EV Grieve has written about a guy in the East Village who parks an RV outside of his apartment building, check out the post here.EV Grieve commenter Larry Slade left a comment within the post saying that the Daily News recently did an article featuring the owner and the RV. I followed the link and it turns out the guy who owns it lives nearby where he parks it and treats it like a living room on the street. His name is Ron Britt and he’s quoted as saying he wants the interior to feel like a Texas whoreshouse. It also says he’s a singer in a disco/blues band. Okay, I’m intrigued and would like to meet this guy and maybe hang out in the RV and have a few beers. If he’s not inside, maybe we can find his apartment. At the very least, it’s near the Chillmaster Lair, so if all else fails, maybe we can roust The Chillmaster. Only one way to find out and that’s to get going to the East Village.
Off we go, into the wild dark yonder.
And down into the bowels of the subway system.
Ha! Check out the sign. "The Fun Is Back In Coney Island." That's true for this weekend, but the fun will be long gone next year as the Boardwalk gets turned into a land of sports bars and coffee shops.
Okay, here we are, the East Village, off to find the Free Willie RV!
There's a band playing at Boca Chica tonight. They've got a full house here.
And look, it's an RV, this doesn't look like the Free Willie one though.
This isn't the Free Willie, I read that Ron has two RV's and this is his secondary one, "Old Flat Top." Two RV's in New York City, that's pretty nuts!
Ha! There's a giraffe behind the wheel. I'd really like to meet this guy!
I walked up and down the block and can't find the Free Willie RV. I wonder if he's out on a road trip for the Labor Day weekend?
Another crazy thing is he's got his phone number on the RV. I blocked a few numbers out. Hey, you want to call him, you make the trip here, I'm not a walking white pages here!
So I called him and sure as shit on a shingle, it's his number. I got his answering machine and left a message. I sounded real pathetic on the message, for some reason I can't memorize my cell phone number, so I always leave messages saying, "I don't know what my cell phone number is, but hopefully you've got it and will call me back." I don't get a lot of return calls. But that's okay with me.
On the message I told him I'd wait at the corner for a while, so I got four beers to drink while waiting.
They forgot to put a brown bag in with the beer, so I decided fuck it, I'm drinking them bareback style on the sidewalk. Breakin' the law!
Well, I waited twenty minutes and never heard anything, so I thought I'd mosey down to the Chillmaster Lair and see what's shaking.
Ahh, the window is closed. Oh well, I'm down to my last beer anyway...hey, let's go drink it at the Mars Bar while it's still there.
It's just a couple blocks away.
It's still here. It'll be a sad day when it's not on this corner.
To the Mars Bar! Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
Fuck, I had plans to do something tonight and for once it was slow at work, so I thought I’d leave a little early for once. But then a funny thing happened about a half an hour before I was ready to leave. Work started flying in. One job, two jobs, three jobs and then a pain in the ass job that’s due to be installed first thing in the morning. Now it’s after midnight, I’ve got a ringing, stinging headache and just feel like going home, which is exactly what I’m going to do. I think I’ll fish around for an old story to put up. In fact I know which one I’m going to use. It’s called “Blowing Up The Gin Room” and was first published in NY Press and later in my book, “The Boy Who Would Be A Fire Truck.”
Okay, almost home. What a fucking night.
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Blowing Up the Gin Room In the summer of 1977, I was nineteen years old. I moved out of my parents’ house and into a dump of a three-bedroom house in a somewhat dicey neighborhood in Peoria, Illinois. My two roommates were Chris and Moon, and the main thing we had in common was a powerful thirst for all things alcoholic. Our drinks of choice were Blatz beer and shots of cheap gin.
To fortify ourselves in the midst of so much alcohol consumption, we bought more than a thousand hits of speed and kept them in a large candy dish on a crumbling secondhand wooden coffee table in the front room. Whenever we felt weary from the constant drink-a-thon we called life, we’d pop a couple hits of speed and–boom–back to the liquor store.
Our dilapidated house had a basement that was divided into two rooms. One had a door, but it also had a window on the outer wall. Since the basement was musty and came furnished with a variety of insects and rodentia, we didn’t spend a lot of time down there. We did, however, turn the sealed room into something we called the Gin Room. We dubbed it that because we would take our empty gin bottles and smash them on the cracked cement floor.
After a couple of months, the broken glass was nearing ankle height. It was really quite something to see. Smashing the bottles was a great release when you were about to jump out of your skin from too much amphetamines and alcohol.
Being constantly drunk and raging on speed leads to some weird behavior.Once, Chris and I turned everything in the house upside down and watched the sunrise while debating whether or not it would be a good idea to hang meat from the ceiling. Chris thought roasts would be the best choice, but I thought a variety of pork chops, steaks and hot dogs would be little more eye-catching and fun.
The greatest day in the house happened sometime in August when Moon came home clutching a large shopping bag.
"You’re not going to believe what I’ve got in here," he announced to me and Chris, a curious grin creeping across his face.
"Girl Scouts?" I wondered aloud.
"Fuck you,” he shot back. “I've got enough fireworks here to blow up a tank."
Then he overturned the bag, and the goods spilled out onto the floor.
A friend owed Moon a hundred bucks, and when Moon threatened to break the headlights on his car if he didn’t pay up, the guy offered him the fireworks and the deal was done. There on the floor were M-80s, firecrackers, Roman candles, cherry bombs and things with fuses on them I didn’t recognize. We huddled around the explosive pile, and it became painfully obvious what was to be done.
“Let’s blow up the Gin Room,” I said in quite a noble fashion. Of course Chris and Moon were in total agreement, and we moved the artillery downstairs and set it up on a pile of newspapers that would act as a mass fuse. But first, celebratory drinks upstairs. And a handful of speed all around.
When the beaners had kicked in, we moved back down to the basement and argued over who would light the newspaper. (Moon won, as they were his fireworks, so it was only fair.) The fire set, we quickly exited and watched the action from the outer window. Soon, an orgasm of colorful explosions, smoke, fire and ear-shattering bangs and booms belched out of the room. After a minute, the glass on the window cracked and fell out. After four minutes, it was over. Four minutes. Of pure joy. Pure joy unfettered by the everyday worries magnified ten times by the booze and speed. Worries about money, a busted-up car, a dead-end job at a downtown discount store, running out of cigarettes, the question of what I was going to do with the rest of my life, and the greatest worry of all: would we make it to the liquor store before closing time. Nothing mattered for those four minutes but the colorful explosion in the gin room. It was quite a liberating experience. It was a wonderful life-lesson that had no meaning. I think that’s why it’s meant so much to me as the years have moved on.
It took two minutes to put the fire out on the left wall. The whole room was covered in black soot. In fact, the whole house had a smoky gunpowder scent that we would never be able to totally eliminate. A month later, we were thrown out. We didn’t recover our security deposit needless to say,.
Moon went on to become a financial director for a loan company. Chris went back to college and became a lawyer. I moved to New York and went to work at a shitty night job while trying to peddle my writing.
I decided to check out a hotel bar for tonight’s Tuesday Swizzle Stick search. Googling around I found a bar called Forty Four in the Royalton Hotel in midtown. The name alludes to the address, 44 W. 44th St. It’s close enough to walk to, so let's be on our way.
And we're off. Another nice night in New York City. Hard to believe that last week we had an earthquake and a hurricane tropical storm here.
Anybody else find the name, "My Daddy's Pizza" kind of creepy? I don't know why, but I do.
Speaking of creepy, the name of this store should be "Pedophiles R Us."
I walked by the bar twice because there's no sign, just this marker on the wall.
Here's the entrance. Let's check it out.
There's a long hallway and this is a dark place.
There's several lounge pits on the way to the bar. Here's one of them. The photos will be a little on the dark side, since I don't want to pop flashes in a dark place like this.
Here's another lounge area.
There's a square bar in the back of the club.
I chose a seat at the back of the copper-topped dark wooden bar.
A view of the bar from my perch at the bar.
And I found out they have a special swizzle stick drink here. It's called the Queen's Park Swizzle and here's Enid, the pretty and friendly bartender serving it up with a great smile.
Houston, we have a swizzle stick! And it's metal! Nice.
Here's Joshua with Enid who was also tending the bar. Everyone here is really friendly.
As you can see, it's a well stocked bar.
For my second drink, Enid suggested a Vieux Carre, which includes this huge block of ice.
And here's the finished product. It was delicious and loaded with booze.
The check and the swizzle. Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
The Swizzle Stick Collecton so far. Thanks to all who have contributed. They're prized possesions indeed!
Last week over at the fine blog, The Half Empty Glass, anonymous271 wrote a post asking what people were doing in anticipation of Hurricane Tropical Storm Irene. I jokingly replied I was getting a copy of Juggs magazine because the power might go off and then there’s be no internet porn. After I left that comment it got me thinking, “Who the hell buys printed porn these days?” You can get more than enough free porn on the internet. Check out this screen shot.
The more I thought about it, I realized I haven’t bought a porno magazine in years. I think they still exist and I thought that for tonight’s six pack, I’d go out and buy six porno magazines and check them out. I just had a memory of when I bought my first porn magazine. I was a sophomore in high school and had just gotten my drivers license. I drove to the local shopping center in Peoria and headed to a local book store called, The Book Emporium. In addition to books, they had a large magazine selection and at the end of the display were the “men’s” magazines. I already had picked up a copy of Rolling Stone to use as a cover for standing in line and I chose a magazine with the subtle yet provocative title of “Beaver Magazine.” I put it underneath my Rolling Stone and wandered around till there wasn’t a line. Then I charged up to the register, the woman behind it (who looked a little like the principal’s secretary in Ferris Beuller’s Day Off) rang up the Rolling Stone and kind of scowled at me as she rang up my treasured copy of Beaver Magazine. I paid and the magazines were just sitting on the counter for all to see.
“Can I have a bag please,” I nervously asked.
The secretary look-a-like smirked and slowly went to get a bag. She knew I was a nervous wreck and she was moving slow. Right as I went to put the Beaver Magazine under the Rolling Stone, I heard a voice.
“Hi Marty, fancy running into you here!” a somewhat familiar female voice said.
I looked to my right and there stood my next door neighbor, Mrs. DeYoung. I think I turned about 57 shades of red while trying say hi and cover up the Beaver Magazine. I wanted to vanish. She was staring directly at my copy of Beaver Magazine.
“Hi Mrs. DeYoung,” I said while the woman behind the counter sloooowly put my magazines in a bag. I grabbed the bag and ran out to the safety of my mom’s blue Oldsmobile. For years, whenever I would look at an X-rated magazine, I would think of Mrs. DeYoung, and that’s not the vision you want to have while getting ready to hand it to yourself, so to speak! I don’t want to be unkind, but Mrs. DeYoung resembled a female Dick Butkus. Right down to the moustache. Aaaaahhh!
Okay, I’ve cracked a sweat reliving that experience, let’s go out and see if we can find six print porn magazines. I hope Mrs. DeYoung doesn’t happen to be in Manhattan by any chance!
Very nice out tonight, a wonderful evening to go searching for printed porn.
There's two newsstands on either side of the entrance to Penn Station. I thought I'd check these two out first.
Nothing here, the closest is Playboy and Maxim but those are a little too porn-lite for what I'm looking for.
Let's see what the one on the right has to offer.
They must be owned by the same people, it's the same magazines in almost all the same spots. No porn here, let's go inside.
This guy is cock-blocking the evil escalator walkers with his bag. Good for him!
Let's check out Hudson News, they have a lot of magazines here, let's see if there's any porn to be had.
Nothing here but Lady Gaga, and I've seen enough of her to last a lifetime.
Here's a Hooters magazine. We're getting warm, so to speak.
And here we go, the old half darkened X-rated magazine racks. Lots of choices here.
And here's the first three porno purchases. Let's go downstairs and see if we can find three more.
This place has the most magazines in Penn Station. I'm sure we'll find some in here.
Here's some entertainment magazines, no porn here. St. Vincent? That was the name of my grade school!
Holy moley! There's a whole corner devoted to porn here!
Lots of XXX choices here.
And they are appropriately bagged up in a brown paper bag. Okay, let's go check out my purchases back in the privacy of my apartment.
Magazine:Cheri Price: $11.99 Some of the cover lines: “Slut Alert! Madison Parker F#@ks 2 At A Time!” “Jesse Jane Gets Off On Dirty Boxers!” “Butt Sex Beauty Kristina Rose Crams Her Ass With Giant C*ck!” Random paragraph from the article titled: “Carol—Pinch Between Her Cheeks” Jugs. Hooters. Sweater meat. Headlights. Bazookas. Tits by any other name would still look as sweet and feel as nice. We’re a little obsessed with boobs here at CHERI. T.M.I.“I like hanging out by the urinals best...guys stand there, unzip, and take out their cocks! I want to cram all that sausage into my mouth.”
Magazine:Naughty Neighbor Price: $11.99 Some of the cover lines: “Jessica—Sex is her new favorite pastime.” “All Ages • All Types • All Amateurs” “Bush Baby—Hairy Teen” Random paragraph from the article titled: “Candy—Brooklyn, New York” Job Status: Unemployed. Age: 20. Bras 34D Panties: Mostly commando. Anal: Sure! BJs: Swallow it all. Diddle: Hardly ever. T.M.I.“I don’t mind if the guy wets a finger and works that in my butt while we’re screwing, but he’s not going to put his dick in there!”
Magazine:Penthouse Forum Price: $8.99 Some of the cover lines: “Unfaithful And Loving It: How I Survived My First Affair.” Monique Alexander’s X-Rated Makeover!” First sentence from a typical Forum letter: “It all started when I first saw Anika walking across the parking lot next to her building." T.M.I.“Dan likes fucking my ass more than he likes anything else.”
Magazine:Over 50 Price: $8.99 Some of the cover lines: “Grannies Go Gay!” “Phyllis & Friend 59—We’ve Eaten Miles of Pussy!” “Corrine 57, Dalia 57—Dick! Pussy! We can’t Decide!” One look inside this magazine is too frightening to be believed. It does prove one thing though, gravity is all too real!
Magazine:Juggs Price: $8.99 Some of the cover lines: (Mulitple exclamation mark alert.) “Brunettes Only Issue!!!!” Cory Emerson Pop slut Slop Tart!” Random paragraph from the article titled: “Hailey” Although she’s beautiful to behold and her rump is as round as a man could desire, she snaps her gum too loud when she’s talking and she burps, loudly, in the middle of sentences without excusing herself. T.M.I. Once the attractive young bassoon player blew his load all over her hand, he keeled over and died on the spot.
Magazine:Beaver Hunt Price: $11.99 The title of this magazine brought back visions of Mrs. DeYoung and I had to flee the store immediately.
MAD commenter and quote supplier, rr, sent in this photo of the Manhattan skyline after Tropical Storm Irene pranced through the city. The photo is by Inga Sarda-Sorensen. Thanks, rr, it's a beautiful photo!
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Bonus Cartoon By Jaws!
To go along with today's theme, Jaws sent in this cheesecake cartoon. Thanks Jaws!
With all the media reports that Hurricane Tropical Storm Irene was going to level New York City, I didn’t expect to be able to go out tonight, so I stocked up on booze and expected to stuck in my apartment all day and all of the night. Below is my stockpile for the storm which I figured would go on all though the day and into the night. I ended up with three bottles of tea, four bottles of water, fifteen sixteen ounce bottles of Budweiser, 6 bottles of Red Stripe, three bottles of Ballantine Ale and four bottles of Diet Mountain Dew. Yeah, I admit I overdid it, but I was certain from the news reports that I’d lose power and that this thing would rage on through the day and night and wreak powerful damage.
Well, it came and went during the morning, I slept through it and now it’s just spitting a little rain and is a little windy out. So I’ve decided to have a few beers at home and then have my Sunday dinner at McSorley’s and meet some friends. Usually the place is packed, but since the subway is still down, I’m thinking it might be a good night to go there. We’ll see!
My neighborhood was lucky and this is the extent of the damage that came from Hurricane Tropical Storm Irene.
The skyline doesn't look threatening at all tonight.
And here we are, McSorley's Old Ale House. Hopefully it won't be packed in here like it usually is.
There's only one way to find out and that's to go through the doors and take a look.
Jesus Christ, it's fucking packed in here and really loud.
There's a small spot at the bar and I've managed to squeeze in.
A view of the bar from where I'm squeezed in at.
There's always sawdust on the floor in here.
A photo of someone taking a photo. We'll call this "Photo Squared."
And of course there's texting going on.
When you order one mug of beer at McSorley's, you get two, it's the way things are done here.
Michael's the only bartender on duty tonight...
And as you can see, he's very busy. There's a lot of thirsty people in here relieved that Irene didn't cause as much damage as the media predicted.
I got a ham and cheese sandwich for my Sunday dinner.
I slathered it with McSorley's spicy homemade mustard (sorry Kari and Britta) and it was delicious!
After I ate it, I went back and thanked Maeve in the kitchen for a job well done.
Here's the legendary wishbones that hang over the bar that recently had to be dusted off. You can read about it here.
And here's the Duncester, Ed and Goggla. We managed to score a table in the back, but it was still really loud in there.
And here's Lindsay and Shawn to complete the party!
After a couple of beers we were ready to move on and go to a quieter place. On the way out, The Duncester points to a picture of a friend of his on the wall.
It's Peter Farnan who was a manager/bartender at McSorley's in the '70's and '80's. His mother still lives in The Duncester's building.
And Shawn leads the way out the door and onto quieter pastures. Goodnight everybody and that includes you, Irene! See you tomorrow after dark.
(Note: I'm posting this tonight, because there's a good chance that the power could be off tomorrow. If I don't comment back, it means that Marty After Dark is really living up to the name.)
Live, from New York, it’s Saturday Night Cheeseburger! Starring Old Town Bar and featuring the Ready for Prime Beef Player, Marty Wombacher. And now, right before a hurricane knocks the shit out of the city, please welcome your host, Old Town Bar!
It's raining out and the streets are pretty empty because the subways aren't running. Even though the bad shit isn't supposed to hit till morning, I think I'll stick close to home and go to the Chat 'N' Chew right down the block.
Can you say, "irony?" Sure, I knew that you could!
Motherfucker, it's closed! Oh well, Steak Frites is right across the street and they have a great cheeseburger.
Shit, they're closed too. Pussies!
There's Union Square Cafe down the road. I don't know if they've got cheeseburgers, but they do have a bar, let's go.
Closed! Shit, Irene's not supposed to get bad till after midnight, this is becoming a trying Cheeseburger Saturday Night!
Fuck, I hate to resort to McDonald's for a Cheeseburger Saturday Night, but I need to get his over with and go home and start drinking get ready for the storm.
Well, looks like I'm not going to resort to McDonald's, these fuckers are closed too.
I wonder if the Andy Warhol statue will ride the storm out. He is pretty frail after all!
A lot of people are taping their windows.
I don't understand how it's going to help, but whatever floats your boat.
Hold on, I think I see a beacon of hope there!
The sign is lit, but is the bar open?
Shit, there's a sign on the door, I hope it doesn't say they're closed.
Ha! I love Old Town Bar!
Not only is it open, it's packed! Let's see if we can find a seat at the bar.
No sooner do I sit down, than friendly bartender Peter serves up a beer.
The view from my perch at the bar.
A shot from the end of the bar.
People at a table in the back room.
The booth's opposite the bar are filled up.
Meanwhile back at the bar the condiments and sliverware have been placed. The cheeseburger can't be far behind.
And speak of the devil and it appears. I got a cheddar turkey burger with bacon and cole slaw.
Delicious!
And here's our pretty friend Lucille, who waited on us last time behind the bar with Peter.
Irene may be knocking some shit down later, but I think the Old Town Bar and it's might and massive urinals will still be standing. See you tomorrow after dark if I still have power!
For the cheeseburger rating, review and more photos of Old Town Bar on MAD click here and here.
Old Town Bar 45 East 18th St. (Between Broadway and Park Ave. South) 212-529-6713
Okay, tonight I’m finally getting out of work on time. I’m going to go to the Food Emporium in Union Square to get my Hurricane Sunday supplies. I’ve heard people are getting a little kooky and stores are running out of supplies. I don’t get this. It’s only going to be one day. And it’s going to be one nasty-ass day indeed, I don’t want to leave my apartment during the storm, so I’m getting enough food for one day. I’ve seen people on the streets with bags of food and cases of bottled water. That’s fucking nuts! Fill up some jugs and bottles with tap water and put them in the fridge in case the power goes out and there’s no water. And why buy a shitload of food, a lot of it perishable if not refrigerated, if there’s a chance of the power going out?
Anyway, I figure I’ll go to the store tonight for food and then tomorrow I’ll stock up on the booze supply. The whole Hurricane post will be up this Monday, now it’s time to get the grub!
And we're off! The Empire State Building is colorful tonight.
It's really nice out tonight, the calm before the storm.
Windows are being taped in anticipation of the hurricane.
Okay, we're almost there.
Aaahhhh!
And here we are at the Food Emporium. Time to get some supplies for Hurricane Sunday.
Holy freaking shitballs, look at the lines in here. This is nuts.
Goddamn, people do know that this is just going to be a one day shut in, right? All the bread is gone.
Nothing here either.
An empty freezer, I hope all the jerkoffs that bought frozen food realize that there's a good chance of a power outage and that shit is just going to spoil in the heat.
Another empty case. Oh well, I need to lose a little weight anyway.
A few shallots remain, maybe I'll make some onion soup on Sunday.
The loneliest can of sleazy cheese in the world. Sob!
Well, I managed to find a few things but now I have to wait in this god-awful line. I'm glad I went tonight, I can't imagine what will be left tomorrow.
Okay, after a half an hour wait in line, I'm finally out the door with my stuff.
I took a break in Union Square Park to listen to this trio. They were really good so I threw them a few bucks.
On my way home I looked up and saw the lights in this building. I think the storm is the least of our worries. Aaaaahh!
The talk of the town right now is Hurricane Irene. She’s supposed to hit this Sunday and I was talking to my Dad today and he asked if I had a flashlight. And I don’t. I’m really beat tonight, yes, another shitty night at work. But at least it wasn’t as stressful as the beginning of the week, but I’m really feeling burned out, so I thought I’d just take photos of my walk home tonight and one stop will be at an all night drug store to get a flashlight. It’s supposed to be raining outside, so let’s go out and see a rainy New York night.
Shit, it's dry as the Betty Ford Clinic out here. I was kind of hoping for a rainy night to get some rainy-night pictures. Oh well, off we go.
The Empire State Building is all a-glow tonight.
Iced and proud, say it loud!
Here's the 24 hour Duane Reade, let's see if they have flashlights for the upcoming Hurricane Irene.
Okay, here we are. Hey look...candy!
Dots. As a kid this was the candy I always bought at the movies.
Eccchh! Always hated the Raisinets. Gross. Raisins aren't candy. It's like covering brocolli with chocolate and passing it off as candy. It's just wrong and it should be stopped.
I never liked Goobers either. If you spell the name sideways you get Boogers. Chocolate covered boogers. Goober says hey.
I just asked a clerk about flashlights and was told they don't sell them here. Am I weird in thinking that drug stores should stock flashlights? Oh well, there's one more 24 hour drug store on the block, let's go check them out.
2 Bros. Pizza. I've ragged on about this place, but I do confess to having eaten at one of these places, but always on a walk home after a night of several beers at a bar or two. Let's check it out sober.
There's always a line and late at night the drunk to sober ratio is about 4 to 1.
The slice is happily served up by this affable fellow.
Here it is in all its greasy glory.
It literally defines, "You get what you pay for." The worst pizza in the world. It tastes like tomato phlegm on soggy cardboard. But it's only a dollar a slice!
The view from my sidewalk table at Two Bros. Pizza.
Okay, here we are at CVS. Let's see if they have a flashlight. I want to get home, my stomach feels a little queasy from that slice.
Plenty of light bulbs, but no flash lights. Oh well, I guess I'll go to a hardware store tomorrow before work. Hey, what's that over there...
EV Grieve has written about a guy in the East Village who parks an RV outside of his apartment building, check out the post here. EV Grieve commenter Larry Slade left a comment within the post saying that the Daily News recently did an article featuring the owner and the RV. I followed the link and it turns out the guy who owns it lives nearby where he parks it and treats it like a living room on the street. His name is Ron Britt and he’s quoted as saying he wants the interior to feel like a Texas whoreshouse. It also says he’s a singer in a disco/blues band. Okay, I’m intrigued and would like to meet this guy and maybe hang out in the RV and have a few beers. If he’s not inside, maybe we can find his apartment. At the very least, it’s near the Chillmaster Lair, so if all else fails, maybe we can roust The Chillmaster. Only one way to find out and that’s to get going to the East Village.
Off we go, into the wild dark yonder.
And down into the bowels of the subway system.
Ha! Check out the sign. "The Fun Is Back In Coney Island." That's true for this weekend, but the fun will be long gone next year as the Boardwalk gets turned into a land of sports bars and coffee shops.
Anybody else see the irony here? Anybody? Anyone? Bueller ... Bueller... Bueller...
Okay, here we are, the East Village, off to find the Free Willie RV!
There's a band playing at Boca Chica tonight. They've got a full house here.
And look, it's an RV, this doesn't look like the Free Willie one though.
This isn't the Free Willie, I read that Ron has two RV's and this is his secondary one, "Old Flat Top." Two RV's in New York City, that's pretty nuts!
Ha! There's a giraffe behind the wheel. I'd really like to meet this guy!
I walked up and down the block and can't find the Free Willie RV. I wonder if he's out on a road trip for the Labor Day weekend?
Another crazy thing is he's got his phone number on the RV. I blocked a few numbers out. Hey, you want to call him, you make the trip here, I'm not a walking white pages here!
So I called him and sure as shit on a shingle, it's his number. I got his answering machine and left a message. I sounded real pathetic on the message, for some reason I can't memorize my cell phone number, so I always leave messages saying, "I don't know what my cell phone number is, but hopefully you've got it and will call me back." I don't get a lot of return calls. But that's okay with me.
On the message I told him I'd wait at the corner for a while, so I got four beers to drink while waiting.
They forgot to put a brown bag in with the beer, so I decided fuck it, I'm drinking them bareback style on the sidewalk. Breakin' the law!
Well, I waited twenty minutes and never heard anything, so I thought I'd mosey down to the Chillmaster Lair and see what's shaking.
Ahh, the window is closed. Oh well, I'm down to my last beer anyway...hey, let's go drink it at the Mars Bar while it's still there.
It's just a couple blocks away.
It's still here. It'll be a sad day when it's not on this corner.
To the Mars Bar! Goodnight everybody and see you tomorrow after dark.
Four Campers
Camper Van Beethoven
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