I Never Got Drunk at the Bar in the Algonquin

Greetings Hairball fans,

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.

As a tribute, I offer a small remembrance of my own time in that dark and haunted place.

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,

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