< topography - Yupper West Side

  

SoHa
Amsterdam, 108/109
Yupper West Side
Manhattan
A huge, loud, poorly staffed lounge that seems to attract, to its credit, a variety of patrons, SoHa has something of the hipster lounge to it. It unfortunately also has something of the frattype bar. [And two years later, in need of, fleeing, PK1 and I make the train-jump up to find out that SoHa, which appears to have become "Veritas," is either closed on Thursdays or for good...RIP, SoHa? [This is classic. Check it out, kittlings, and let me bring you virtually into compositional time. (You might learn something about being along the way of The SYborg, something about the saving power of a failure in instrumental thinking, in teleological "wandering.") As I begin to type in Tap A Keg, having just announced the possible death of SoHa, I look up through the foliage of words and tags and catch a glimpse of the sky: we targeted the wrong coordinate! Last night I was certain that SoHa could be found between 104 and 105. Remember those laser-guided missiles in the invasion of Panama (yeah, remember Panama?)? They destroyed whole blocks of civilian housing.]]

The Ding-Dong Lounge
Columbus, 105/106
Yupper West Side
Manhattan
{ P.k-7 2/17/01: "The N/R going south is much slower than the N/R going uptown..." my companion informed me. "I was suprised that we didn't see the little men that live on the tracks at the last station...:" the ones that run endlessly back and forth across the tracks when the train is late and isn't going to arrive any time soon, a sort of gnomic time keeper, or so I learned. Strange city when you are going the wrong direction. Or maybe it was the right direction given the time. I was in a different town when we emerged after three transfers, "lets go to Mama's chicken." "Do you want to take me home and fuck, or do you want another drink?" Sometimes, when you ask for one, the story you get is unexpectedly good.}

Tap A Keg
Broadway, 104/105
Yupper West Side
Manhattan
[Khakis-and-backwards-cap boy leaves as we enter, and I envision horrid frattype factoring; then upon being happily mistaken, I recall one of those old Beer Nation stickers: "Tap a keg, not a shoulder." Tap A Keg is a straight-up bar...a little bright, tables on the right, pool in the back. The crowd is relatively diverse; the pour is above average; the box allegedly kicks down ten plays on the dollar; there's ill-tuned Twilight Zone. Go ahead and take a hit...dealer's hand looks low.]

Latin Quarter
Broadway, 96/95
Yupper West Side
Manhattan
{ namenskid 6/3/01: Signed myself up for a triathalon of end of the semester socializin', with a party at Latin Quarter riding dead center in a Thursday-Friday-Saturday series, which, thank you very much, I survived, suited up suave...nearly got soaked though, en route, but the 2 express I jumped spat me right out in front of L.Q. (and I gulped at first because I have  rolled by this place times before with a shudder and a grimace at the sight of the metal detector, the skin and the adrenaline rippling through the line up the stairs toward the dance floor noise). You never know what you'll think of a place like this if you're forking at the door, but free passes made everything bubble on more reasonably. So with an open mind I danced to the techno, took some photos, met the whole family up from Puerto Rico, and smiled til my lips hurt. Yeah, in a space decorated like a high school prom, and that's OK, I admired the flesh, the sweat, and the slick salsa moves sliding tight into Dominican merengue. And everything was A.O.K.} { Cassandra 6/6/01: Tight clothes, big women, loud music and a lot of dancing. I had trouble figuring out all the rules, like at which tables I was allowed to sit. I never thought I would find myself in a club where they search your bag and put you through a metal detector. But The Wall more than made up for it. The Wall is at the end of the dance floor where men and women stand if they want to dance. This way you don't have to fend off unwanted solicitations to dance and accepting a dance doesn't have to lead to other kinds of fending off. Amazing ass shaking dancing to a variety of music, from Dominican to electronic to hiphop! The women's bathroom has its own little store where you can purchase anything from hairbrushes to candy. And the large women in tight clothing with no shortage of dance partners spoke of a more accepting and inclusive body consciousness, which instantly put me at ease.}

Cleopatra's Needle
Broadway, 92/93
Yupper West Side
Manhattan
[Sounds of a late jam pull us in, and since it's after 1 the drink min is a measly 5 bucks (only 5 more before 1). Splitting the room the horseshoe bar is slightly higher on its left side, which serves a narrow elevated section of stools, where reflected in a long wall mirror PK1 and I sip Maker's and marvel at the trombone, at the fact that in The City one can stumble upon music this good. Sitting at tables to the right of the bar, incredibly diverse groups of patrons tap their toes, nod their heads, and applaud a long queue of soloists one by one. As big as a man the clock on the right wall reads out The Law, and I skip into the night feeling, well, happy.]

Cherokee Phoenix
Amsterdam, 87/88
Yupper West Side
Manhattan
{ gray-Neo and e-Lux 3/24/00: "Cherokee Phoenix"!! We spotted it from across the street, and its name was sooo ridiculous that we had to check it out, on a Thursday night and all that... There weren't a lot of people, but then on the upper west side, are there ever? Anyway, it's a lounge, it's a bar, there was a little live jazz, and a funkily spaced out seating and eating area in the back. Nobody seems to have thought out the space, so there's sports TV also and standing areas...total mishmash: not a bar but more like "bar-istical." The thin crowd was totally law and biz students, and so you can picture the BS that was getting splattered on everyone. Kind of a pick-up scene too! Yeah, let's go uptown, drink Bud Light and pick up neurotics looking to spawn with the well-to-do of the future!}

Drip
Amsterdam, 83/84 [Edgar Allen Poe St]
Yupper West Pride
Manhattan
{ Eclipse the Gum 2/26/01: If ever a bar lived up to its name! Egads.  This place...oh brother, is it a coffee shop? Is it a bar? [cf. clarify -SYborg] Is it a meat market with coffee and bar? I filled out the "singles" form as a joke/time-killer and was told that the Drip perquisites came with a $10 fee. Thanks, no. The atmosphere in this place is so cosmically muddled; it's like the green room in Drinkland threw a party for its myopic friends. And imbibing under boofsahs is a big no-no. This no-no is elevated to the level of full-blown sin, as my party and I were sitting before the floor-to-ceiling window and displaying our repulsively blanched features to whomever walked past. Why did I enter such a place, you ask. A friend works the (bar? coffee machine? pen and paper?) there, so free whisky, coffee, pastry. Tolerance magnified through bribery.}

Evelyn Lounge
Columbus @ 78
Yupper West Side
Manhattan
{ Jakeed 3/16/01:  Yupper West Side The SYborg ain't kidding what the what the live band these idiots should not have left the house with their utterly vile Patti Smith as thirtysomething male stock broker slave attempting to tell stories about commuting  to Jersey un-harmonized by some swaying steroid quote-unquote voice layered on top of the most aggressively horrid cracker funk I've heard in a long time and that sums up the patrons too in a word  stupid so if I see one of those guys again I'm just going to punch him in the mouth maybe then I'll feel better about my 7$ water in disguise as a drink never I said to myself enter a bar with a Shecky review laminated in the window} { Cassandra 3/24/01: The doors to this place should be locked and it should be blown up/burned to the ground/napalmed...Whatever is easiest. At the very least the place and its patrons should be shipped back to the horrific Southern California suburb in which I grew up. I couldn't believe that the people in there and I were the same species. Who would ever sing like that (I have no words to describe the monstrous clanging I heard), unless it was a bad joke, and in public at that. A meat market, overpriced, with hungry, toothy grins in the faces of what seemed like Martians, with the incessant drone of what I can't call music. You are really better off slitting your wrists than coming to this place.}

research_111900

Potion Lounge
Columbus @ 78
Yupper West Side
Manhattan
{ Jakeed 3/16/01: cross 78 from should-be-slated-for-destruction Evelyn: eye through aquatic smalt bubbling tableaux behind which you spill your plastic into a few more whiskeys at Wannabe-Downtown Potion Number Something block out shiny mod plus inept service saying your NYSID is no good dude seeing a state ID for the first time who potions here in this empty ocean plain of top shelf Ikea {research_10600} bouncers bouncing zero zero because no one is around in here maybe weekends but that I can see can I? drunk and invisible except spectral S*** alongside Cassandra PK1 with other orbiters clustering the bar's end still living after taxi sailing through Columbus Circle Of Hell  yet it all adds up to through and through buzzed and some crucial conversations to boot weekday salvation in strange places Dante at the end of the line running express to red lightning} { Cassandra 3/29/01: If you're stuck in this part of town and the Evelyn Lounge is your only option, this place is adequate. Like a wine cooler is adequate when what you really want is a double shot of something strong. I was able to have an intimate conversation and my problems seemed a bit less dire when compared to the problems of the person who was responsible for the décor of this joint. Aside from the three different shades of blue lighting, the most prominent feature of this place is its strangely-shaped-in-an-attempt-to-be-artsy-chic furniture that ultimately fails to be comfortable or functional. The absence of any patrons highlighted this ridiculousness. I half expected blue tumbleweed to blow through. The bar stools had backs too low to give support or keep you from falling off the back of the chair. Not that falling over drunk is really a danger with the stingy shots of whisky the bartender served up.}

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