Today is my birthday. Although it’s a day of celebration, I like to devote a portion of the day reflecting on my past. It’s not the same brand of intense scrutiny required on Rosh HaShanah, the Jewish New Year. Rather, it’s a time to remember some close brushes with death. I can only hope that I really do have nine lives. My next few entries will explore this theme. Here is one such tale.
It was Thursday. A cold winter night. I started my evening in downtown Albany and eventually made my way up to the Bleecker, at the corner of State and Dove. It was karaoke night back in the day when Sue was still the bartender. Sue always took good care of me. Maybe she cared too much for me on occasion. I probably shouldn’t have left her such good tips. She has been gone a few years now, ever since the Bleecker changed hands. I miss her.
Thursday is my night to go a little wild. It’s my favorite night of the week for going out and this particular Thursday was no different. And yes, I knew better than to drive. Still, finding a cab in Albany is sometimes tricky. One has the option of calling a cab from the bar. Depending on availability, it can take a long time before one arrives. On the other hand, it’s fairly easy to flag one down on Lark Street at the corner of Madison. There are over six popular bars near that corner, not to mention the queen of the capital region’s Dunkin Donuts, where Maria and Belinda, members of the Latin coffee cartel, serve coffee, donuts and breakfast sandwiches to cops, drunks and bums. I wonder which group I belong to. Anyway, I usually get a Coolatta and a coffee cake. Maria sometimes treats me when she has questions about Family Court. She often does. My destination this Thursday, however, was on the opposite corner. I wanted a slice of Romeo’s pizza. I was hungry after a night of singing. And drinking.
From the Bleecker, it’s a solid 15-20 minute walk to Romeo’s. You can add a few minutes because I was walking slowly. I always walk a bit slower after a few hours of strenuous karaoke. I remember that I was in a good mood, singing softly to myself as I made my way, west up State Street, past brownstones, and then south on Lark. Lark is an eclectic mix of bars, restaurants, shops and apartments. I would always pause and reflect at the pink-painted brownstone formerly owned by Char until she had to file for bankruptcy protection. Her former home is still pink. No one has brought it out of foreclosure. I have no idea why. Maybe it has ghosts. I wouldn’t be surprised. Char is an Albany icon. A stunning blonde with pale yet luminous skin, and always dressed in gothic black, Char owned the QE2, Albany’s premier punk/hardcore rock club. She hosted some great bands over the years. Char wasn’t a great business woman, but she knew music like no one else. A lot of great acts performed there before becoming famous. She even had a double bill of Soundgarden and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. My personal all-time favorites were the Genitorturers and Jonathan Richman (he sang "There’s Something About Mary). They each made annual visits. But, I digress. What I want you to remember is that it was very late at night, close to 2 am and I was minding my own business. http://www.larkstreet.org/dining_nightlife.php
About halfway down Lark, I was confronted by two men, both in their thirties. "What the f%@& is your problem?" the bigger one barked. Apparently, he was not in as good a mood as I. "I have no f%@#ing problems," I confessed. With that, the bigger and uglier one got right up in my face. "You want to start something?" He was full of questions. "Just get the hell out of here," I countered.
To be honest, I can’t recall the exact conversation after this point. I do remember that I was in imminent danger of getting my ass kicked. There were two of them, but even one could have accomplished the feat without breaking a sweat. Sid, I thought, you’ve got a problem. A big f#%$ing problem.
All of a sudden, a tall black man came bounding across Lark Street. He immediately positioned himself between me and these rather rude and confrontational cavemen. "Why don’t you just turn around and keep walking," he suggested. At first, the bulkier Neanderthal balked. "It’s not your f#%$ing problem. I wasn’t talking to you. Stay out of it." My rescuer remained calm and replied: "Listen, this is a black man telling you to turn around and keep walking. I recommend that you do just that." I was impressed by his quiet power. The two thugs stood their ground. "Once again, this is a black man telling you to just turn around and keep walking."
My would-be attackers appeared to reflect on the moment and then turned and walked away. Even before I was finally able to breathe again, my savior put his arm around me and in an almost innocent way, inquired: "Are you a top or a bottom?" "Sorry," I replied. "I’m not gay, but thanks for coming to my rescue." "No problem," he responded. "Glad I could help." And off he went.
In Albany, we have a saying just for these moments. "Only on Lark Street."
I continued on my way to Romeo’s and ordered two slices. Why not?
It was Thursday. A cold winter night. I started my evening in downtown Albany and eventually made my way up to the Bleecker, at the corner of State and Dove. It was karaoke night back in the day when Sue was still the bartender. Sue always took good care of me. Maybe she cared too much for me on occasion. I probably shouldn’t have left her such good tips. She has been gone a few years now, ever since the Bleecker changed hands. I miss her.
Thursday is my night to go a little wild. It’s my favorite night of the week for going out and this particular Thursday was no different. And yes, I knew better than to drive. Still, finding a cab in Albany is sometimes tricky. One has the option of calling a cab from the bar. Depending on availability, it can take a long time before one arrives. On the other hand, it’s fairly easy to flag one down on Lark Street at the corner of Madison. There are over six popular bars near that corner, not to mention the queen of the capital region’s Dunkin Donuts, where Maria and Belinda, members of the Latin coffee cartel, serve coffee, donuts and breakfast sandwiches to cops, drunks and bums. I wonder which group I belong to. Anyway, I usually get a Coolatta and a coffee cake. Maria sometimes treats me when she has questions about Family Court. She often does. My destination this Thursday, however, was on the opposite corner. I wanted a slice of Romeo’s pizza. I was hungry after a night of singing. And drinking.
From the Bleecker, it’s a solid 15-20 minute walk to Romeo’s. You can add a few minutes because I was walking slowly. I always walk a bit slower after a few hours of strenuous karaoke. I remember that I was in a good mood, singing softly to myself as I made my way, west up State Street, past brownstones, and then south on Lark. Lark is an eclectic mix of bars, restaurants, shops and apartments. I would always pause and reflect at the pink-painted brownstone formerly owned by Char until she had to file for bankruptcy protection. Her former home is still pink. No one has brought it out of foreclosure. I have no idea why. Maybe it has ghosts. I wouldn’t be surprised. Char is an Albany icon. A stunning blonde with pale yet luminous skin, and always dressed in gothic black, Char owned the QE2, Albany’s premier punk/hardcore rock club. She hosted some great bands over the years. Char wasn’t a great business woman, but she knew music like no one else. A lot of great acts performed there before becoming famous. She even had a double bill of Soundgarden and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. My personal all-time favorites were the Genitorturers and Jonathan Richman (he sang "There’s Something About Mary). They each made annual visits. But, I digress. What I want you to remember is that it was very late at night, close to 2 am and I was minding my own business. http://www.larkstreet.org/dining_nightlife.php
About halfway down Lark, I was confronted by two men, both in their thirties. "What the f%@& is your problem?" the bigger one barked. Apparently, he was not in as good a mood as I. "I have no f%@#ing problems," I confessed. With that, the bigger and uglier one got right up in my face. "You want to start something?" He was full of questions. "Just get the hell out of here," I countered.
To be honest, I can’t recall the exact conversation after this point. I do remember that I was in imminent danger of getting my ass kicked. There were two of them, but even one could have accomplished the feat without breaking a sweat. Sid, I thought, you’ve got a problem. A big f#%$ing problem.
All of a sudden, a tall black man came bounding across Lark Street. He immediately positioned himself between me and these rather rude and confrontational cavemen. "Why don’t you just turn around and keep walking," he suggested. At first, the bulkier Neanderthal balked. "It’s not your f#%$ing problem. I wasn’t talking to you. Stay out of it." My rescuer remained calm and replied: "Listen, this is a black man telling you to turn around and keep walking. I recommend that you do just that." I was impressed by his quiet power. The two thugs stood their ground. "Once again, this is a black man telling you to just turn around and keep walking."
My would-be attackers appeared to reflect on the moment and then turned and walked away. Even before I was finally able to breathe again, my savior put his arm around me and in an almost innocent way, inquired: "Are you a top or a bottom?" "Sorry," I replied. "I’m not gay, but thanks for coming to my rescue." "No problem," he responded. "Glad I could help." And off he went.
In Albany, we have a saying just for these moments. "Only on Lark Street."
I continued on my way to Romeo’s and ordered two slices. Why not?
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