Spent Valentine's day volunteering at the Blues Symposium, which was a rousing success. The presentation on the 1969 Ann Arbor Blues Festival was impressive to say the least, especially coming from recent and current WKCR personnel. I missed the Bessie Smith salon unfortunately, though I'm sure it went well. I had a drum lesson that also went well, and retired back to my room for a sandwich and bout of television that were equally enjoyable. Went out to Industry City Distillery for the Symposium after party and some phenomenal brass band funk music from Lucky Chops Brass Band.
Before getting to the Distillery and after disembarking the N train at 36th street I went to the nearest restaurant I could find as I was very hungry despite the earlier sandwich. La Familia, walked in because it looked more promising than McDonald's. Some of the staff didn't speak English, some did. One patron was very drunk, you could see it in his eyes and in his drink, he spoke to me briefly and later came to my table and spoke to me at length. He talked about the neighborhood, how it wasn't nice and whether I lived there, that techies were moving in. A sense of estrangement was in his voice that I think encapsulates these areas, or at least my generalized stereotyped at first glance take of them. But a discussion of rich techies and impoverished neighborhoods is better for another time and a more astute expert.
He made passes at the waitress, failed, and noted that the girls here don't like to be touched. I ate grilled steak and salad, arriving at my table from the bar the same time as he did. I offered some but he declined, later he offered me a beer and I declined. He seemed like a regular at La Familia, as the staff talked cordially with him but also apologized about him to me. I wasn't bothered at all and tried to make this known but to no avail. I overheard myself referred as gringo in their debate over whether he was bothering me, apparently I've regressed in my Spanish to the point where people think I can't speak Spanish (I can't). He often asked if I was alright, at first I wondered if I seemed strange or skittish but realized hopefully his concern was a result of the staff's accusations. He'd helped translate my order to the waitress, and I felt indebted to him. Some really great Spanish techno/reggaeton was playing over the speakers, it was the first time I've wished I had Shazam on my phone.
He asked me where I was from, I said California, he said he meant in New York, I stuttered over the Upper West Side. For some reason I was hesitant to say so, I felt embarrassed about it. Another sentiment better left for the techie/impoverishment discussion.
He wasn't from the La Familia neighborhood and asked if I knew any good nightclubs in the area, I said it was my first time there and I was going to a bar, he asked if it was a good bar and I said "hopefully", which got a laugh. He left the bar and came back too quickly to have been smoking, too cold for getting some air. His jacket was still on his chair, I took off my hat and let my hat hair further my estrangement. He sat back down at my table and asked about the bar I was going to. He mentioned hearing about a neighborhood called Williamsburg that was supposed to be cool, I said that it had a lot going on, but refrained from connecting its history to this neighborhood's. I either never asked or can't remember his name. The waitresses further reprimanded him in Spanish and called him to come sit back at the bar. The waitress he'd made a pass at was very cute.
I started to get uncomfortable with the attention of the whole restaurant (the patrons numbered me at my table near the door, my new friend, another regular sitting at the bar and about twelve empty tables), and rationalized my discomfort by feeling that I didn't want to miss the show. The band was supposed to start ten minutes ago, and I was two snowy blocks away so I asked for a to go box, paid, finished my water and left a nice tip for the misplaced concern of the wait staff. He offered me the Modelo as I paid, I declined explaining I had to leave to this bar. He asked me the name of the bar and where it was, I feigned that I couldn't remember the exact name and address and gave two faulty but close to accurate answers so I could feel that I didn't completely lie and wasn't a total asshole. I shook his hand to leave, he gave the staff an angry look and tone and said this place was boring him anyway and he'd meet me at my bar later. I left and felt bad but also glanced over my shoulder to make sure he wasn't following.
I got to the bar, which wasn't really a bar, instead was two pieces of paper taped to a nondescript warehouse door saying "Lucky Chops!" and "In here!", or something along those lines. Entering and being further paper-sign-directed to a service elevator taking me to floor 6R, I felt less bad about giving a faulty address since a real address would have left him similarly separated from the bar and I. I might have missed the entrance if I didn't happen upon it, and the event cost 10$ I wasn't aware of anyway so leading him into a fiscal and structural trap maybe would have been more of a dick move.
Plastic bag of grilled steak and broccoli in hand I followed the sounds of tuba to the bar entrance, paid and received a red sharpie "x" on my hand, and proceeded to a great time with great people. It was a quintessentially "Brooklyn" venue, if the quintessentials of Brooklyn are now the warehouse party techie aesthetic and not the impoverished working class aesthetic. Though thankfully this party was more hipster than techie.
Venturing back to Columbia with friends I passed La Familia again, now shuttered but with lights on and possibly people inside. I briefly drunkenly considered entering. In the subway station the same cute waitress who called me gringo walked in and smiled at me, carrying a "Feliz dia de San Valentin" heart-shaped balloon. I thought about talking to her or asking about the balloon, but remembered that I can't speak Spanish and that the WKCR crew and La Familia crew didn't really know each other, and I wasn't up to the job of being the social bridge. I'm not sure what train she got on or what stop she got off at, I'm not sure of his name or what nearby neighborhood he was from, but I ate the rest of the steak and broccoli on the train ride back and saved the carrots for a microwave.
That was a lot of pompous verbosity, here's something more regular of what this blog will be. A great sad song for Dia de San Valentin, this goes out to everyone like my WKCR friend from last night who remarked something to the effect of "It's Sunday now, Valentine's day is over, thank God".
"Dark Shadows", by Charlie Parker, off of Ornithology.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qVuj-xKwZ9w
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