I got off the train and smoked a cigarette in the freezing cold evening and I wondered if it was worth it. I mean, I never really finish anything in my life anyway. Why should this be any different. Well, I suppose I end things: end but not finish. Blogs? Well, this isn’t my first attempt at one. I am a man of attempts.
Usually I call my friends before wandering into the night, into the reaches of Williamsburg looking for a bar I know little to nothing about but am determined to find. (Sidebar: I am surprised at how often this seems to be happening and wonder if it speaks to my character?) So I marched through the winds, through the dark, and I kept myself company on a journey I determined to be personal and therefore important. I thought about my impending debut at a book club. I hadn’t finished the book. Figures.
I had called them, hadn’t I? Called both ladies knowing they were most likely arriving before me, having both come from farther away. But only one had arrived so far. She even thought far ahead enough to get a slice along the way. This wasn’t going so well for me. I hate eating pizza alone, I do it far too often and now there was no pizza for me and everyone else was full. So no pizza.
Another cigarette in my lungs, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how close I was to the warehouse where my agency stores assets. I mean, really close. I could go check out some furniture for something, but I wouldn’t have anywhere to take it… so I just trudged on to The Richardson.
Oh. The Richardson. Such respite. Such warmth. Such calm resonance. I was so worried I would just end up another snarky fag with a blog. So judgey and cruel, never to endorse a bar on the list of lists. Would I have to die my hair crazy colors and get an “interesting” hair cut now? Could I really be just another dissenter of the public opinion; here to only point fingers and pick scabs? How would I build on that? It has been done, and turned into a movie. So thank you, Bar God, for The Richardson. This is the bar everyone who is like me wants next door to their apartment. (Except that means you live pretty far from the subway, which sucks. Just saying.)(Although I live REALLY close to BARN, and that is a very similar bar.)(Actually, I take it back. I like living near BARN more. It’s a better bar with a similar aesthetic and the neighborhood is far superior with better subway options.) (Too many parentheticals?)
Right: The Richardson. A nicely, dark-lit interior with Big-Bear Bar Tenders with warm smiles; The Richardson made me feel like everything really was OK. Kind of like Miik Snow does, with his dark crooning. Like you’ve just been let out onto your own noir bus stop and you have to find your own way from there. But it’s your own fabulous story so it will work out in the end. Like the film is just about to burst from sepia to color. At The Richardson the wallpaper is cheap, but choicefull. The tables are sturdy, and the drinks obvious. The food offered is simple. Comforting platters made up of crusty bread and tuna with olive oil, capers and olives, pretzels and pickles, mustard, cheese and olives.
The Crusty This and Thats
I am pretty sure the bartender kept calling me “Buddy,” and I liked it so much more than how the guy at Starbucks calls me “Mr. Youngprofessional” in the morning. God I wish he would stop that. It’s paper thin. These guys made you feel like they would pick you up from around the waste and carry you off. But that it was meant to be. Like, maybe, it was your story unfolding just like it was supposed to and all you had to do was stick around for it; find out what happened here, in this bar, to you.
Sometimes you just want a stiff bourbon, you know?
The Big Red. (Just Like the Bar Keep.)
