Winnie's
Winnie's
Four years ago, I came to Chinatown for sex. Rub-and-tug parlors were hardly my bag; rather, I was a third-rate porn lackey. In a dildo-packed office half a block from Canal St.'s knockoff pirates, I earned my keep crafting Oedipal and Electral gems like, "Billy rode his dad's red ass like a cowboy at the last roundup" and "I like my mom's pussy better than homemade apple pie."
Those were drinking days, my friends.
When the six o'clock whistle sounded, I wet mine. Back then, the East Village welcomed my numbing eves. Perhaps I should have spent a little less time scribing cross-cultural coitus-"Shove your big egg roll in my spicy bento box"-and more time exploring Chinatown dives. Like Winnie's.
Winnie's is located across from the pigeons at concrete Columbus Park, beside a Thai restaurant. By daylight, chained convicts enter the adjacent Manhattan Criminal Courthouse, Winnie's their last glimpse before sentencing. At night, Winnie's attracts lawbreakers of a different sort: criminally awful crooners.
Winnie's is a karaoke bar, a creature I shy from. Sure, I've been tequila-trashed and coaxed into screeching a TelePrompTed "Welcome to the Jungle." However, such affairs are as frequent as Halley's Comet. Yet I entertain a curious streak. And a girlfriend freshly returned from Japan, where the karaoke bug bit her. Months of begging led to Saturday night. Six friends. Chinatown. Winnie's.
Entering Winnie's, like much of Chinatown, means time-warping to an era of blood-red Naugahyde booths and faux Tiffany lamps. Vivid green bamboo grows near the window. Christmas lights flash seasonal flair. And in the rear, on the big-screen karaoke tv, a Chinese Richard Marx passionately belts big-haired heartbreak.
Such atmosphere is tailored to lowest-denominator debauchery, my favorite kind. Our soon-to-be vocal posse deposits coats in a super-sized red booth. We then step to the bar to dent the two-drink minimum. CASH ONLY, reads a sign. And lots of it, for several Tsingtao and Heineken bottles cost $10. Jameson on rocks and a Corona run $12.
"I'm going to be broke before I get drunk," my friend Andrew says. But to sing his planned "Strangers in the Night," he must pony up: Whoever heard of a sober Frank Sinatra?
A bartendress with long black hair deposits an inches-thick songbook on our table. I giddily crack the binder-Do I hear a "Hey Ya"?-and am dismayed. The playlist was last updated in Clinton's first term. Spin Doctors' "Two Princes," perhaps? The songs-which cost a buck to belt-are listed alphabetically, but artist names are omitted. Furthermore, tunes are duplicated: Is that really Elvis' "Love Me Tender"?
Luckily, a singular, appealing ditty appears. I quaff courage-enabling Tsingtao, then hand the karaoke mistress a buck and my selection. So at 9 p.m., with an audience of five friends and two arms-crossed bartenders, I launch into a pelvis-thrusting, finger-pointing "Living on a Prayer."
"You were?great," Adrianne says, back at the table.
"Really?" I ask.
"Yeah. Really."
I reserve the same compliment for her shimmy-less "Love Shack." And Andrew's slurred "Strangers in the Night."
Soon after embarrassing ourselves, the bar reaches capacity with khaki-wearing meatheads, punk rockers, Chinatown locals and a bar stool-sized midget. I watch, amazed, as he hoists himself up to the bar via chair-assisted push-ups.
"That's the Regulator," Adrianne whispers. "I read about him. He regulates karaoke."
The Regulator stands near the stage, nodding his head as "Please, Mr. Postman," "When Doves Cry" and "Eternal Flame" receive standard treatment: enthusiastic delivery, poor execution. But each flubbed line is applauded like it's a revelation. Just the sort of support one needs to sing karaoke.
Especially considering the bartenders' businesslike temperament. Drinks are grabbed when quarter-empty, urging more overpriced whiskey consumption. A buck for a song. Seven bucks for a beer. Fun quickly compounds at Winnie's, which rides a well-trod road: kitschy dive becomes popular, drinks prices soar, sleazy décor remains and a moneyed set moves in.
Such as the starch-collared young men crowding around the microphones. Sensing a karaoke train wreck, I move beside the Regulator-who, I learn, calls himself "Cool Hand Luke." I toss him a head nod. A woman with Vaseline-gooey lips pushes forward for a photo.
"Pardon me," she says, elbowing my ribs. The bass line to popular Bon Jovi's "Bad Medicine" thrums. Luke begins a hard-rock jig.
"They're being such assholes," the woman says, her flash blinding me, capturing uneasy men singing all the wrong words. "Isn't that what karaoke is all about?"