Thirsty Tuesday

Just like Domino's back in college more than one New York City bar has realized that Two-for-Tuesday is an advertising slogan that sticks. Hence Thirsty Tuesday.

Stroll in to meet my attorney at a quarter to twelve for round one. Exchange weekends. His is punk shows, late nights and art exhibits. Gysin's Dream Machine.

I spent my weekend on the right side of the tracks and was in a proper Hamptons Beach house. This also involved a lot of drinking, but outside, wrapped up in a sweatshirt around a campfire, staring up at the stars.

On the occasions that I'm not at home in New York City, where the skyscrapers and the light pollution blot out all but a few, or back in Central Mass where the light pollution is little but the trees sure do cover up a lot, I marvel at how many stars you can see in the clear night sky. They come in freaking layers. Behind them, is that a cloud? Oh no, it's the Milky Way. With the ocean lapping at the rocks you sit on, and a campfire in front of you begging for marshmellows, it's the perfect environment for a scary story.

But I have no takers. Only one of our troop is left outside, and she's too stoned to find my scary story funny or interesting, only scary. Which is strange, because I'm too altered to tell it without breaking into laughter every few sentences at the scared look on her face.

"And so he turned back, and he was the last to see the rest of them alive. A few weeks later, they go searching. First they find the deserted tent, torn open from the inside. About a hundred feet away, they find..."

I look up from the flames. Bug eyed stare. She's whimpering. I crack up.

But all in all a damn relaxing weekend, even if I had to occasionally move a boat or chairs or pack sheets, I got paid in beer and by sleeping in a bonafide cabin.

Leaving Blackout Bar. It's too loud now, the outside deck is shut, the masses have come back inside, and I'm glaring at my attorney at least a little over his denunciation of the Clash. Joe Strummer Clash at least. He's a Mick fan, all about the pop songs, not so much with the social conscience anthems. Don't seem genuine to him, he says. As I'm in a Clash t-shirt and have ensured for legal purposes that he knows I'm supposed to have Strummer's "Silver and Gold" at my funeral, I'm not in agreement.

But where to go now?

"Tommy's?" I venture, and get myself the closing argument of my life.

The following is a paraphrase of my attorney's argument. I agree firmly with his points and conclusions.

"Tommy's is a commitment.
Well, you go in, do your opening beer and a shot. Then it's over to a jukebox with the rest of that opening beer. You can put on one or two songs for a dollar. But for a slight price bump, you can get about 7 songs. To give yourself a bumper between the Audioslave or Journey or Nugent you hear now and the more that will be on later, you just gotta go with 7 if you got that many singles.

But oh no, there are more songs than you'd think on the jukebox in front of yours, and now your beer is gone, time for another.

Then a few songs later, your songs have come on, that first one, the one that'd leapt out at you comes blasting over the speakers. You whoop and take a healthy gulp, and all of a sudden, your beer's a little light. Time for another.

A few key songs later and you stumble into number six, that sad one that you wanted to hear in the first place. Which makes you have to have a shot to Townes or to Elliott or to whatever sad sack you put on, and you get a beer with it for a bargain. Then number seven is a rager, that you were planning to walk out on but then you're sitting there, and you still have 80% of your beer left. And you realize the song is almost over and you have beer left, and if you don't put something on, you'll be left with sports bloopers on the tube."

Midway to Franklin, I pull on his sleeve and go "Dammit, we have to go there don't we?"
"YES!"

We blather on about the virtues of Tommy's Tavern, about how good it feels to fit in at an authentic dive bar. None of this faux hipster dive nonsense, but a real honest to god working class bar. About the chaos and the horror and the unpredictability, and then we are on that corner, I can taste the Schlitz. I offer to buy the first round, because I've gone and got myself thirsty again.

But we peer in. Three people including the bartender. Some fishing show on the TV. Otherwise empty. Best not inflict our expectations on the bar of people looking for a quiet drink and to see someone land a bass.

We go our separate ways, having had a good night, but not having to expect a hangover.

Thirsty Tuesday.