Pourhouse

Suddenly, it's been about a year since circumstance drove me to this place, and now I can talk about it. A little bit.

The short of it is that I was out on my ass after what I thought would be an endless summer after grad school, and living rent free in the basement of saintly near-relatives in this 'hood. In all my months there, the only businesses I patronized on the strip of College Point Boulevard was the Poppenhusen Branch Library (just to be somewhere else), the Duane Reade (out of desperation, for a bag of Combos and a carton of floss), and this bar.

One night, after swigging from a bottle of Jim Beam that I had hidden in my semi-transparent Tupperware tubs of other belongings and drunk-cooking one pack of Ramen under someone else's roof, I felt really, really guilty, and decided that I had to take it outside. I'm not saying this to be funny. It was a really sad, shitty moment.

I didn't have to walk too far in the freezing cold to find this place. There were exactly three other people there when I first walked in: an older generation couple enjoying their amber poison of choice and a woman bartender who I found out was the co-owner AFTER I vented all my life's frustrations upon her (nevermind the specifics). She listened with infinite patience and gave me the happy hour prices even if it was definitely past 7 p.m.. She promised me time would pass.

Later, a young dude took her place behind the bar, and also indulged me as I fantasized out loud about moving to Manhattan one fine day. He suggested that I live in Astoria, and also said I didn't seem like the kind of person who'd have trouble finding people to hang out with, even in this small town in outer limits Queens.

The second time, I went in on a Wednesday or something, and realized they didn't take cards (I'd had cash on me the first time). Two random half-married dudes who had been best friends since kindergarten with the bartender spotted me a beer, but pride sent me huffing up to the aforementioned Duane Reade to buy some loathsome tropical flavored chewing gum to get cash back and return the favor to the men. They left, and it was just me and the bartender. then I decided to get crazy and try a new whiskey. Wild Turkey from Canada. Guess what, it sucks. I asked the bartender if someone had siphoned some Malibu into it as some sick joke, but no. Slinked home with a burn in my chest and a headache.

The third time I went was during one of the huge blizzards of February '10. No longer content to watch a spotty Internet episode of LOST on my belly on a mattress in my little cave, I hobbled through the freshly fallen foot of snow at 3 p.m. (yup, work got out early that one day, oh joy). Once again, only about 3 or 4 people, but this time they were pretty damn entertaining locals, talking about their kids and their own sex lives simultaneously and walking outside frequently to jam cigs between their remaining teeth and take deep drags. When Oprah came onto the tube overhead, a couple of the men clamored, "AAAGHHH! Monkey TV!!! MONKIES! We don't want no monkey TV!!!" until the bartender said some curses and changed the channel to some infomercial.

My blood grew cold.  Fearing that I'd fallen into a secret meeting of the Ku Klux Klan, I pretended to be riveted by the two-line horoscopes in the free local rag. But then, these same guys started handing me shots to welcome me to the neighborhood, and I took them all, not quite forgiving but at least trying to forget what they'd said.

For some reason, I called for Goldschlager over and over. After this self-flagellation, I visited the convenience store next door and ate a strange burger while I tried not to slur when the Korean owners struck up a conversation with me because they realized I was Korean. They said I gave a good impression; I wanted to scream I was wasted. I did everything in my power not to reveal the location or identities of my benefactors. So went my budget for that month, and the rest of my days were confined to the house.

Once, I literally coudln't afford subway fare to see Sean B. in the city, so he met me and had a beer while I refused to have one bought for me since I had the dredges of a previous investment (Jim Beam) tucked into my high school backpack (I'd pounded it in the children's room of the library before we met so that in a way, he wouldn't be drinking alone). There were maybe FIVE people in here this time, and the bartender mentioned that usually on the weekends, it's packed. I can't imagine it.

"In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel came on, and we both acknowledged that it was a good song. Went outside and publishotgunned the rest of the JB on a bench while he waited for the bus that would finally deliver him from College Point.

I don't know if I'll ever go here again because of the memory of personal destitution associated with it, but I'll always remember it as the slightly bigger cage that let me stretch my wings once a month 'til I could fly again.

A typical local dive in College Point. Nothing pretentious about this place, nice and relaxing spot for a bit of refreshment. Good pricing (a lot better than in the city), cool staff, and I get the feeling that no matter when you stop by, you'll find the usual 3 guys glued to their stools at the bar.

Quiet neighborhood bar. Decent beer on draft, but not a huge selection. Reasonable prices, and they were advertising a happy hour special on coor's light.  Don't know if they have any other H. Hour specials since I was there on the weekend. Worth going to if you're in the neighborhood.