I’m sure I’m supposed to know who Robert Emmett is. Is he another drunk poet? One of those dudes in the blue jumpsuits who cleans up butts in front of the Eighth Ave. porn stores? Is he the manager at the Popeye’s Chicken? Who the hell cares, really? And, yes, I know I could Wikipedia the dude and find out in like two seconds, but I refuse to stuff my head with one more useless fact. To me he’s just some dude with his name on the side of a non-descript Theater District tourist bar, and that’s the way I’m gonna leave it. I will, however, mention my short stint at the drinking establishment bearing his moniker. I came here out of desperation. I just missed my bus to Jersey and had a lot of time to kill, so I wandered up Eighth Ave. The only two places in this area worth a damn, Collins Bar and McHale’s, fell to the wrecking ball long ago, so I’m stuck with this large generic Irish pub thing. I sat on my stool by a table of clucking hens, obviously drunk on booze and anticipation. There was apparently a blind date in the offing. I sat there eavesdropping and counting the minutes until I could be whisked away, away from this place. Soon their sites turned to me, asking me some inane questions about this and that. Don’t these young girls these days know you don’t talk to the guy hanging out alone at the bar? Luckily I was saved by the most gruesome and awkward of sites: another one of their female friends dragging behind her a small gaggle of the dorkiest dudes on earth; one for each gal. My next half hour was filled with overheard hellos and all sorts of horrible introductions and small talk. Satisfied that I never ever needed to come into this joint again, I smiled a knowing smile at one of the bunch, shook my head and skipped off to a life far far away. [MF]
694 8th Ave.