One Wall Standing
Last night I found myself at a Ludlow St. bar to listen to The Pearl, the fledgling band of a high school friend. While the music was quite good, the same cannot be said for the bar itself, if only because of the conversation I witnessed, around 1 AM, between the bartender and a drunken but earnest barfly.
It quickly emerged that the bartender was a native of Maine, and his patron was exploring the possibility of buying a piece of property there.
"I talked to an architect friend of mine, and she said the way to go is to buy just an absolute shit house on a big property."
The bartender, who had just paid the band a whopping $35 for their set, was remarkably interested in the course the conversation seemed to be taking.
"A fixer-upper?" he asked, with the approximate demeanor (and appearance) of a third grade teacher at a particularly progressive elementary school.
"No. No. Worse. I'm talking about a total piece of shit. Because that way, you just tear it down, and you have all of the utilities and shit in place."
I was somewhat startled to realize that he was absolutely right. The bartender, however, was quick to add his own insight.
"Well, in Maine we have the 'one wall standing' law. Basically, it means you have to leave at least one wall standing, and build a whole new house around it. Then when you're finished you just tear it down at the end."
This seemed a bit perplexing, but my knowledge of Maine's legal system is admittedly limited. The barfly, however, was enthralled.
"Really? That's very interesting. I didn't even know that shit. New York doesn't have anything like that."
For a while, my interest in the exchange waned, as a third party joined in and I was distracted by other goings on. But my attention was caught anew as the real estate speculator roused himself to leave.
"Well, ask your dad what 50 grand would buy me," he advised the bartender. "Because I fucking hate New York. Hate everything about it."
With these last words, as he stood up, he leered menacingly in my direction, as if to indicate an example of the things he hated so much about the city.
Now, I'm a fairly good sport in most situations, but I couldn't help seeing a certain irony here. If New York is awful, it is very likely because of all of the hipster nerds from Maine who tend bar on the Lower East Side and offer advice to people who want absolutely nothing to do with the city in which they ostensibly live.
If I ran a bar, I could see little profit in commiserating with sociopaths bent on moving to the woods -- even if I came from such a place myself. The real kicker was the way the bartender went about his business with such a cool, self-assured attitude, only to turn around and offer provincial advice to a drunken lunatic. In my experience, it is desirable to treat such people with a certain detached bemusedness -- one needn't be rude or dismissive, but only a real charlatan would react as though speaking to a potential employer or family friend.
One must pick one's battles, I suppose, even within spitting distance of the Five Points.
It quickly emerged that the bartender was a native of Maine, and his patron was exploring the possibility of buying a piece of property there.
"I talked to an architect friend of mine, and she said the way to go is to buy just an absolute shit house on a big property."
The bartender, who had just paid the band a whopping $35 for their set, was remarkably interested in the course the conversation seemed to be taking.
"A fixer-upper?" he asked, with the approximate demeanor (and appearance) of a third grade teacher at a particularly progressive elementary school.
"No. No. Worse. I'm talking about a total piece of shit. Because that way, you just tear it down, and you have all of the utilities and shit in place."
I was somewhat startled to realize that he was absolutely right. The bartender, however, was quick to add his own insight.
"Well, in Maine we have the 'one wall standing' law. Basically, it means you have to leave at least one wall standing, and build a whole new house around it. Then when you're finished you just tear it down at the end."
This seemed a bit perplexing, but my knowledge of Maine's legal system is admittedly limited. The barfly, however, was enthralled.
"Really? That's very interesting. I didn't even know that shit. New York doesn't have anything like that."
For a while, my interest in the exchange waned, as a third party joined in and I was distracted by other goings on. But my attention was caught anew as the real estate speculator roused himself to leave.
"Well, ask your dad what 50 grand would buy me," he advised the bartender. "Because I fucking hate New York. Hate everything about it."
With these last words, as he stood up, he leered menacingly in my direction, as if to indicate an example of the things he hated so much about the city.
Now, I'm a fairly good sport in most situations, but I couldn't help seeing a certain irony here. If New York is awful, it is very likely because of all of the hipster nerds from Maine who tend bar on the Lower East Side and offer advice to people who want absolutely nothing to do with the city in which they ostensibly live.
If I ran a bar, I could see little profit in commiserating with sociopaths bent on moving to the woods -- even if I came from such a place myself. The real kicker was the way the bartender went about his business with such a cool, self-assured attitude, only to turn around and offer provincial advice to a drunken lunatic. In my experience, it is desirable to treat such people with a certain detached bemusedness -- one needn't be rude or dismissive, but only a real charlatan would react as though speaking to a potential employer or family friend.
One must pick one's battles, I suppose, even within spitting distance of the Five Points.
posted by mister sketchee! at 12:21 AM
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