I recently celebrated my 51st birthday. Although I try to enjoy the day from year to year, certain birthdays have been more successful than others, as I assume is the case for most people. Some have been memorable, some forgettable, some happy, some sad. For my 51st, I didn’t make any special plans. Because all my children were going to be out of town, I decided to keep things low-key and just go out dancing with a friend – simple, yet fun. However, when I realized that my birthday fell on the same Saturday as Albany’s St. Patrick’s Day Parade, my expectations for having a good time were significantly lowered. They were reduced even further when I learned that we were anticipating the best weather enjoyed by the parade in recent memory – sunny and warm, a rarity in Albany during March. Given that the Irish population in Albany County is large, approaching 25%, and given Irish drinking predilections, I was less than hopeful that there would be a lot of people with whom to celebrate that night. I expected most people would be drunk and tired by dinner time. So, I was not surprised when I didn’t hear from my Irish-American dance partner.
Even though the weather was great, I did not attend the parade. With our high concentration of Irish, it often seems like we celebrate St. Patrick’s Day every week. In other words, after living here for so many years, I just didn’t need another Irish-centric day, even if I could have enjoyed telling people that the city threw a parade in honor of my birthday.
However, when the reality of being stood up on my birthday sunk in, I was feeling quite down. Even though I wasn’t expecting the best birthday celebration ever, I certainly didn’t consider the possibility that I would be alone. I should have known better than to make plans with an Irish girl on the day of the St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Live and learn.
As the evening wore on and I began to sink into the depths of despair, I rallied. I wasn’t going to let my disappointment get the best of me. There was always karaoke at Maggie’s to lift my spirits. And, I knew there would be spirits. And people too! Even people who liked and appreciated Sid Stein! So, I hopped into the shower, dressed and set off to Maggie’s Sports Bar.
Maggie’s was packed. Based on all the new faces I saw when I walked in, and their rowdy demeanors, it was clear that many of the patrons had wandered in after the parade. The more the merrier, right?
Maggie’s was packed. Based on all the new faces I saw when I walked in, and their rowdy demeanors, it was clear that many of the patrons had wandered in after the parade. The more the merrier, right?
I made my way to the bar, stopping to say hello to the DJ and some of the regulars. Many were anxious to hear me sing “Gin and Juice” by Snoop Dogg, so after I ordered a drink, I put the famous rap song in with Johnny the DJ. I had finished my first drink and had started another when I got the call to sing. Since the song is partially about drinking, I always feel more comfortable with a little alcohol in my system before I go up.
I was feeling it that night. It was my birthday, so I felt more inspired than usual. I sauntered around the room as I rapped, making eye contact with my fans at Maggie’s and making the girls giggle when I shouted BIATCH! They loved it. Applause! Applause! Then I turned around.
In the past, I have encountered some resistance from a minority of people when I sing “Gin and Juice.” There was that one woman who slapped me, an incident I recalled in a previous story. My friend, Greg the DJ, from Pinto and Hobbs, told me that an African-American patron once mildly protested and asked him to prevent me from singing it. Greg defended my right to sing whatever I wanted pursuant to the Freedom to Rap Clause in the First Amendment. Greg was not about to institute different rules for different races. 5950 caps off to Greg.
In the past, I have encountered some resistance from a minority of people when I sing “Gin and Juice.” There was that one woman who slapped me, an incident I recalled in a previous story. My friend, Greg the DJ, from Pinto and Hobbs, told me that an African-American patron once mildly protested and asked him to prevent me from singing it. Greg defended my right to sing whatever I wanted pursuant to the Freedom to Rap Clause in the First Amendment. Greg was not about to institute different rules for different races. 5950 caps off to Greg.
When I turned around after finishing “Gin and Juice,” however, I was confronted with a spectacle I had never quite expected. To say that the man bearing down on me was huge is a gross understatement. He was a mountain. At least 6’5”, he weighed a good 275 pounds. His biceps were the size of my thighs. He was white, bald with a goatee and reminded me of a very scary Hells’ Angel. He did have a bit of a belly, but it was one of the iron-looking stomachs on which you would probably hurt your hand if you hit it.
As this skinhead pointed his finger at me in a very threatening manner, he was shouting –“You’re white! You’re white.” I didn’t know how to react. I just stood there stupefied and stared at him, as if to say, “What the fuck is your problem?” Of course, no way was I going to say that to him. He could have popped my head like a cherry tomato. Apparently, my detractor objected to my singing a song by a black man, and more particularly, a rap song. As I continued to stand there dumbstruck by his outburst, he said, “If you don’t stop looking at me like that, I am going to fucking kill you.”
Yikes!
At this point, Maggie stepped in and confronted this miscreant. As she did, he started pounding his fist in the air while bellowing “White Power! White Power!”
At that point, I thought it best to work my way back to the bar and get far away from this guy. I even took off my bowler hat to be less conspicuous. Then I tried teaching myself how to breathe
again. 
As I sat at the bar, a scuffle broke out behind me. I turned around to find the neo-Nazi and a few of his friends involved in a pushing and shoving match with Jimmy (a regular) and a few others. I had no idea what caused the confrontation, but I was just as glad not to be a part of it. All of the guys were bigger than I. There was a good deal of shouting going on but I wasn’t sure what was being said. Girlfriends were trying to push their muscular boyfriends back to keep them out of trouble. You could almost hear them. “Please don’t fight! Stay out of it!” Adding a little humor to the scene, some guy was trying to sing a ballad the entire time. Johnny the DJ had to cut it short.
Order was finally restored but there was a pervasive unease at Maggie’s. Jimmy didn’t help matters when he subsequently sang “Rapper’s Delight,” the original rap song, by the Sugarhill Gang. The Grand Dragon stood up and shouted something but didn’t renew any physical hostilities. Jimmy, although tall, is as skinny as a rail and was clearly pushing the safety envelope. Still, I appreciated the fact that he was backing me up.
I suppose I should pause here and say something poignant about racism. It still exists.
I stayed on my barstool while karaoke continued. I wanted to go out and have a smoke, but that
would have meant passing the table where the Klan was having its post cross-burning party. I wasn’t taking any chances. I considered quitting.
I did, however, have a chance to find out about the specifics of the scuffle. It was about me, or more correctly, about the song I sang. Apparently, Jimmy asked the Grand Dragon something to the effect of “what the fuck is wrong with you?” Talk about taking chances. I was impressed. In response, Mr. White Power said to Jimmy, “I eat guys like you for breakfast.” Jimmy even had an answer. “It sure looks like you do.” Now that’s what I call testosterone.
I was a little surprised that Maggie didn’t throw the guy out, but that may have caused an even bigger problem. There was no one there big enough to handle my new enemy (he was with friends too) and it would have meant calling the police, which is never good for business. And, Maggie knew something I didn’t. This guy was a corrections officer at some jail or prison in the area. He probably knew the cops. At least Maggie didn’t throw me out. I guess she just crossed her fingers and hoped for the best.
Things did calm down after a while and I soon felt comfortable enough to go out and have a smoke. Of course, I did avoid any eye contact with New York’s biggest supporter of David Dukes.
While I was outside, I was approached by some guy who turned out to be a friend of “Sarge.” Apparently, that was either his rank or nickname or both. It was this guy from whom I originally learned that Sarge was a corrections officer. He tried to explain to me the stresses of the job and how working in a jail can change a person. I had no idea that working with the “scum of the earth” (his phrase) turned someone into a raging racist, but hey, you learn something new everyday. Sarge’s friend went on to explain that Sarge was really a great guy but maybe had too much to drink. It was the day of the parade, after all. He even offered to bring me over and introduce me to Sarge. I politely declined. I explained that maybe if Sarge wasn’t so drunk, it might be different, but I didn’t think it was prudent to take any chances that night. As if! In any event, he told me I wouldn’t have to worry about anything else that night, not from Sarge or from any of his corrections officer colleagues. Terrific!
I thought that it might help to sing a different kind of song to ameliorate the mood at Maggie’s, so I sang “Moondance” by Van Morrison, the famous Irish singer/songwriter. I thought that would be appropriate for St. Patrick’s Day. Besides, who doesn’t love Van Morrison?
I finished the song without incident. Sarge stayed at his table and continued to drink beer with members of his chapter of the Klan. My breathing finally returned to normal. Since the worst seemed to be over, I felt comfortable enough to talk about it with some of the other regulars at the bar. I just couldn’t get over the fact that this guy became so agitated just because I sang a rap song. I said to a friend, “Look at me! I am a fifty year old Jewish guy with four kids. If I was really ghetto, I would have pulled a gun out and shot the guy. Boy, is he lucky.”
I finished the song without incident. Sarge stayed at his table and continued to drink beer with members of his chapter of the Klan. My breathing finally returned to normal. Since the worst seemed to be over, I felt comfortable enough to talk about it with some of the other regulars at the bar. I just couldn’t get over the fact that this guy became so agitated just because I sang a rap song. I said to a friend, “Look at me! I am a fifty year old Jewish guy with four kids. If I was really ghetto, I would have pulled a gun out and shot the guy. Boy, is he lucky.”
I really couldn’t believe what happened next. Sarge got up with a friend to sing a song of his own. Before he started, he said something derogatory about Barack Obama and then told all the people who loved n****r music to get the hell out. And what did he sing? The modern-day anthem of the white South, “Sweet Home Alabama,” by Lynyrd Skynyrd. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sweet_Home_Alabama_(song)
Fortunately, Sarge left soon after he sang his song. I haven’t seen him since. I am not exactly unhappy about that fact.
I reflected on the events of the evening. I have always enjoyed singing “Gin and Juice” on karaoke night and most times, people love it. Still, never before had I ever inspired such passion with my singing. Pretty "sweet" if you think about it. On my birthday too! Also glad that "Sarge" didn't find out that I am Jewish!
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