Recovering From New Year’s With Bingo at Bowery Poetry Club

I’m still hurting. This holiday season has beaten me down. It feels like I spent most of it in the car driving from one bogus hamlet to another smiling at people who think I personally killed Jesus. Yeah…it was like that. New Year’s Eve had me at Goldbar where I witnessed what has to be the most pathetic couple out that night — or any night. I am pretty sure I found them but am willing to hear about others. So, I’m outside enjoying the beautiful, although a bit apocalyptic Mayan, weather, waiting to DJ, when this heavily accented pair stumbled up to the ropes. It was an 11pm stumble, not the 2- or 4ams that would dominate later. They asked for entry and pulled out an 8 1/2 by 11 inch paper that would supposedly open up the velvets for them.

"We’re here for the open bar," they declared in a heavy but unfortunately understandable accent. The doorman was confused. "We’re not doing anything like that here!" "This is Goldbar!?!" they demanded, shoving forward their paper. "Yes. Let me see that," the helpful door dude queried. He and a couple of the security guys looked at the dream sheet. The door dude explained, "Er…this is for Goldbar in Australia". After an unbelievable long exchange of "that’s impossibles" and "look, it says it right heres," the conversation digressed into them angrily explaining that it "i’sn’t their fault" and they "should be let in" These two couldn’t be let in and would continue this argument well into the night. I eventually stepped in and steered them to the Lower East Side where standards are always a bit lower.

Sunday was a headache and a stomach ache and cloudy eyes and a pillow that wouldn’t let go. I only had one drink…but it might have been a big one. I thanked the stars and moon and Jupiter (which is, by the way, that bright thing hanging next to it these nights) that I and most of my world had the day off — and on Monday, too. Monday was spent driving and walking around waiting for an evening planned at the Bowery Poetry Club. At 6:30 we caught Warhol legend-in-resident Taylor Meade who was in rare form. The octogenarian poet had a packed house reeling with laughter as he recited his poems, showed us his art, and told us stories about a life spent with Andy and that crew. A story of an embarrassing encounter with Jackie O. underscored the depth of this genius’s life. Taylor is unpredictable. He literally takes random paper out of an old bag and reads what comes. Sometimes he is a bit lost or uninterested, but more than not he is enlightening. He just celebrated his 87th birthday, and although the body is frail the mind and wit is still intact. We were mesmerized and enchanted.

We kept our seats for what the local yokels call "Tranny Bingo." It’s so much more than that. The wonderful Linda Simpson and Mr. Showbiz himself Murray Hill run with this BINGO ball thing every Monday, and we go as often as possible. They don’t need this plug as it’s packed out the door on most weeks. It is the best game in town. I won the big jackpot round this week as I had the hottest card in the room. I needed one number on nine different occasions on that very card, and felt going into the final round I couldn’t fail. I shared the grand prize with two others and went into the night to have breakfast at IHOP on 14th and 2nd where I am a regular. It was a predictable Monday night for me and my crew. We needed predictable after a season that seemed to start months ago… well maybe it did. I’m going to be a little weak this week and I do ask for forgiveness.

Oh… my New Year’s resolution??? IHOP and it’s lucious omelettes have me bound to breaking eggs. So my resolution is "NO MORE MR. NICE GUY." Stay tuned — tomorrow I’m gonna rip someone an asshole which means there will be two of them in one silly place.

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