And the carnage continues.
Courtesy of EV Grieve’s ever-excellent blog, I read with some weary melancholy that the Sidewalk Bar on Avenue A and 6th Street is closing -- or, at least, “changing hands” with a new owner who’ll doubtlessly disembowel it -- both figuratively and literally. I was somewhat sad to read this. I say “somewhat” as I cannot say I was anything of a regular. I certainly liked that it was there, but it wasn’t as much of a fixture for me as some other spots.
While it’s sad, I also cannot say it’s especially surprising. Once the vast and pointedly character-free condo, 100 Avenue A went up (the one with the Blink Fitness in its ground floor), the signs did not bode well. I’m very glad Jesse Malin’s main foothold, Niagara, is still holding firm, but the number definitely seemed to be up for Sidewalk.
There is assuredly nothing duller to read than unspooled anecdotal yarns that ultimately don’t amount to more than “gosh, I was drunk,” but here are two such recollections of evenings spent questionably at the Sidewalk. Continue at your own peril, and my own embarrassment.
When it comes to opinions about music and the reasonable expressions thereof, it has been noted that I have something of a problem. On one dark evening about twenty-five years --- blimey! –- back, I was sequestered in the more northerly chamber of the Sidewalk with my frequent compatriot in alcohol imbibement, Rob D., who was illegally subletting a space a block over on Avenue B (in the same building as Manitoba’s). I’m not entirely sure why we ended up at Sidewalk and not, say, any number of other suitable locales, but there we were. In any case, in walked a pair of pointedly uptight looking gents who took seats to our right. I’d noticed upon their entry that one of them was sporting a Slayer badge on their lapel, which -– for some ridiculous reason -– immediately gave me license to start up a conversation, or so I very wrongly presumed. When my doubtlessly awkward attempts to engage in a chat –- much to Rob’s arched-eyebrowed chagrin -– failed to instigate the intended result, I believe I blithely tossed over the comment “fuck do you know about Slayer?!”
Suffice to say, that ill-considered remark prompted the badge-wearer to stand up with a pronounced sense of purpose, sending his bar stool toppling to the floor with great, dramatic aplomb. There would be no witty rejoinder but, instead, a swift delivery of knuckles to my arguably smart mouth. That was his intention, anyway, before both his drinking pal and mine intervened with the requisite, “fellas, fellas….c’mon, settle down”-styled arbitration. Rob and I wisely adjourned to another neighborhood institution and I was understandably scolded for my unthinking solicitations.
My other great memory of an evening at the Sidewalk dates back to specifically February 28, 1995. I know the exact date because that was the evening that punky Britpopsters Elastica (left) were slated to play nearby at the comparatively tiny Mercury Lounge on East Houston Street. Since first hearing the “Stutter” single a year earlier, my friend Eric F. and I were both wholly onboard and quite excited to see them perform. We made a plan to meet up that evening and go check it out.
Again, for some inexplicable reason, we ended up back at Sidewalk. I feel obligated to point out, at this stage of the narrative, that at the time –- 1995 -– I was still rather ravenously single, and would not go on to meet the lovely lady who became my wife for another three years. This will become relevant to the story in due course.
In anticipation of a great night out seeing our favorite new band, Eric and I availed ourselves to the fare at Sidewalk, laying the foundation for a longer evening’s worth of drinking. In the course of same, I managed to fall head over heels in love with our waitress. These things happened, back then. When the time came for Eric and I to split and go catch our show, it was somehow deduced that it was my turn to pay. I paid with plastic, but decided to leave a cash tip, as that was the nicer thing to do. That’s fine, but what I did next was questionable.
Upon the bill I was leaving as a tip -– I cannot recall the amount -– I took the supplied pen and scrawled something to the effect of: “Sheila, I think you’re exquisite….” and punctuated it with my phone number. I know, I know….
With that, Eric and I hit the streets and headed south, whereupon a strenuously crucial flaw in our evening plan was stealthily revealed. Neither of us had procured tickets for this show in advance and -- very unsurprisingly, in retrospect -- it was sold the fuck out.
Bummer.
After a few minutes of gawking incredulously at the horde outside the Mercury Lounge, Eric and I glumly repaired to bars of the East Village to curse our idiocy. Along the way, I continued to be justly chided for my half-baked romantic gesture back at Sidewalk.
A few hours later, Eric and I ended up back at my apartment. Being that he lived out on Long Island, Eric was going to crash on my couch. We were greeted by the blinking red light of my answering machine (remember those?). I had one message:…
:::BEEP:::
“Hi, Alex? This is Shelia calling from the Sidewalk Bar on Avenue A….”
Eric excitedly hit stop on the tape. “HOLY SHIT, ALEX!” he gasped. “I thought you were a first-class douchebag for leaving your name and number with her, but not only did she call, …. she’s calling you THE VERY SAME NIGHT!!!”
Eric hit play again…
“…Yeah, I’m calling because you left your credit card here.”
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