the person I saw was as much of a degenerate as I was.

No one cared if you slept at the bar, chewed the shit out a straw, or talked to yourself as long as you didn't bug anyone else.  I've heard that people have been 86ed from the Blarney Cove.  If you can't keep your shit together enough to remain welcome at the Blarney Cove, there's not much hope for you as a public drinker. The next stop is either drinking alone at home or while wandering the streets because there's few other places that will tolerate your sorry ass.  It's a pretty low bar to make it as a Blarney Cove regular. Failure to meet that standard says a lot about a person's ability to co-exist with the rest of the human race.

I learned today that the bar is set to close at the end of the month.  The surprising part is that they managed to stay open as long as they did.  Per an article in the EV Grieve, the whole block is shutting down business-by-business.  What does the future hold?  Who knows? All I can say is that the march of change has claimed another uniquely New York artifact.

Photo courtesy of EV Grieve

Kelly's Pub

I dreamt last night that I was in one of those old-time divey Irish bars in NYC. For some reason, they served breakfast platters that came with 6 eggs. According to dreammoods.com:


To see or eat eggs in your dream, symbolize(s) fertility, birth and your creative potential. Something new is about to happen.

That would work out just fine for me.

The dream made me think about Kelly's Pub in Hoboken. It was the classic Irish bar of Hoboken for 30+ years before it closed down amidst the crossfire of a major feud among the 3 siblings of Mr. and Mrs. Kelly. When Mr. and Mrs. Kelly died, the kids took over and couldn't get along well enough to keep the ship sailing straight. As Hoboken transformed from gritty to pretty, Kelly's was the place where B&Rs (those born and raised in Hoboken, non-yuppie) could still come for cheap and strong drinks and to reminisce about the town that had escaped their working-class grasp. On the morning of the Hoboken St. Patrick's parade, the place would be packed by 8AM. The police and firefighters would be there in dress uniform sandwiched in with locals and whoever else decided to show up for the day.

When I moved to Hoboken in the late 90s, I was afraid to walk through the door as I'd heard that it was a dangerous place to visit. I remember walking past on weekday mornings at around 8 or so and seeing someone at the bar drinking. When I finally showed my face there after a few months, the Kellys had done a purge of the worst troublemakers and drug dealers but thankfully allowed a few of the more charming miscreants to stay. One person who had been 86ed and then let back in (I think) explained to Patty Kelly that the reason he had acted out on the night he was tossed was that he had a “brain problem” and could not control his actions. From what I recall, he pleaded to be let back in.

At that bar, I met guys who rolled with the Hoboken MCs, the women who tried to love them, people who were pillars of the community, and guys who definitely were not. Kelly's was a place where professional drinkers hung out. There were no “Sex In The City” cocktails for this crowd although over time, the young yuppie crowd made their way in as it became somehow hip to drink in places like this. I'd always hold out hope that Loretta the bartender would finally succumb to what I thought was my irresistible charm but was really just the ramblings of another boring, self-important drunk. At Kelly's, I learned more about the history of Hoboken by listening to the stories about the old days: landlords who burned down their own buildings to facilitate rent increases; the blocks that were so dangerous that you couldn't walk down them during the day. I loved the men's room marble urinals that seemed bit enough to accommodate a horse and easy to fall into but hated the single stall that had a clear window on the door, most likely put there to prevent illicit activity. It took a while before I had the courage to use that toilet but the need to keep drinking comfortably trumped my long-standing OCD issues around dingy public bathrooms.

As easy as it is to wax nostalgic, there's also something sad about my time there. I can still recall the names and faces of many of the regulars there as well as their stories. However, most of those people never knew my name nor could they remember it because they were so wasted every time I saw them. I'm sure no one knew the first thing about me. At the bar, I fancied myself to be a latter day Hank Chinaski taking in the sights, sounds, and smells but in the 8 or so years I drank there I was just another piece of replaceable furniture. There was lots of chatter but very little real connection. I usually entered alone and left alone.

Still, I wonder how some of those folks are doing these days: the Kelly sisters (especially Lori and her kid); Bob; Cheech; and of course, Loretta. I have no idea where all of these people ended up after they lost their community headquarters but I hope everyone is doing alright tonight.

Photo courtesy of hoboken411.com