Save the Uptowner

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Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So what I had planned to say this week was that I don’t know about you, but I’m having one heck of a hard time believing it’s already the fourth month of this new year. Cripes, here I am still in negotiations with the aftereffect of the hangover I came down with the 1st of January and apparently the Masters golf tournament has now come and gone not to mention I probably forgot to file that extension I should’ve with the IRS. It’s like I’m Death Row and all I can say is “I wonder where the time goes,” ’cause that’s all I can say, what the fock.

(And just so you know, the one and only New Year’s resolution I made—“I resolve to conduct myself such that my name will not be found in print followed by the phrase ‘faces a minimum of [insert double-digit numeral here] years,’”—still has legs.)

Then I thought to mention that “April is the cruellest month,” so said that poet from out of St. Louis, Eliot what’s-his-name. And I can only agree. It’s cruel in the way it leaves me abso-focking-lutly depressed on account of the joy that my fellow man and woman express with the shedding of their snowpants. Do they not realize that right after our week-to-10-days of springtime—

…breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

—that we, at least me, are smack-dab back into the Dante’s inferno hell of heat, humidity, stupidity, all kind of insects and chowderheads with no school, no jobs, no shirts, doing their thing and disturbing my peace? I think not.

But back to taxes, I was to say that being a guy who over the years has discovered that he’s got not much pot to pee in, me and income taxes don’t go so well together, which is another reason I always get so damn depressed this time of year. Hell, why should I pay any “income” tax anyways? In the Book of Kumbalek, “income” is a synonym for “imaginary.” Besides, I already gave. I tell you, what I cough up in the so-called “sin” taxes on mental health products like your Old Crow and Pall Malls in one year alone has just got to be more than any two rich Republican knobshines weasel into paying on income in their entire focking lives, I kid you not.

And then I very much wanted to thank “A Fan” for sending me a fan-focking-tastic “best wishes” card in regard to my latest spate of medical maladies. And speaking of maladies, here is what I really need to tell you this week: SAVE THE UPTOWNER.

That’s right, Our Town’s greatest and longest-running (since 1884) tavern/charm school over there on the majestic corner of Center and Humboldt is getting seriously dicked around by one of those out-of-state robber baron banks and fore-focking-closure proceedings have been initiated for crying out loud.

I believe that none of us can really afford to lose this landmark, what the fock. I know I can’t. A couple, three years ago, Steve and Shawn opened the doors to the Uptowner and were the key cogs in helping me celebrate my 25 years with one newspaper. If they get railroaded and forced to close, where the hell am I going to go to celebrate my 50 years with one newspaper when that time comes? Hey, you tell me.

And then I’ll tell you that if you want to help, if you can help, to please hit the Internet and go to gofundme.com/saveuptowner. There’s not a lot of time, so I’ll let you go and you’s can get down to business. But first, this philosophical note:

A Zen master from the Far Eat was visiting New York City. He approaches a hotdog street vendor and says, “Make me one with everything.” The vendor fixes a hotdog and hands it to the master, who pays with a $20 bill. The vendor puts the bill in the cash box and closes it.

Time passes.

“Where is my change?” the Zen master asks. And the hotdog vendor says, “Change must come from within.”

And not only “change,” but dollars, too. SAVE THE UPTOWNER, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.