Thursday, October 16, 2008
If there is one institution in the foul city that I will miss, it will undoubtedly be Harry's Country Club.
For three years I and my band of drunken followers have been throwing back yards beers and bourbon at an astounding rate at this Honky-Tonk bar in the heart of the River Market. We would get viciously drunk on Weekdays and yell at Tater and the Gravy train to play Purple Rain or Dancing Queen (both of which he has done with a great a country lilt).
The bartenders and waitresses would serve us until closing and then join us at the Caddy Shack until even they had taken enough abuse from us. They were genuinely good people in an industry that takes a lot of abuse from its customers. They would have a double bourbon on ice ready for me each Wednesday.
Trying to write, let alone blog, some kind of fanboy diatribe about Harry's would not do it justice. Hell, it would probably just come off like some masturbatory entry into this vile dumpster of thought.
Still, its hard to let go of those drunken nights and terrible events that unfolded before us while swilling the best drink on the patio and shouting loudly into the night.
Brooklyn is going to have big shoes to fill when it comes to offering me a neighborhood bar like Harry's.
Of the nights we spent there, I am sure you could come up with a great video montage — if anyone had the foresight to take pictures of videos — that would encapsulate the relationship with Harry's Country Club.
Wait, what's that? You don't like montages or that awful Green Day song that gets played every year at graduation.
Well, tough shit.
I have no idea who these doofers are...