9140. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, Pt.317

317. CATEGORIES 

OF WANT

I've often been

unsettled, but it's

always leveled

itself around me

and brought me

back  -  more an

enabling thought

than a limiting one.

There was a time, at

the old west-side

highway, ice-floe

dead Winter cold,

that I thought of

jumping in. It

could have been

pretty simple, I

guess, but then

for me nothing

ever was, and I

already knew

that. So I walked

away. I guess it

was all for the

better; who

knows? But then

again, who would

know better than

me? My call.

-

Some people are

just born cruel  -

or twisted or

bizarre. And 

there's no getting

 around it. Once

it's realized, it's 

as if the cat's out 

of the bag, so to 

speak.  There's a 

story about a kid, 

really poor, who 

looked so ragged 

and downtrodden 

that, on class-picture 

day, the teacher 

made him move 

aside, stay out of 

the picture. The 

little poor boy wasn't 

let in the picture. 

The teacher said, 

"Listen, someday, 

in the future, 

after the picture 

has been taken, 

they will say, 

'Here's Joe, he 

a bank manager; 

here's Wilford, 

he's a doctor; 

here's Emma who 

runs an astronomy 

lab.' So, when the 

photographer 

comes in, I want 

you to just stand 

over there, and 

stay out of the 

picture." So, 

the little kid 

does what he 

is told, and a 

few days later 

when the pictures 

come in, that 

same kid wants 

to order one, just 

like the rest of 

the class. The 

teacher says, 

'Why?' He replies, 

"I'll keep it. Then 

later, when I'm 

grown up, I can 

say, 'that was 

Joe, the bank 

manager; there's 

Wilford, who 

became a doctor; 

and that's Emma, 

the astronomer. 

And that's our 

teacher; she started 

coughing up blood 

and died at an 

early age.'" See 

what I mean? The 

whole idea is about 

learning yourself, 

what you are and 

what connects to 

you. Not everything 

does; and that's 

the amazing part  - 

and once that's 

learned, things 

get a lot easier.

-

One time I went 

into McSorley's 

 -  just after it 

had started 

allowing, or 

being forced 

to allow in  -  

women. I didn't 

really know much 

about it before 

that. It was an 

old man's bar 

with a lot of old 

New York history  

-  it used to be 

a dairy (like 

Chumley's too; 

somehow that 

'story' kept getting 

passed around, about
old dairies that
were now bars),

and there was 

some legendary 

old proprietor, 

(dead now, and 

then too) who 

used to walk his 

cow around the 

block each day, 

with the milk pail 

and stuff. Over 

time, in all these 

stories, the old 

milk and dairy 

barns somehow 

get turned over 

to beer and 

alcohol. It has 

a lot to do with 

the Irish influx,

 in the 1850's, 

and the Germans

 too (this east 

6th street area 

was once part of 

Kleindeutschland 

('little Germany'), 

one of the original 

German settlement 

areas). This place, 

mostly through 

the 1960's too, 

was men only, 

until whatever, 

when it changed 

over. But they 

never did make 

a ladies room at 

first, funny thing

  -  it was just this 

large, busy room 

with huge 

porcelain, or 

marble even, 

urinals, so big 

you could live in 

them, or shine 

your shoes or 

whatever. I can't 

remember if there 

was just one stall 

with a toilet or 

two, but females 

used to, (had to), if  

they so chose, just 

walk in, through 

all that, and 

hope they could 

get into the stall. 

No matter. Studying 

the history of places, 

like this one, it was 

first got me over 

there. I wasn't 

any big drinker 

or anything, but 

my history-snooping 

led me, through 

the dairy angle, 

to this quite old 

NY tavern. Oldest, 

or second oldest, 

people would fight

 and argue all day 

over that if you 

brought it up. 

See, in early NY 

City, through the 

1700's and up until 

the mid 1800's, 

when the various 

Sanitary Commissions 

and all the Inspectors 

and Health Depts. 

and officials and 

all began snooping 

around and shutting 

things down or 

trying at least to 

clean up the 

pig-infested, loose 

animal mess that 

was Manhattan, 

there was such 

a thing called 

'swill milk.' Many 

of the usual treacherous 

and corrupt types who 

ran things, in order 

to make a buck ["The 

term swill milk comes 

from the fact that 

cows were fed swill 

which was residual 

mash from nearby 

distilleries. The 

milk was further 

whitened with 

plaster of Paris, 

thickened with 

starch and eggs, 

and hued with 

molasses."]  : 

That milk, as

adulterated and 

nasty, was passed 

off as bonafide 'milk' 

and people bought it, 

whether knowingly 

or unknowingly, and 

it killed babies, caused 

horrible sicknesses, 

etc. There was such

a preponderance of
'breweries' everywhere, 

in that dirty, old original 

town, that the prevalence 

of this got to be such 

that, due to public 

health initiatives, 

and problems, 

much of it had to 

be shut down and 

regulated, quite 

fiercely. Anyway, 

that's why many 

of these alcohol 

places are often 

referred to also as 

'used to be a dairy.'  

You can look all 

that up; I'm just 

winging it. McSorley's, 

having become a tavern, 

a bar, whatever, attracted 

countless old guys from 

around that area, and 

still does. In addition, 

now, to all the stalwart 

college crowd and 

hipsters and arty 

types, and their 

babe-o-licious dates 

for the nights or 

whatever. It's often 

just a noisy mess 

on weekend nights  

-  crowded, unseemly,

 loud, and brash. But, 

in the sorry daytime, 

still, you can go in 

there and see 

wonderful things  

-  the afternoon 

light slants just 

right, angles and 

shadows, the sawdust

floor, cats and 

dust and tables 

and piles of 

memorabilia 

and things 

everywhere 

from a hundred 

years back on the 

walls and on the 

shelves. Old locals 

just waking up, in 

time to start 

boozing again. 

Sorrowful old 

men peering out 

of slit-eyes with 

stories to go. The 

bartenders are 

usually the 

immigrant Irish 

types, slinging 

beers, little mugs 

of like 6 at a time; 

various grades of 

mustards and onion 

and things on the 

tables. People usually

swooning by nightfall. 

Food and drink. I've 

had plenty of fun 

times in there myself 

over the years, but 

when I first learned 

about it it was part 

of my proper and 

serious library and 

book investigatory 

learning abut NYC. 

When you approach 

something like this 

from that angle, 

it always looks 

different and 

takes on a different 

air; you can't just 

see it as an 'attraction' 

or something like 

does someone from 

Iowa who sees it as, 

or the locals either. 

If there's a modicum 

of learning and 

reading about it, 

the entire past 

opens up and comes 

along with it. It's like 

stepping back into 

not just the subject 

but the connected 

references of the 

layers of old time 

and space, and 

all the personages 

and occurrences 

that went with it. 

Can't be helped; 

you just fall into 

that  -  a way-broader 

idea of history, still 

living and never to 

die. So, that was 

my entry to McSorley's, 

and now when I see 

it, or when I enter, 

I am not in the 

same place as 

any of the others 

within. Each 

year, Memorial Day 

Weekend is part of 

'Fleet Week' when 

all these sailors and 

their ships and 

boats are somehow 

berthed in 

Manhattan and 

docked for a 

week-long free-time 

of revelry for the 

sailors. Who are 

usually all goons, 

country-bumpkin 

types from everywhere, 

naive as all get-out, 

with tattoos and 

googly attitudes, 

all overwrought to 

be free and at loose 

in New York City, 

in their whites, 

'picking up chicks' 

and probably getting 

laid too. It's a 

glorious time 

for everyone. I 

see it as pathetic, 

myself, but I feel 

that way about 

anyone for whom 

a big deal is going 

to see a Broadway 

show, first, and 

calling it your NY 

Experience, and 

then doing the rest. 

And doing it all 

in your silly Navy 

whites too. But 

anyway, every 

year McSorley's 

is one of those 

right-of-passage 

places where 

these guys (and 

gals some too 

now) HAVE to 

be, even for just 

an hour. Mostly 

they get drunk 

enough, raucous 

and defensive 

about themselves 

and their Navy 

jobs and service 

to their great 

country and all 

that crap. I know; 

I've had one or 

three run-ins there 

over the years, 

when you start 

having to watch 

what you say 

because any of 

these All-American 

goons have to prove 

to you, at knife-point 

if need be, (thank 

God for gun-control 

I guess), how high 

and noble their 

service-to-country

is. The girls fleece 

these guys left 

and right, and 

tons of money are

made off the yokels, 

before they pass out, 

puke, or go running 

back to their ships, 

probably worried 

about having the 

clap too. Or anyway, 

that's how it used 

to be, into the 

mid-nineties, 

when I mostly 

gave up on that 

game. But places 

like McSorley's now, 

even they have lost 

all fidelity to what 

they once really 

were  -  simply 

neighborhood 

booze joints. Now 

you can't drink 

outside, you can't 

smoke inside, and 

no where can you 

do the two together. 

You call that a tavern? 

People just say, 'why 

bother?' So all you 

end up with are the 

holiday goons or 

the weekend kids.