There are some Fridays I can’t wait to kick off my weekend with a bougie blowout from Indigo, slip into my most uncomfortable footwear, and paint the town red with sparkles. Sippin’ on some Chloe Creek and indulging in charcuterie delights. Living like someone who knows how to spell charcuterie correctly and on the first try. Fancy.
There is a place for this kind of Friday, and I like this place a lot of the time.
Other Fridays….I want to peel off my work clothes, take a nap in a pile of blankets, not wash my hair, and maybe eat a Stewart’s hardroll for dinner. I might even tuck my finest sweatshirt directly into the elastic waist of my funnest (not a word, Scarlett Kennedy) sweatpants. Killin’ it. And on these Friday’s, we go to Margie’s. (the only online evidence I can find to prove this exists. 4 likes.)
Margie doesn’t care that I’m writing this blog. She really couldn’t give less of a shit. I don’t really know her, but I can just tell. I’m willing to bet on tasteful indifference to the whole thing. Hopefully it won’t land me on her list of “People I’m Not Talking To In 2013″ shitlist….a whiteboard that hangs prominently over the bar and identifies in black magic marker offenders such as:
- The Agostino’s
- Time Warner Cable
- New York State
- My Nephew
Deep down, and thanks to my true and undying love of assholery, I wanted to be on this list, but I instinctively knew Marge was not the kind of lady to be messed with. I harnessed my excitement and strived for good behavior. Because Marge has rules. Real rules. Written and posted for all to see and obey. Like “NO PROFANITY“. But even this pales in comparison to the unwritten rules of the place. Here, these would be something like….”DON’T ORDER SOMETHING SHAKEN, don’t ask curiously where the taps are, (there are none. deal with it, fancy.) and always exercise extreme jukebox discretion. The jukebox part is easy at Margie’s, since at least 50 of the 80 records are Frank Sinatra. One dollar gets you 3 tunes (steal) and I carefully selected a smart blend of Van Morrison, Fleetwood, and some other guy that I forget his name that CMAXBY has a thing for. He’s old. Real old.
The jukebox is almost scratchy. Not as scratchy as my pretty shitty record player I scored from Target, but scratchy like every song has been played at least one million times. Just another gritty sneak that Marge will charm you with. Oh, Margieeeeee. The pleather on the barstools is ripped and the cushiony stuff is popping out in all the right places. And it’s perfect. There are NO SMOKING signs that catch you off guard (because when’s the last time you needed a neon orange sign to remind you not to light up indoors?) as Marge slides you your very own personal pan tin ash tray across the bar.
CMAXBY, Marge, and I were the only females hanging out for the night. I get the feeling that this is not a hotspot among the women folk, so probably not a hot spot for meeting a new lady friend, should you have that in mind.. The place wasn’t packed…..but I would say we had a solid 5-7 70+ year old men that we were more than happy to share the space with. One might be tempted to think they would have enjoyed our feminine presence, but like Marge’s feelings towards this blog, they really could not have given less of a shit. When the world typically shines back at you with smiling faces of friends and strangers who are happy to see you, walking into Marge’s reminds you that nobody cares about you or your blowout or your new jacket. You ain’t no thing. In fact, to the contrary of the stereotypical pervy old guy cliche, the man who we sat ourselves next to looked at us for a solid 4 seconds, made a sound like “grrfggrgrgffff” and then moved 3 seats down. Not. Impressed. (He came around a little when our jukebox play list proved we had something to offer.)
Once I got a little (too) comfortable, I asked Marge what the Agostino’s ever did to her and attempted to bond over a shared disdain for Time Warner Cable. She was friendly and warmly entertained our curiosity, but got right to the point and reminded us to order drinks. It’s embarrassing to admit I almost forgot how to order a beer that didn’t boast craftiness from it’s fancy tap or have a smart/cute name that let everyone know how cool it is. I followed CMAXBY’s lead and went with a solid Miller lite.
Or is light. I can never remember. I really wanted Miller Hi-Life, but Marge said they only had REAL champagne, and then pointed to the handwritten paper sign that advertised a half bottle of champagne for $4.99. All day. Every day. Marge. Hold me.
I bought a round of drinks for 4 and the total was 15 dollars. The next morning I woke up and had to immediately wash my hair and clothes to get the smell of old cigarettes out of my life. The scent of Marge can be washed away, but her memory will never fade. (I mean she is alive…..so that sounds weird. But just go to Marge’s and act like you know what you’re doing. You won’t be sorry. Or maybe you will. If you like it…you’re welcome. If you hate it, try again later. If you get on the bad list, please write here and tell us everything. Thanks)