my sabbatical...

is almost over.

the correct version...

The As Tears Go By version in the post below is the wrong one.  Which pisses me off because it completely destroys the "if I could sit that still my mother would never have yelled at me" joke in the title.

Additionally made meaningless is the reference to the smile at 1:45.

This is the right one:

<iframe width="480" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Jf9w2hJIqUk" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>

Update moments later:  Lord have mercy.  Technology is in revolt and the video refuses to embed.  Here's the u-tube link:

The Lexus-Nexus of The Year of Magical Painting slash If I could sit that still my mother would never have yelled at me slash I'll have a Mars Bar

I was looking at my 4th of July, Sandy post and wondering what songs I mention the most on TYOMP.  I decided the first was Marianne Faithfull's version of As Tears Go By.



I love that little glimmer of a smile at the 1:45 mark.

How she went from dewey-eyed British aristocrat to writing Sister Morphine, which some people call the most poignant drug song ever scratched out on Keith Richard's Telecaster (you can find it on Sticky Fingers), can be found here--a fun 27 minutes, offered in three parts, about that very thing.  And the aftermath, I suppose:







Honestly, how much fun is this?

Brief Personal Aside: For you completists, Ms. Faithfull features prominently in my novel about 2008 Wall Street set in 1969 Vietnam titled "Saigon:  Too Big To Fall".

Second is likely this Floating Men song, the title of which escapes me.

I'm nodding off
I'm getting full and lazy
Floating down the river in a second-hand canoe
I've got grapes and apples
I've got cheese and lemonade
Floating down the river staring off into the blue

I bet she wonders what I think of her now
I don't care what she thinks about me
Floating down the river half asleep

I've got my hat pulled down
I've got my toes in the water
Floating down the river getting drowsy from the heat
And I can close my eyes and see the poacher's daughter
Barefoot on a sandbar with a straw in her teethI bet she wonders what I think of her now
I don't care what she thinks about me
Floating down the river half asleep

I've got my hat pulled down
I've got my toes in the water
Floating down the river with a straw in my teeth
And I can close my eyes and see the poacher's daughter
Barefoot on a sandbar like she's waiting for me

This song still gives me goosebumps.  Turns out it's called Poacher's Daughter.  Which, for the longest time, I thought was Coach's Daughter.  Which I think is better, even if it's incorrect.

Because I'm 58, it means that the first time I heard The Floating Men was in my late 40s.  And I'm here to tell you, friends, they hit me like a left hook from Joe Frazier.  Playing it now, which I am, makes me think of the night I was folding laundry in my house in Saddle River, listening to Vin Scelsa's radio show on Sunday nights.  He played their version of Darkness on the Edge of Town and it hit me like a left hook from Joe Frazier.

Joe Frazier!

Third, but maybe first because obviously no Lexus-Nexus search was ever employed (if Lexus-Nexus, in the face of google, even exists anymore), is Sandy, the lyrics of which I transcribe every July 4th.

That waitress I was seeing lost her desire for me...

Ever notice how much Ike Davis looks like Bruce Springsteen?  This is him singing, I'm assuming, 4th of July, Asbury Park (Sandy):

The entirety of which goes like this:

Sandy, the fireworks are hailin' over Little Eden tonight
Forcin' a light into all those stony faces left stranded on this warm July
Down in the town, the Circuit's full of switchblade lovers, so fast, so shiny, so sharp
As the wizards play down on Pinball Way on the boardwalk way past dark
And the boys from the casino dance with their shirts open like Latin lovers on the shore
Chasin' all them silly New York virgins by the score

And Sandy, the aurora is rising behind us
This pier lights our carnival life forever
Oh, love me tonight, for I may never see you again
Hey, Sandy girl
My, my, baby

Now, the greasers, ah, they tramp the streets or get busted for sleeping on the beach all night
Them boys in their high heels, ah, Sandy, their skins are so white
And me, I just got tired of hangin' in them dusty arcades, bangin' them pleasure machines
Chasin' the factory girls underneath the boardwalk where they all promise to unsnap their jeans
And you know that tilt-a-whirl down on the south beach drag
I got on it last night and my shirt got caught
And they kept me spinning, babe, didn't think I'd ever get off

Oh, Sandy, the aurora is rising behind us
This pier lights our carnival life on the water
Runnin', laughin' 'neath the boardwalk, ah, with the boss's daughter
I remember, Sandy, girl
Na, na, na, na, na, baby

Sandy, that waitress I was seeing lost her desire for me
I spoke with her last night, she said she won't set herself on fire for me anymore
She worked that joint under the boardwalk, she was always the girl you saw boppin' down the beach with the radio
The kids say last night she was dressed like a star in one of them cheap little seaside bars, and I saw her parked with lover boy out on the Kokomo
Did you hear the cops finally busted Madame Marie for tellin' fortunes better than they do
For me this boardwalk life is through, babe
You ought to quit this scene too

Sandy, the aurora is rising behind us
This pier lights our carnival life forever
Oh, love me tonight and I promise I'll love you forever
Oh, I mean it, Sandy, girl
My, my, my, my, my baby
Yeah, I promise, Sandy, girl
Sha, la, la, la, la, baby

This song still gives me goosebumps.  

Because I'm 58, it means that the first time I heard Bruce Springsteen was in my late teens.  And I'm here to tell you, friends, that it hit me like a left hook from Mike Tyson.  Playing it now, which I am,  makes me think of sitting in Jerry and Dave's dank living room on Cresap Road, hearing it for the first time somewhere in the vicinity of 1973.  Possibly the fall of that year.  

Sha la la la la, Baby.

Reviewing the Peter McManus Cafe

I spent several days in NYC recently, then the Tour de France started.  Thus the dearth of posts.  Sorry.  I promise to do better.

While in NY, I stopped by my old watering hole, the famous Peter McManus Cafe.  Nothing was in any way different than it previously had been.  Which is a good thing in a bar.  One thing led to another and I told Howie the bartender that I'd call him in a couple of days to schedule something.  So several days later I needed to get the phone number of the bar, googled it, got to the Yelp site, got to the number, made the call.  Then I started looking at the reviews.

Wow.  You can see them here.  Three and a half stars, all things considered, is pretty good.  My favorite review was this 3-star review:

The best part of this place is the service. The bartenders are attentive and considerate. I can't say the same for the clientele.

The beer options on tap are good options. I was happy to have Harp (it's rare to find it on tap back home in Chicago bars).

I visited this joint with a friend mid-evening (between 6-7pm) on a Thursday afternoon and it wasn't that full. The place had a weird mix of young guys just off work (?), older folks, and one random guy who was commissioning bar patrons to sign his painting. By the time we left around 8:30pm-ish, the place was filling up quickly.

One thing to note: When we got our check, it was a hand-written tab without prices. When we asked how much for was for each of us, he seemd to pull a number out of a hat, "$12!". I am sure he's worked there long enough (or maybe he's the owner/manager?) to know the prices off the top of his head, but I though it was a little strange.

Anyway, it's a pretty good spot if you're in the area.

GIRLS: The girls bathroom is a total joke. It's pretty gross, even for a dive bar. Tip: hold down the handle on the toilet to get it to flush all the way. Gross, yeah - I know.


I'll call your specific attention to the part in yellow, which is fun.  I would also add that I don't "commission" people to write on the paintings (suggesting that I give them money to do so).  I ask them to write on the paintings.

Most of the negative reviews cite rudeness by the waitress staff.  Me?  It's hard for me to comment, given two things:  First, my mother always told me keep my mouth shut at the strategically appropriate moments.  Second, I'm a long-time regular and am basically treated fabulously.  So I choose not to judge.

Many of the good reviews mention some version of the "neighborhood bar", which is part and parcel of Nora Ephron's theory that NYC is really a collection of small neighborhoods.  I will say this:  if either of my kids were ever stuck in New York, in some kind of a bind, and needed 50 bucks, I know they could go to McManus, tell the bartender who they were, and they'd leave with the necessary cash.

And if that isn't a neighborhood bar, I don't know what is.