The Oak Room at the Algonquin Hotel is closing. A piece of literary history will be no more.
Some in the U.S. fight to bring back the 1950s, I don’t know
why. There was no color TV, tampax or
Monday night football. We had
segregation and suppression of civil rights.
Desperate housewives stayed behind closed doors and drank cocktails
rather than exposing their angst on the airwaves to the voyeurs among us
(perhaps eliminating that last one is a good thing).
I, on the other hand, am waxing nostalgic for the 1920s when
that group of literary icons sat at a round table in the Algonquin Hotel
discussing lofty subjects. Well,
actually they probably complained about their rent, lack of paying work and
gossiped.
I Never Got Drunk at the Bar in the Algonquin©
FMHorner
It was that Scotch
guzzling, alcoholic, sumo wrestler of a cat who kept me sober.
For years I’d go to
that famous place, ordering drink after drink, getting barely a sip,
while waiting for the
ghost of Dorothy Parker to arrive and motivate my prose.
Each time a glass was
placed upon my table, he’d come lumbering across the room,
those ginger stripes
of fur covering 22 pounds of Scotch be-gone, masquerading as a cat.
Up he’d leap, with a
mighty thud, never once landing in the ashtray.
While I, as though
hypnotized, would simply stare and
hold my cigarette
away to keep from setting him on fire.
He’d suck down my
drink, without a glance in my direction,
then, off he’d go
across the floor having already spotted his next victim.
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Don't forget to check back tomorrow night to see who won the Dumb Bastard Award for September.
Nominations are open for October.
Hairballs to all,
f
