Dawn's Early Light: The Serenity of Puffy's; That's My Gal; It's Almost Over
I could hear a rhubarb from inside the deli?a sassy and oiled black woman screaming about the price of a bagel, with one of the more aggressive Korean workers chasing her away?but that kind of incident, unless it really gets ugly, is just background noise in New York, whether it's in Brooklyn, Tribeca or Gramercy Park. I imagined for a moment that had the argument taken place at a location near, say, Broadway and 80th St., a Katha Pollitt-type would've sided with the preferred "person of color" and escorted her out of the store, mindlessly babbling about the racial justice of seeing John Ashcroft's body swinging from a Central Park tree. Damn those Confederates!
Just the caffeine, I'm sure.
A moment later I did a doubletake when a tall, white-haired man of about 55 walked by. He was a little rumpled, with the shirttails of his blue buttondown hanging below a Pittsburgh Steelers windbreaker, and he stopped to read the headlines of that morning's Post and Times. He was Steve Ouzo in the flesh, it appeared, that merry neighborhood fixture who held court at Puffy's on Sunday afternoons: sipping from a tall drink, fumbling with his glasses, laughing when some heated dispute would ensue just a few barstools down from his window perch.
This was impossible, for Steve passed away in the middle of the last decade, leaving a sheaf of Manhattan stories and fables in his wake, like the loose change on the bar that accumulates after several rounds of drinks. I remember those sessions at Puffy's?Saturdays were reserved for Riverrun?when a few colleagues and I would walk down from our New York Press office at 530 Broadway, and later the Puck Bldg., and we'd drink pints of beer or shots of tequila with Steve, Chris, Captain Jim, the irritable Frank, Susan, Ruthie, Hunter, Chris and other regulars who reported to the establishment at any time after 1 p.m.
The paper had just a handful of full-time workers back then, but most of us made the weekly pilgrimage?Michael Gentile, Anne Jackley, Don Gilbert, Michael Cohen, maybe a freelance writer or two. We'd conduct some business first, assessing the cover art for the next issue, wonder when letter-writers would notice our small, 30,000-circulation tabloid, toast the urban poetry of Ben Katchor, whose "Julius Knipl" was introduced to cultists in New York Press' debut issue in '88, laugh about the silly writing of 7 Days star Lewis Grossberger and think about one day inviting The New York Times' anointed arbiters of "hip," Paper's Kim and David, down for a pop. As a joke, of course.
It was a relaxing ritual, even though New York was in decay, with Ed Koch losing popularity, the homeless camped out at designated corners?half of them waving crudely lettered signs that claimed Vietnam vet status and the inevitable onset of their battles with AIDS. That some of these young men appeared as healthy as Belmont-worthy horses wasn't so surprising. It was the beginning of an era when Brown graduates were doing research for their novels, spending two hours on the street in transparent getups and then going back to their East Village shares with like-minded fakes who wouldn't know Bukowski or Kerouac from Rex Reed or Tad Friend. Back in those days, it was pretty easy to spot a person in need of a buck?or in need of a fiver, maybe, if he were missing a limb.
There were multiple special occasions at Puffy's each year?the outside barbecues, Christmas tree trimmings, jukebox-overhauls, birthday and going-away parties?but it was the standard Sunday afternoons I enjoyed most. During the summer, you could see straight west to the sunset over the Hudson River; in the winter you'd get as close to the heat blaster as possible, unless you were consumed with a game of darts. We spent just one St. Patrick's Day at Puffy's?too much green beer and too many green-gilled office workers. Like every other bar on that day, it was so crowded you couldn't even get a stool by its magnificent north-looking picture window. One afternoon, early in the 90s, REM took a large table by the door, and damned if Michael Stipe wasn't royally pissed that no one came over to kiss his pinky.
It's all a fond memory now. Back in the early-mid 90s, this column was pilloried as a repository for hack restaurant reviews, inconsequential bar gabfests, potshots at now-defunct publications like the post-brilliant Spy, Egg, Manhattan, Inc., Fame, Downtown, New York Perspectives and the Voice. Whoa, hold the phone, rewrite man, that latter newspaper still exists! But I do wonder if there's any truth to the high-flying rumors that the Arizona-based New Times group of alternative weeklies is adding the musty journal to its stable. Watch "Press Clips" for further developments.
But there was always a political element, too, that fortified the writings of the then-anonymous MUGGER. There was Jesse Jackson to rant about, the now-forgotten Mike Dukakis to kick around and the beginning of the squalid Clinton saga to notice. Which reminds me: It might be a done deal by the time you read this, but I hope Michael Milken, the financial scapegoat of the 80s, refuses a pardon from the far more criminal Bill Clinton. Milken's done his minimum-security time in the pokey, survived prostate cancer, started philanthropic enterprises and ditched his rug. He has no need to participate in Clinton's game, which provides cover for similar passes to the likes of Webb Hubbell, Susan McDougal and Al Gore. It'd be sweet if Milken took the call from Clinton and told him to stuff that executive order up his double-Whopper ass.
I pray that G.W. Bush takes the current President (five days to go) at his not-very-faithful word and doesn't issue Clinton a pardon if indeed he's prosecuted once out of office. I'm smelling a closing of the books from Robert Ray, but if Clinton is indicted I hope he does fight all the way to the Supreme Court, as promised. A Bush pardon is unthinkable. Forget all this baloney about healing; that's for the likes of Jerry Ford. The new president would cheese off a large portion of his political base and get nothing in return from the Democrats. As usual.
There's a case made by both conservative and liberal pundits that Bush doesn't need the distraction of the ongoing circus that's sure to be generated by Clinton's legal gymnastics. That's a myopic view. Sure, the Dirty Little Coward still commands attention from a doped-up media, but three months into 2001, most court appearances by Clinton will be confined to the butt-end of the news section of most dailies, save the Times. My advice to Bush would be that he should go with his gut, and let the Justice Dept. do its work. He shouldn't dirty himself by even mentioning the name "Clinton" in public.
But I digress. I wonder if there's an ego-driven, full-of-beans writer out in this audience who's willing to take the assignment of detailing the filth and splendor of New York's under- and over-belly, harpooning the Brown students (still), ridiculing the city's ridiculous celebrities and politicians, spilling poison onto these pages.
There's a battalion sniping from the trees, I just know it. Green Berets, every one. E-mail this slipper-hooved gentleman at [MUG1988@aol.com](mailto:MUG1988@aol.com).
Later that day, Junior and I attended a matinee of Cobb, a splendid four-man show currently playing at the Lucille Lortel theater on Christopher St. We'd been primed for some baseball entertainment all week: Boston's acquisition of David Cone from the Yanks was welcome news, spurring hope that, along with the addition of Manny Ramirez, the Bosox might get back in the World Series this year, for the first time since '86. As long as Pedro Martinez stays healthy, and Cone summons his strength for a season of revenge against his former teammates, Boston looks like a contender. The one-two-three punch of Nomar Garciaparra, Ramirez (bound to set an American League record for doubles playing in Fenway) and Carl Everett, who will finally restore some offense to the club, means that we might even be looking at evening the score with the Mets. There's even the possibility that Mo Vaughn might return. In Monday's Globe, he admitted that a return engagement in Boston might be sweet. When Vaughn's Angels are out of contention this July, look for a pick-up of the tubby slugger.
(Still, I'm a Sox pessimist. I was talking to my friend Jim, a devoted Bombers fan, in the elevator the other day, about the upcoming season. I predicted that Roger Clemens would blow out his arm, Mike Mussina would post a so-so 12-10 and speculated that Paul O'Neill might retire midseason, off to a life of kicking tires. And the Yanks would still win another Series.)
Junior, like any eight-year-old, has a difficult time imagining life in the olden days, but he's been fascinated by Ty Cobb ever since I showed him that famous photo of the nasty Tiger sliding into second, spikes flashing, with a maniacal look on his face. Cobb isn't really suited for kids?my son was the youngest person in the theater?but it was action-packed, with three actors portraying the reviled ballplayer at different stages in his life. Actually, the old man was a ghost, still bitter about his life, bickering with the two younger Cobbs when they dwelt on the player's racism and unhappy family life. My favorite was the middle-aged Ty, a successful businessman boasting about his investments in Detroit motorcar companies and Coca-Cola?which made him a multimillionaire?while his dumb teammates were living on the skids after their careers were over.
Junior was riveted throughout the short play, kicking me and smiling each time one of the actors swore, and he especially liked the constant belittling of Babe Ruth as a bucket of lard who just happened to hit pop flies into the bleachers. The much-quoted line from the performance was my favorite, too. Mr. Cobb, spitting as he spoke to the audience: "At the turn of the century I took a rustic folk-art form called baseball and applied the science of warfare to it. Fit like a damn glove, you better believe. That's my contribution to America... I know these things for three reasons: I'm dead, I'm a millionaire and I'm in the Hall of Fame."
That's My Gal
Sunday afternoons in Tribeca, when the thermometer creeps above 40, can be downright mean. Mind you, I'm a market-driven guy, thrilled when commerce thrives, especially at the beginning of an economic downturn that'll sadly see a number of mom-and-pop shops shutter their doors. But there are limits. I was at home, watching City Hall, that confused but still likable political thriller with John Cusack and Al Pacino, while the kids were at the cinema with their friend Allison and Mrs. M was heading out to forage for nuts and berries.
She'd just gotten out of the shower, applied makeup and had a mustardy mask in her hair?chick stuff?and wanted to let it settle and do its beauty buzz while going about some weekend errands. That meant going to the Citibank up on Franklin St., picking up some magazines at Mary and Fred's Fourth Estate newsstand and then assembling a makeshift dinner of prepared foods from Bouley Bakery. While waiting on line?the service there is a bit ditzy?Mrs. M bumped into a friend, the mother of a buddy of MUGGER III's, and held her baby girl while she negotiated with the counter help. When the call "Next?" came forth, Mrs. M was about to place an order when an obnoxious middle-aged couple, Zagat-hags without a doubt, tried to cut in.
My wife's a polite lady, and said gently, "Excuse me, but actually I'm ahead of you." The duo got a little huffy, didn't believe her and tried once again to jump the line. Mrs. M started to steam up, repeated that she was in fact next, and that they ought to wait their turn. The woman hissed, "If you weren't so worried about being next, we'd all be a lot of happier. And whatever's in your hair is like, really ugly." That was the wrong line of sand to cross. Mrs. M., calmly, she assures me, told the witchy woman, "Honey, take a look in the mirror. Maybe it's time to spruce up that prune-face of yours, not to mention that unruly mop of hair."
Bingo! The skunky male half of this tag-team weakly tried to defuse the confrontation, telling Mrs. M to "let it go." She held her ground, and place on line, leaving the pair to exit the bakery, loudly exclaiming in unison, "You fucking asshole!" MUGGER III's friend was a little confused, saying, "Mom, those people used the f- and a-words." Mrs. M, her dander still up, said, "I'm sorry you had to hear that, Matt, but New York City is teeming with slobs who've no manners." A postmortem of the quick dustup took place at the counter, and then my bride came home, smoke coming out of her ears, recounting the entire unpleasant episode. She was really pissed?with due cause?but I felt a certain warmth, not only because she's such a tough tomato, but also since she sounded exactly like her late grandmother, a darling woman who didn't take the slightest bit of guff from anyone who crossed her.
I fast-forwarded years into the future, when our boys are off on their own, thinking about what a grand sunset of our lives we'll enjoy together, whether it's still in Manhattan, or better yet, at a seaside house perhaps on the coast of Italy. We'll be side by side in comfortable chairs, toes in the water, reading, reminiscing, engaging in the banter of the day.
My reverie was punctured when the doorman rang to tell me copies of Newsweek and Time had arrived, and so it was time to get back to work. Mrs. M, soothed by our household cocoon, settled in her office for a viewing of Billy Elliot, the irritating slice of neighborhood life now a fading memory.
That Mr. Clinton, he been a berry, berry bad boy. Taking a taxpayer-funded "victory lap" around the country last week, the President delighted Democratic crowds by taking potshots at his successor, breaking with the tradition that an outgoing chief executive mind his manners, no matter how divisive the election had been.
At a hotel gathering in Chicago on Jan. 9, Clinton praised Al Gore's shady campaign chairman, Bill Daley, with the following remarks: "I think [Daley] did a brilliant job in leading Vice President Gore to victory. By the time it was over, our candidate had won the popular vote, and the only way they could win the election was to stop the voting in Florida." And, in a continuing, but ultimately futile, attempt to burnish his own legacy, Clinton added, "I'm telling you, there's still a lot of big challenges out there. But I'm leaving this country in good shape."
Ho-ho. But I did like the phrasing of the Bush barb. In fact, Clinton was inadvertently admitting that Daley and his thieves-for-hire were still voting after the polls had closed in Florida. They called it, in the laborious hand recounts, deciphering the "intent" of citizens who cast ballots on Nov. 7.
The day after, at a fundraiser for Montana's Sen. Max Baucus, Clinton congratulated Democrat Maria Cantwell on her victory over incumbent Slade Gorton. Again, he chuckled: "They have this unusual system in Washington State?they actually count all the votes."
Two weeks ago, at the funeral of Terry McAuliffe's father in Syracuse, Clinton shamelessly promoted his own agenda in a eulogy for the 83-year-old man. He said: "I like the fact that he didn't lose his spirit when it didn't all work the way he thought it should. I mean, he thought Notre Dame should never lose, and he had what in this year turned out to be a bizarre idea: he thought all votes should actually be counted."
By the end of last week, the Man From Hope felt the need to back off, telling reporters at a White House press conference that he was just joshing around. "It's not the first time or probably the last time the Supreme Court will make a decision with which I do not agree, but I did not call into question [Bush's] legitimacy. I intended to have no impact on that... I was having a good old-fashioned little bit of fun with Bill Daley and his brother and his friends and my friends in Chicago."
The night before, on Air Force One, "waving an unlit cigar," he assured a Reuters reporter: "I wasn't trying to be sarcastic or hateful or even make any kind of deliberate point."
The Washington Post's George Will is no ally of the country's 42nd president, but the closing line of his Jan. 11 column is an unassailable appraisal of Clinton's eight-year administration, one that the old Joe Lieberman would probably agree with. Will wrote: "Clinton is not the worst president the republic has had, but he is the worst person ever to have been president."
Will's colleague, the centrist David Broder, was only slightly less forgiving last Sunday, when he wrote in the Post: "Between the fumbles of the first two years and the frantic evasions of the last three, we got less than half of what we deserved from Clinton. It was a waste."
On the same day, as a long New York Times editorial issued yet another apologia for the disgraced Clinton?citing, in nauseating paeans, his tireless efforts to secure peace in the Mideast, as well as the screwball notion that, with discipline, he might "enrich the world" as an ex-president?the more realistic Post begged to differ. "Views of the Clinton presidency, as of every presidency, will change. But it seems to us that this was a president whose character betrayed his skills, and in the process betrayed his party and his politics as well."
It's no wonder that The Washington Post has replaced the Times, one of the election's biggest losers, as the liberal newspaper of record.
Spare change? Here's a challenge for readers of this column: I'll offer $250 to the person who can best decipher the following excerpt from Hendrik Hertzberg's "Comment" in the Jan. 15 New Yorker. The rules are simple: in a minimum of 200 words, please tell me what the heck the weekly's glue-farm candidate is trying to say. Send entries to [MUG1988@aol.com](mailto:MUG1988@aol.com) by Jan. 20. The winner will be announced in this space next week.
Here's the brainteaser: "Yet as recently as last week some newspapers were still referring to the election of 2000 as the closest in American history. It wasn't. It wasn't even the closest since Gore and George W. Bush were in junior high school; it was the third-closest. Gore's plurality is nearly five times the size of John F. Kennedy's over Richard Nixon, in 1960, and thirty thousand votes bigger than Nixon's over Hubert Humphrey, in 1968. The margin in those two races is routinely described as razor-thin. This time, the margin is razor-thin, too, but it's a strange sort of razor: a negative razor, a Rogaine razor, a razor that would grow whiskers on Occam himself?a razor whose edge, like some post-Newtonian astronomical singularity, is so exotically thin that it pops through a wormhole into an alternate universe where the dull outcuts the keen."
Get to work.
JANUARY 15
Send comments to [MUG1988@aol.com](mailto:mug1988@aol.com) or fax to 244-9864. Please include your full name, town and state for publication.