Yeah, another one.  umm… would it be more interesting if we tried to i.d. the books?  ISBN codes in the comments?  Anybody?  Nah…

I’ve got a few more of these still life documents of my bad housekeeping habits, so I’ll post a few.  Hopefully this will start me doing this more frequently.  We’ll see.

Speaking of blogs, here’s more Grade “A” Fancy.  Mmmm… Manhattan.

Good news!

This is a sketch of place mats and drinks in a booth at Donohue’s Steak House.  It was this night and we enjoyed sharing a meal with writer, blogger, and beer-drinking ironman Marty Wombacher.  It was a fun evening, as you can see from the report on the  365 blog.  No one is talking about it, but Donohue’s was closed down a few weeks ago by the City Health Department for various violations.  That’s not good, because it’s an old stand-by for us.  Apparently we were lucky to escape with our lives after eating there, but I never had a problem.  There’s some mystery about the closing.  You can look up the reports on the Department of Health website by searching for Donohue’s Steak House.  The inspection that resulted in the closing was January 10.  I read it maybe a week later when I heard about it, and there were a bunch of violations listed, probably seven or eight, including one citing the staff interfering with the inspector.  But I looked up the report again just now and the only violations listed are for mice.  So what happened to the rest of the report?  Why would it be changed?  There is some jazz on the bottom of the page about how the restaurant can challenge a citation in a hearing, and this may change the score, but it doesn’t say anything about disappearing violations being part of that process.  Anybody out there in tv land that knows something about this, I would like to hear it.

A number of great old New York City bars and restaurants bit the dust in 2010.  A lot more than in any other single year I can recall.  You can enjoy a pictorial tribute to some dearly departed friends on the Grade “A” Fancy blogaroo.

See, I wasn’t kidding about the piles of reading matter in the house arranging themselves by color group.  I’m enjoying the still life vibe a lot right now.  I finished this painting before I realized the book on the bottom is Benjamin Miller’s Fat Of The Land, a  history of garbage in New York City.  Mmmm… irony.  Haven’t read it yet, but it’s up next on the nightstand.  The cigar box on top is holding the mini-zine versions of Grade “A” Fancy‘s Interview With the Martini which we distributed to the thirsty at our farewell to the Rum House/mag launch party in September.

A digression from the main subject of old time bars and restaurants, this is the first of a series of still-life paintings documenting the clutter that accumulates around the house.  Yes, that’s a never-ending subject.  I’m lifting these stacks of printed matter that grow in the living room whole and undisturbed, as they appear in nature.  That fits my concept about organic composition discussed previously.  What’s fascinating is I’ve started two and each pile has a unique palette in a completely different key.  Apparently the books and pamphlets spontaneously collect themselves in groups based on color—never subject matter or size, shape, age, or on any other criteria you might organize your library.  Spooky, right?

In other news, election day is coming up.  Here’s something you’ll need to make an informed decision.

Maybe I’m in a rut, but here’s another coat rack!  I’ve enjoyed Donovan’s, at Roosevelt Ave. and 58th Street, many times over many years — not hard to do, as it is the best pub in Woodside.  Somehow these hooks never registered on my consciousness before.  Railroad spikes pounded into a rough-hewn plank, they aren’t the most elegant, but charming nonetheless.  Maybe not a big reason to visit, but a nice monochrome study in texture that makes for a nice quiet little painting.  And it’s a good place to hang your coat while you enjoy a Guinness and a burger at the bar.  You won’t find that at your cookie cutter fake-o Irish pub-in-a-box that went up last week.

The Baroness and I had yet another terrific meal the other night at one of the remaining all-time greats, Le Veau d’Or.  Against all odds this place keeps getting better without losing any of its charm. The horror of the past few months melted away as we luxuriated in the timeless beauty of this sweet old East Side stalwart.  We even coaxed a tiny pursed lip grin out of the ancient waiter, which should mark the evening as a ground breaking success.  The rest of the evening degenerated into an unexpected Alice in Wonderland tour of two more neighborhood hot spots which I won’t try to describe here—but don’t let anyone tell you the old folks don’t know how to party.  In a nutshell, the weirdness that ensued left us laughing, but made me think we might have quit while we were ahead.  Anyway, keep Le Veau d’Or on your short list and take every opportunity to go there.  ‘Nuff said.  This is a sketch of the pigeon holes that hold the checks behind the bar.  Deserving of a proper painting one day soon.

I couldn’t resist one more image of Fedora.  A battered sign telling us to watch our coats and hats which hung on the coat rack by the front door.  No matter what the ultimate fate of the space, I’m pretty certain this announcement isn’t going to make the transition.  I think there’s a short story waiting here for a writer type with the right bent.  Sometime ago — we know it was post 1948, but who knows how long after — someone hand-lettered a notice pertaining to the coat check policy.  Did a nice job of it, too.  Here’s my stab at creative writing: I think this sign used to be under glass in a picture frame when it was new.  Years go by, and one evening some drunk sticks his elbow out while putting on his coat and bumps the little sign, sending it crashing to the floor.  The glass is broken, so there’s no sense hanging the frame back up.  The sign and busted frame kick around behind the bar for a week or two until it is obvious that no one is going to go to the hardware store for a new piece of glass, so the notice is stapled to the coat closet; problem solved.  More time goes by and the sign is showing the wear and tear of daily abuse.  It has become part of the background to both customers and staff.  One day two additional coat hooks are discovered in a junk drawer in the kitchen and some helpful handyman decides to put them up.  The sign has become so completely invisible that one of the hooks is screwed right into it.  It’s getting pretty hard to read the message now, through the dirt and the scrapes and around the hook.  Still, it’s a little chuck of what made us love Fedora so much.  I think I’ll call my story Patina.

There’s a postscript of course.  The little sign that time forgot became the subject of a painting.  I’m happy with the way it came out, and that’s something I suppose.  Not the big Hollywood ending, but that’s life.

I’ve been ignoring this bloggery lately for a variety of not very good reasons.  One of these is inertia inspired by a depressing string of closures around town.  In quick succession, the other shoe dropped at Gino’s; then out of the blue Carmine’s Italian Seafood disappeared; and this week is, sadly, the anticipated shuttering of Fedora.  Those are the big ones.  I can’t bear to make a comprehensive list.  Each of these leaves a hole in my life that won’t be filled by any number of chain stores, boutique cupcake pushers, or celebrity chef venues peddling new wave baby-food to trendies.  It’s a bring down.  Couple that with this ridiculous heat and you can have what tatters are left of New York City.

To push myself in a more positive direction, here is a painting of an old favorite that is still going like gangbusters.  Yet another view of Neary’s.  I’m really in the middle of this one, but the major elements are there.  It will take some fiddling before I think it is completely done.  But the purpose of this is to remind you all to go to your favorite restaurant, diner, greasy spoon, lunchroom, taco cart, tamale wagon, cafeteria, tavern, bar, cocktail lounge, gin mill, pub, beer-hall, and/or bucket of blood today. There is no tomorrow.  This year has been brutal and these summer months are going to really be a test for a lot of the old-timers, so let’s get off our arses and support the home team, shall we?