Flaming Pablum

Back to the P&G

I spotted the below photo on the excellent Tumblr, NYC Nostalgia (refreshingly unencumbered with any blogger’s guilt about being unabashedly nostalgic, or “pasturbatory” as Kembra Pfahler of the Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black might say), and it put the hook in me.

This is, of course, as shot of the ol’ P&G Bar & Grill, which formerly stood on the northeast corner of West 73rd and Amsterdam Avenue. I’ve mentioned it a few times, notably here, here and here, but it was an excellent spot.

This photo was taken in 1980. I haven't been in that neck of the woods in an age but today, I gather, it’s a Blue Bottle Coffee franchise.

After Hours AOC

Despite appearances to the contrary, this post is not really about AOC (Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez), but — since I just invoked her — I might as well concede that I think she’s pretty great. Sure, she’s young and probably still has a lot to learn about the office she now holds, but anyone who is capable of speaking truth to power with her level of conviction — to say nothing about causing so much angst and indigestion among key figures on the Right — is a-okay with me. You, of course, may beg to differ. That’s all.

In any case, a friend of mine recently posted the above photo on Facebook of AOC, posing with her signature, unblinking intensity on a weathered New York City stoop, her impeccably sharp, green ensemble creating a striking dichotomy with her otherwise rough-hewn surroundings. At first glance, I found it strangely familiar, but then I realized … there are doubtlessly thousands of stoops just like the one she’s depicted sitting on.

Then I thought back to an evening several weeks back. I was going to meet some out-of-towner friends who now live on the other side of the globe. They were briefly back in the city for a wedding, so we decided to meet up an at age-old favorite haunt, the Ear Inn on the westerly edges of Spring Street.

I’ve mentioned the Ear a few times here. It passively vies for the title “Oldest Bar in New York City” in meaningless competition with joints like Pete’s Tavern and McSorley’s, although — to my mind — it’s way better than either of those over-hyped establishments. Whether it’s genuinely the oldest bar in New York means nothing to me. It’s just a great place to meet friends and have a few beers. Long may it stay that way.

In any case, because I’m deeply neurotic and punctual to a fault, I arrived in the neighborhood ahead of schedule, which left me plenty of time to roam around the surrounding environs before assuming my place at the bar.

Time was when part of the Ear’s charm was that it was in such a remote, desolate backwater of a neighborhood. Apart from a deli or two, a couple of fellow bars (notably McGovern’s and the Emerald Inn) and, later, rock club Don Hill’s, there was practically nothing. The streets were empty and quiet. It’s for this reason that Martin Scorsese chose this patch of SoHo for many of the locations in “After Hours,” because it exuded such an eerily quiet, empty ambiance.

Suffice to say, this is no longer the case in 2019. These days, the westerly edges of Spring Street are a densely populated Emerald City of exclusive condos and monied luxury. Somehow, the Ear Inn has managed to hold on, but the days of it being a remote outpost are decidedly over.

This all said, there are still whispery elements of the neighborhood’s old vibe, if you look hard enough for them. As I circumnavigated the area on foot, I snapped a few pictures, trying to capture that rarified essence of place.

Circling the block on Renwick Street, just a street to the east of the Ear Inn, I came upon a certain stoop at the tail end of the building that formerly housed the Emerald Inn, the bar Scorsese re-cast as the Terminal Bar for “After Hours” (which I wrote about back here). I was struck by how grim and forbidding the stoop in question looked, so, I took a picture.

Sure enough, it’s the same stoop AOC was photographed on. Now, what was she doing there?

Hell if I know.

Goodbye to the Carriage House

Happy St. Patrick’s Day. Alas, today is the final day to secure yourself a pint of Guinness at the Carriage House — or Old Carriage Inn, depending on which sign you prefer -- in Park Slope, which closes today after 35 years.

You may well indeed be wondering why an insufferable, dyed-in-the-wool Manhattan snob like myself would care about a Park Slope bar. It’s a fair question, but suffice to say, my wife’s family owns a brownstone in that `hood, so on many an occasion, my brothers-in-law and I would repair to the endearingly dark, dank and slightly decrepit confines of the Carriage House while our wives held court at home. Not being a sports fan in the slightest, I would devote most of my attention to the jukebox, while my brothers-in-law would shout obscenities at basketball and football players on the television screens. I do believe I was admonished for putting “Bringin' On the Heartbreak” by Def Leppard on one too many times (pickings were slim, you see). It was that type of place.

In all honesty, the boys and I did log a fair amount of hours in the Carriage House over the last couple of decades, usually around Christmas. I can remember many a intense familial discussion against that bar. We ducked in yesterday to say goodbye to the place and have a final few pints. Unsurprisingly, it was kind of depressing.

I saw the below tagged on the back wall and couldn’t resist a picture. That said, there’s a bit of irony to it. The hipsters don’t go to Park Slope, least of all to a dive like the Carriage House. If any demographic is to blame, it’s the stroller-pushing yuppies that drove the rents up, not Pabst-swigging LCD fans with comedy beards.

Pour one out for the Carriage House.

Down Cortlandt Alley ... By Horse

As laboriously extolled in this post from 2016, I’ve always been a huge fan of Cortlandt Alley, that dark, thin canyon stemming south into TriBeCa off Canal Street. I love its slightly forbidding aura, its back history as the narrow strand of pavement that once led to the Mudd Club, a storied venue I was never old enough to attend. I love its periodic bursts of street art, its weathered exteriors and rough-hewn, industrial trappings leftover from bygone eras. In every season, Cortlandt Alley takes on a new vibe. I never find it boring or unpleasant to walk down, even if I’m hopscotching over random dollops of (human?) excrement, dead rats and pigeons flattened the night before by delivery trucks, or evading the suspicious eyes of furtive weed-smokers in its darker recesses.

And I walk down it a lot. After I drop my son off at school in the Gramercy neighborhood, I hop on a downtown 6 train and get off at Canal to walk the rest of the way to my office at the bottom of Manhattan, taking a hard left down Cortlandt Alley on each and every one of those commutes. I’m now so familiar with that particular strip that I practically notice each and every change to its topography on a daily basis.

As was seemingly inevitable, however, there’s been a recent uptick in renovation and refurbishment in the Alley (as I mentioned just last summer). Scaffolding appears and disappears with some regularity, as certain addresses endeavor to spruce themselves up. While a wholesale facelift of the stretch seems unlikely, certain patches of it are very definitely changing. At its southernmost segment between White & Franklin Streets, a pricey-but-seemingly-dormant condo vainly tries to keep up appearances. But the real big activity is happening on the portion between White and Walker Streets. A few months back, a series of light fixtures were installed along its easterly wall, decimating a bit of this byway’s signature gloom. Beyond that, there was clearly something brewing in that building. Sure enough, just last week, some signage went up. Evidently, Cortlandt Alley is now home to a new venture called the Au Cheval Diner.

Here’s how the official website describes it…

An eclectic diner hidden down Cortlandt Alley with a passion for eggs, Au Cheval elevates traditional diner fare. Guests can indulge in dishes ranging from chopped chicken liver and roasted bone marrow, to traditional sandwiches, egg-focused entrees, and griddled cheeseburgers. The bar program showcases strong, classic cocktails including the Negroni, Vieux Bonal, and Hemingway Punch. A robust draught beer list offers a wide range of neighborhood, domestic, and international selections. The dimly lit restaurant, pulsating with an eclectic and resonant soundtrack, features leather booths, reclaimed wood paneling and a zinc bar that wraps around the open kitchen.

If my high school French still serves me well, Au Cheval means “by horse” …. a particular species of mammal that very rarely graces Cortlandt Alley, these days. While I am wary of Cortlandt Alley becoming further gentrified, it’s a bit late to lament the damage of that particular tsunami in 2019. I do, at least, appreciate Au Cheval’s relative discretion. Yeah, they’ve brought a bit of polish to the pathway, but we’ll see where it goes. I’d be curious to hear what constitutes their “eclectic and resonant soundtrack.” I want to believe they’d play geographically-appropriate stuff like DNA, The Lounge Lizards, Teenage Jesus, The Cramps and the like, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.

Still, I might try to check it out. Watch this space.

Here's a bit of DNA playing just down the way from Au Cheval's front door. Today, this space is someone's doubtlessly well-appointed, private and expensive apartment.

 

Bud Club

So, yeah, I watched the Oscars last night. I have precious little to say about it beyond that I truly appreciate that "Bohemian Rhapsody" did NOT win the Best Picture award. It was like a decent VH1 movie at BEST. I didn't see most of the other stuff.

In any case, during the course of proceedings, they showed this Budweiser ad featuring Charlize Theron demonstrating her billiards prowess in a bar. Yeah, yeah, ho hum, right? Oooh, she's sexy, etc. etc.

The thing that got my attention was during a fleeting glimpse of the jukebox ... the cover of Miami by The Gun Club...

It is probably the highest-profile exposure the band and the late, great Jeffrey Lee Pierce will ever receive, however brief.

Watch the full ad...

This, incidentally, should you not be familiar, was The Gun Club....

Goodbye to the Sidewalk Bar

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.”

Lunch with The Ramones

In one Facebook group or another I’m a member of, someone posted the above photo of the late brothers Ramone that I’d never spied before, prefaced with the question: “Where was Jone’s Diner?”

The diner in question is, of course, the former Jones Diner (curious apostrophe placement, though) that was formerly on the southeast corner of Great Jones and Lafayette Streets. I spoke about the place a couple of times here (notably here, here and here), but it was just one of a great network of endearing greasy-spoon joints that has since been all but wiped off the map.

Some might remember the Great Jones Diner from its cameo in the video for “Two Princes” by the Spin Doctors. In later years, its metallic, railway-car-like exterior was removed, revealing a brick-faced edifice beneath. If I remember correctly, it was closed and then razed around the dawn of Y2K (remember that?). These days, there’s a giant new building erected over its former footprint that has yet to define itself as anything other than just another vulgar display of exclusivity and affluence.

Back to the photo, though, I find it striking how the Ramones have now fully crossed over into the realm of the practically mythological. I honestly used to see Joey Ramone walk around my neighborhood (he was hard to miss). I spied Johnny Ramone on Sullivan Street in Greenwich Village, once (I left him alone), and surreally sat across from Dee Dee on a Downtown 6 train (I left him alone, as well). For decades, you just took the Ramones for granted. My friend Rob B. and I had a long-running gag. “Should we go see the Ramones next Thursday?” “Meh, they’ll be back.” And they always were, until one day, they weren’t. And then they started dying.

With great respect to Marky -- and, I guess, C.J., Richie and “Elvis" --  the original Ramones are now all gone. We’re all so used to seeing their familiar stances on album covers, videos and in any number of celebrated photographs by shutterbugs like Bob Gruen, Roberta Bayley, Godlis, and Mick Rock (among many others), that to see a “new,” heretofore unpublished, lost or just plain ol’ less-well-circulated snap of them always stops me in my tracks. Yeah, we’re all used to seeing them pose like ….well, like The Motherfucking Ramones!… that to see them just hanging out or goofing around is just this great reminder that beyond being this iconoclastic, culture-informing unit, they were ultimately just a group of four guys, however dysfunctional.

Farewell to The Half King

As I understand it, we officially lose The Half King tomorrow, vanishing from its place of almost two decades on West 23rd street, which is strange, `cos I feel like only yesterday, I read about its impending opening.

Arguably most famous for one of its founders, author Sebastian Junger, The Half King became a regular haunt of New York City’s robust legions of hardened journalists. I was unwittingly about halfway through my long tenure at the TIME Magazine news desk when the bar opened in 2000, so it indeed became a regular stop for many members of the team, and a particular favorite whenever a normally far-flung correspondent was in town. I have many fond memories of supping multiple pints in the company of those estimable colleagues there, and often feeling well out of my depth, but always welcomed. As I’ve mentioned many times, the TIME team was a tight, familial unit, and I continue to regard my friends and co-workers from those days with profound respect and admiration.

But in terms of The Half King, I have two specific memories of the place that rise to the top, and neither of them involve my career in journalism.

The first occasion was a reception thrown by the publishing company my wife was working for, at the time. One of her authors had just given a reading nearby at the Barnes & Noble over on Sixth Avenue that is now a Trader Joe’s, I believe. This was this young author’s debut, of a sort, reading from his first novel, which was semi-autobiographical, if I recall correctly. In any case, this young writer’s big Italian family turned out in force to proudly show their support and hear their guy do his thing. The drama began, however, when the author ended up outing himself by way of a passage in his book to the gathered attendees, much to the pronounced surprise of several members of his very large family. By the time the whole congregation had moved over to The Half King, what had ostensibly been conceived as a festive gathering had turned into a very different event indeed.

Initially, I’d just been along for the ride, so to speak, and was always happy to be included in any excursion to The Half King that would invariably involve a few pints. As it happens, I ended befriending the husband of one of my wife’s colleagues when it was somehow gleaned that we both harbored a fondness for early 80’s hardcore bands like the Circle Jerks, Kraut, Bad Brains etc.

This all culminated in a surreal scene wherein a large percentage of the room we’d all been herded into was occupied by a gaggle of excitable Italians wrapped up in the throes of very emotional discussions (all in Italian … with lots of raised voices and frenzied gesticulations), with my wife and her team trying to comfort the newly distressed author, while myself and this other dude sat in the corner pounding beers and talking animatedly about our favorite punk bands.

My other long-lasting memory of The Half King is more recent. It was the tail end of 2016, just after the election and tensions and apprehensions were, suffice to say, rather high, as you probably recall yourselves. Here in New York City, for the most part, the pervading mood was one of gloomy consternation and incredulousness. In any event, I’d been drafted to go pick up my daughter after some social event in Chelsea, and the wife suggested I arrange to meet up with a few of my fellow dads beforehand. Since it was in the same `hood, I suggested that the four of us meet up at The Half King and have a couple of pints before picking up our respective kids.

I remember walking in and meeting these guys – most of whom I knew pretty well, by that point, or so I thought – at the bar. A sporting event of one variety or another was on the television above the far end of the bar, and that commanded most of the attention. Talking sports with any degree of enthusiasm, let alone credibility, is not something I’m especially versed at, so I just drank my beer and only chimed in when I had something to say. As if on cue, the program cut away to a news break, and Donald J. Trump’s mug appeared on the screen, prompting a not-so-subtle hiss throughout the bar. I can’t remember what comment I made, but it was one that doubtlessly telegraphed my own misgivings for the results of the election. Suddenly, all three of my fellow dads looked at me quizzically. “Well, he’s gonna get this country back on track,” one remarked. I snorted and practically spat out my beer, assuming he was being facetious. He wasn’t. The other two were nodding in agreement. There I was, in the super-liberal capital city of a super blue state … surrounded by three unblinking Trumpublicans. Had I slipped through a portal into The Twilight Zone?

Now as much as I’m generally very happily game to burn a few bridges every now and again, the notion of starting heated political beefs with the fathers of my daughter’s best friends seemed ill-advised. I demurred from futher commentary, and we all went back to our beers, my big takeaway being that it is NEVER a good idea to assume everyone you’re with is on the same page politically.

Sadly, that bizarre instance was the last time I ever darkened the doors of The Half King. For a more authoritative and broader portrait of the place, check out this great tribute from The New York Times.

Pour one out. 

Got A Light?

It being a whopping seven degrees outside today, the wife decided it was a great opportunity to do some arguably premature spring cleaning around the apartment. Suffice to say, not every member of the household was as enthused about this plan as she was, but there we are. 

Whilst Peggy was on a ruthless search-&-destroy mission in our overly-stuffed linen closet, we came across an old jar of matchbooks I used to keep in our previous apartment's bathroom. For a while back in the 90's, we'd both gotten in the habit of absconding with loads of matchbooks from any bar or restaurant that was foolhardy enough to offer them. I cracked open said jar to reveal a host of establishments that simply no longer exist. 

Today, the space that was the old Hi-Life Bar & Grill on the Upper West Side (which had great neon signage) is now a relatively banal clothiers.

Merchants was a chain of kinda douchey, ersatz-posh bars scattered around town that are all gone, I believe.

Around The Clock was a standby 24-hour East Village mainstay on Stuyvesant street just north of St. Marks. Today, it's a Japanese bakery called Pan Ya. 

The Stanhope Hotel was a stately concern across the street from the Metropolitan Museum of Art on the Upper East Side at 995 Fifth Avenue. The wife and I spent our wedding night there in 2001. It closed in 2005, and is now a luxury co-op. 

Grange Hall was a great restaurant on Commerce Street in the West Village with bright, airy space and a traditional American menu with inspired, Depression-era decor. It closed in 2004, and the space hosted a few other concerns in its wake. Today, it's newly vacant again.

Lakeside Lounge was a particular favorite Alphabet City bar I posted here about a few times. It closed in 2012, although it sort of lives on via its website. Today, the space it once occupied is part of Maiden Lane, the restaurant that took over the old Life Cafe space on the corner of 9th and Avenue B. 

The Cedar Tavern was my dearly beloved local on University Place between 11th and 12th. I wrote about it here extensively, most recently here. It closed suddenly in 2006 with news that the air rights above it had been sold. The plan was that they'd build above it, but that the bar would re-open. They lied. It closed and was gutted. The bar itself was removed and shipped to Austin, TX. In its footprint was built a strenuously ugly condo. The ground floor sat vacant for years until a "European" waxing space opened. Yeah, like we needed that. The circumstances of the Cedar's abrupt departure still make me palpably hostile. 

Cafe Noir was corner bar in SoHo with a kitschy Moroccan theme on the corner of Thompson and Grand Streets. It was a great spot for beers and tapas, but closed around 2012. I believed they re-located to TriBeCa. This particular space is now a somewhat ridiculous lingerie shop.

Technically, Chumley's on Bedford Street in the West Village and ACME on Great Jones Street are both still going, but both are newly "bespoke" versions of their former incarnations. I frothed at the mouth about the shitty new version of Chumley's most recently here. ACME, meanwhile, used to be a great BBQ joint with a disarming selection of hot sauces. It also came appended by a live music venue in its lower quarters called -- wait for it -- Under Acme. My friends' band The Hot Corn Girls played a gig or two there. More recently, however, ACME underwent a "culinary transformation" and now serves "French-meets-Italian" fare. The space beneath that was Under Acme is now reserved for private functions. Read: It went all upscale and prohibitively pricey and now, basically, sucks. 

Lastly, The Knickerbocker Bar & Grill at 33 University Place is still there, mercifully, and retains its rarefied character of old Manhattan. If it ever closes, I will be devastated beyond words. 

Fuck You, Dry January

I mean, let’s face it, January sucks, no matter how you slice it. Between it being long, dark and cold and the comedown from the ostensibly festive holiday season, one can’t help but enter into it with some semblance of dread and despair. This, of course, comes coupled for many with a sense of guilt and obligation, whether it’s because of the resolve to honor one’s New Year’s resolutions or simply to detoxify via the self-imposed exile from boozeville that is so-called “Dry January.”

In past years, I’ve endeavored to accomplish the DryJan challenge, as routinely mentioned on my year-end surveys and at great length here last year. Last time around, as I said, I was knocked off the horse early by the arrival of the colorfully named winter weather event, the Bomb Cyclone. That’s just an excuse, of course. Had it not been the Bomb Cyclone, I’m sure I would have concocted some other reason. In short order, it was beery business as usual.

This year, however, it felt less like a whim or nagging twinge of guilt and more like a necessity. December had proven to be a robust month of imbibing, what with a preponderance of holiday events to attend. After weeks of office Christmas parties, a wedding and a few other booze-laden social engagements, we repaired to my brother-in-law’s place out in Pennsylvania for Boxing Day. I was pretty much handed an open beer when I stepped out the car at 2:00 pm, and that kept going until well into the evening. By New Year’s Eve, I was beyond determined to undertake a Dry January. Hell, I was positively looking forward to it.

I wasn’t getting sloppy-shitty, blacking out, slurring my words, starting fights with strangers or anything, but the burly intake of beer was becoming routine, and my tolerance was ascending sharply. Between the probable weight-gain, the conceivable strain on my liver (although my friend Keith keeps reminding me: THAT’S WHAT YOUR LIVER IS FOR, DAMMIT!) and, frankly, the expenditure -– I felt it was high time to flex my long-dormant will power, dry my system out and save some money… the latter reason reinforced by the arrival of some beefy post-Christmas Amex bills.

For no readily apparent reason, however I decided to augment the swearing-off of beer with two other stipulations. I would go without my iPod (yep, I still use an iPod … and you can go fuck yourself if you find that funny), as I’d been noticing a shrill uptick in the tinnitus that has been screaming in my right ear since 1999. Being that it’s been suggested that alcohol-consumption heightens the ring (along with salt, sugar and pretty much anything else that makes life worth living … like, say, oxygen and sex), I figured I should give my ears a break as well as my liver. A steadily stentorian diet of IDLES, Daughters and, strangely, The Upper Crust for much of December certainly weren’t doing them favors.

The third prong of my resolution was fairly simple: Take the stairs. Not at the office, mind you, but at home. It’s not a big deal, but I figured walking up and down the five flights would be a good habit to get into. To be honest, my building is fairly squat, and you’re on the second floor before it even hits you and while you’ve digested that information, you’re practically on the fourth floor. But hey, … couldn’t hurt, right? Regular readers might remember my running campaign from a few years back. Recurring knee problems forced me to abandon that, but I figure walking up and down stairs is something I should be able to regularly tackle.

Anyway, that was going to be my January – thirty-one days marked by sobriety, silence and strength.

Honestly, the toughest of the three directives to honor has been the stairs. It’s not that I’m lazy or that I find ascending those five flights too challenging, but rather that I just forget. I walk into my lobby, and muscle memory almost takes over. I check my mail and boom, next thing I know I’ve pushed the button and gotten on the elevator. There have been times when I have actually gone back downstairs and repaired to the stairwell to complete my mission, but I’m just finding it hard to remember to do it.

Swearing off my iPod has been less complicated, although I threw that particular towel in today. In the ten days without wearing earbuds, I’ve noticed the ring minimally rise and fall in its ceaseless pitch, but not necessarily as the direct result of anything I’ve been doing – as far as I can tell, at least. This morning, I was just bored, so I slipped them back in and scored the latter half of my commute with some vintage New Order at a reasonable volume. No one is hurt by this.

In terms of the beer? Last night, after a bone-chilling walk home from the bottom of TrBeCa to the heart of the Village, I reconsidered my decisions. Yeah, I was able to turn it off for ten days, and can completely keep going, but why am I punishing myself? It’s not like someone’s going to hand me a fucking medal at the end of the month. I’m sick of drinking seltzer and tea in the evenings. I sprang for a six of Sapporo and indulged.

And with that, yes, I’ve technically failed Dry January again. I may go back to it this evening, but it almost doesn’t “count” now, not that anyone’s keeping score.

Weigh in, readers …. How are you fairing with your resolutions?