Gassed and Furious Again

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh man manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, for the second week in a row I am behooved big-time to send out a hearty “thank you” to my dear buddy El Jefe from the Free State, also known as Maryland, home to the once-mighty, now-woeful Baltimore Orioles. Through the mail, the Jef’ sent me a T-shirt emblazoned with the insignia of the never-to-be-forgotten National Liquor Bar, me and my guys’ old stomping grounds, a slice of heaven on earth, what the fock.

I immediately put on the shirt and the memories began to flow like the shots of bottom-rail bourbon we used to quaff by the boatload. Those were indeed “the days.” And I recalled the institution’s closing day event, of which I wrote a near regular-ass society column for. So start strumming the harp and take a trip with me to yesteryear, ’cause it went something like this:

Beer and Loafing on National

Aug. 4, 2005

An enchanting afternoon was had up over by the friendly confines of The Bar with National Liquor by the hundreds and hundreds of multiculturally diversely different types of ethnic smokers and drinkers who came to offer a boozy benediction and express their condolences to proprietors Mike and Andy Cmeyla on account of their getting a royal screw job from certain powers-that-be who believe that progress is to demolish a landmark like The Bar so’s to raise up a national chain store in its place where neighborhood residents can conveniently stroll well-lit aisles to shop for diapers, gum and rubbers. Which reminds me of a little story:

So this guy walks into a drug store with his 10-year-old son. They happen to by the condom display and the boy asks, “What are these, Dad?” And Pops matter-of-factly replies, “Those are called condoms, son. Men use them to have safe sex.” The boy says he heard something about that in health class at school, and as he looks over the display and picks up a package of three, he asks how come there’s three instead of one. The dad says, “Those are for the high-school boys. One for Friday, one for Saturday and one for Sunday.”

“Cool!” the boy says. He then notices a pack of six and asks, “Then who are these for?” Dad says, “Those are for the college men. Two for Friday, two for Saturday and two for Sunday.” The boy’s pretty impressed. He picks up a 12-pack and asks, “Then who uses these?”

The dad sighs and says, “Those are for married men. On for January, one for February, one for March…” Ba-ding!

Anyways, open space at the bar was premium. Whilst standing in the second tier attempting to catch the attention of one of the busy bartenders, the gentleman seated in front of me said to no one in particular, “Somebody get this this focking guy off my back!” So I says to this guy, who had the good sense to arrive at the crack of dawn to ensure his choice of stool, “What the fock, with this place closing, where the heck are you going to haul your sorry ass when you want to have a cocktail in company?” He said he had been to a place a couple, three, several blocks west twice, but each time he’d been there, he got into a fight. “That happens,” I empathized. “No shit, Sherlock,” Evil Eye agreed.

Steve Johnson and his gracious wife Shawn Smart were there representing the Uptowner, their tavern on the corner of Center and Humboldt Blvd. And thanks for the $1 shot of Chivas, pally. Cripes, how can a guy beat a generous shot of Scotch as a palate cleanser for the tumbler of Jim Beam rye he had just sipped? You tell me, and then I’ll tell you’s that me and my fellas are thinking about stopping by Steve’s joint for one of our confabs even though I hear the neighborhoods got a lot of hippies in it.

Shepherd Express events editor Rip (I can’t believe you’re finally going to put my name in that focking piece of crap column you ‘write’”) Tenor shined around to bid adieu to the old girl on National Avenue. What a focking knob, I kid you not.

Ran into my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine who told me that if he hadn’t known it was the last day for this home-away-from-home for so many, he would’ve thought he had stumbled in on a carny convention. Good ol’ Jimmy. Carnies or no, by late afternoon he sure was riding some kind of Tilt-A-Whirl as many of us were, I tell you.

A congenial young man by the name of Ryan, who hails from Okla-focking-homa, was making, and buying (god bless him), the rounds. He had just received his doctorate in philosophy, but nobody seemed to hold that against him. Hey Ryan, what’s the difference between a philosopher and an engineer? I’d say about $70-grand a year, ain’a?

Lady Di came by and suggested me and my guys ought to stop over by Anna’s Tap on 19th & W. Grant one of these days. Then, a very nice gal sporting an early ’90s vintage Art Kumbalek T-shirt of the “What the Fock” variety stopped to chat. I complimented her on her choice of T-shirt and advised her that soon a new edition of the Art Kumbalek T-shirt will be made available to the public for purchase. Ka-ching!

Celebrity sightings? You betcha. As I surveyed the crowded room, I’m pretty sure I spotted Robert Duvall; college basketball coach and TV analyst Digger Phelps; J-Lo behind a pair of fashionable shades; and speak of the devil, Hunter S. Thompson, I kid you not. I only wish I had more time to wade through the crowd and ask them what the fock they were doing at The Bar with National Liquor, but the beer ran totally dry so I sure as hell wasn’t going to stick around.

But as Frankie said to me and Tony “AC” Bob (Frankie, veteran of both Gulf War excursions, who had won $150 on the video slot machine earlier): “Look around, man. This is focking freedom.”

Yeah, Frankie, one last stand. But when the smoke clears and the sun comes up tomorrow, at the corner of 26th & National freedom will be deader than a doornail, and that sucks big-time ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek, and I told you so.