DIRTY DAYS: True New York City Bar And Rock Stories

DIRTY DAYS

Copyright © 2021 by Kevin Patrick Corrigan - Iron Molly Entertainment, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Printing, 2021

DIRTY DAYS

True New York City Bar And Rock Stories

KEVIN PATRICK CORRIGAN

Iron Molly Entertainment, Inc

Special Thanks

DIRTY DAYS

TRUE NEW YORK CITY BAR AND ROCK N' ROLL STORIES

Special Thanks:

Steven O'Connell

Peter Vandall

Annie J. Corrigan

Nora Leahy

Monica Blessing

Rosa Cho

Stacey Meyrowitz

John Yorke

Paul Blaney

Jim Florentine

Red Lion

Back Fence

Kenny's Castaways

The Bitter End

Lion's Den

Rock n' Roll Cafe

The 4th Floor Band

Weedkiller Band

Begorrah Band

Bleecker Street

Credits / Contact

DIRTY DAYS  (1971 - 2004)

True New York City Bar And Rock Stories

(C.)  Iron Molly Entertainment, Inc

Astoria, NY 11103

Publisher:

Iron Molly Entertainment, Inc

For speaking engagements, readings, live music performances.

www.kevinpcorrigan@gmail.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication has been applied for.

ISBN/SKU 978-1-0879-2948-4

EISBN 978-1-0879-2949-1

Contents

Special Thanks

Credits / Contact

Dedication

Quote

New York City

1 Times Square 1971

2 Saint Patrick's Day 1979 (Warning Very Graphic)

3 Three Card Monty 1979

4 White Rose Bar - Ozzy/Motorhead Paladium 1981

5 Saint Patrick's Day 1985

6 Mackey's Wake 1989

7 How Bleecker Street Became To Be For Me 1990

8 Jersey City Pool Stick Brawl - War With Iraq 1991

9 Stabbing In Front Of Bitter End 1991

10 Peter May Smakes My life Again 1991

11 Fleet Week Bleecker Street 1991

12 The Hypnotist 1992

13 Halloween Nixon vs Space Robot Fight 1992

14 The 4th Floor Band Assembles 1992

15 Clockwork Cousin Beat Down (Timeless)

16 Lee Defys Gravity 1995

17 One Door Closes Another One Opens Up 1995

18 Seven Reason Why 1996

19 The Phone Call Day 1996

20 Opening For Kiss December 28th, 1996

21 People Grow Apart 1997

22 Randall's Island Lollapalooza 1997

23 Ass Grabbing Santa Gets His Ass Kicked 1997

24 I Heard The Dogs Talking 1998

25 Weedkiller Wednesdays 1998

26 Yogi Berra Is A Great Guy 1999

27 The 4th of July Staten Island 2000

28 The Secret Service At Kenny's Castaways 2003 or 04

29 The Hug 2003

30 About The Author

Family and The 4th Floor Photos

4th Floor Pictures

4th Floor Press Photo

4th Floor Motto

The New Underground

The New Underground And Gwar

Weedkiller

Bouncer And Club Friends Nowadays

Newspaper Announcement

Memorabilia

Live Shots

Smith's Bar Times Square

The Red Lion Bleecker Street

Dedicated to my friend Bleecker Street Legend The Dude

Peter May

Quote

I started writing a funny New York City bar story book.  I was soon reminded of how close we all are to God and our Demons, War and Peace, Blind Faith and Laughter.

Kevin Patrick Corrigan

Dirty Days

New York City

Kevin Patrick Corrigan 2021

Author

Mayors Of  New York City from 1971 - 2004

John Lindsey  (1966 - 1973)

Abe Beame  (1974 - 1977)

Ed Koch  (1978 - 1989)

David Dinkins  (1990 - 1993)

Rudy Guilliani (1994 - 2001)

Mike Bloomberg  (2002 - 2013)

1

Times Square 1971

         CHAPTER 1

         TIMES SQUARE 1971

A half naked woman stood in the middle of Times Square flashing her exposed breast.

Look at that lady in her underwear!  She is showing her boobies! I shouted.

The lady had on lingerie.  Being seven years old at the time I had no idea what lingerie was.

All four of my sisters and my mother turned to where I was pointing.

My mother’s face seemed to swell red like she got hit with a waffle iron. She began yelling in her thick Irish accent, Heads down right now!  Everybody!  Let’s go!  Stare at the floor!  No looking up ‘til New Jersey!  If anybody looks up you will get it when we get home!

All my sisters’ eyes went to the floor right away. I snuck one last peek at the lady. She was hoisting up her breasts and waving toward us.

Let’s go Kevin! Look at the floor! My mother barked.

Reluctant, I listened.

It wasn’t a good idea to not listen to my mother.

This was my first memory of Times Square.

It was 1971. I was a little boy stuck in traffic with my family in the back of our blue Chevy station wagon.

Before my mother told us to look at the floor I was leering out the back window at all the nonstop action. It was a fishbowl of chaos. I was mesmerized.

-Bums were everywhere.

-Dirty red and pink faced people drank on every corner.

-It was the middle of the day and I saw people lying on the ground sleeping.

-I saw people pushing each other.

-I saw a tug of war over a bottle in a brown paper bag.

-At every light five guys tried to wash our car’s windows.

-Women walked around practically naked.

-I saw a guy being chased by the cops.

Afraid to look up my mind raced, I thought, ‘What is this place? If Ma don’t want us to see what’s happening than this might be the hell I hear about in church on Sundays’.

Curiosity filled my mind. I needed to see more but knew if I was caught looking up, it would not be good for me. I could feel my Mother’s eyes on the top of my hair. With my head down I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear.

I heard women cackling.

They were cooing the word sugar over and over again.

Hey sugar! Nice sugar! You need some sugar? Sugar?

‘Is there a sugar store out there?’ I wondered. ‘I like sugar on my corn flakes’.

I wanted to look up so bad. I had no other choice but to keep listening.

-I heard angry car horns.

-I heard glass smashing.

-I heard people screaming and laughing.

-I heard the phrases, Did you pay for that?! Fuck You! Get out of Vietnam! Ten cent movies! Live sex! Come on in!

I knew what Fuck you meant from the schoolyard.

I knew you had to pay for things from my parents teaching me.

I knew what Vietnam was from seeing teenagers on my block leaving for it as their mothers cried in the street.

But, what was live sex?

What was it?

I asked myself, Was live sex a play? Was it an animal like live stock? Was live sex a game?

My only brother Brian was two years old. He had yet to figure out the hardcore dynamic of an Off The Boat Irish-farm-raised mother born in 1935.

My oldest sister Eileen was about nine. She was holding Brian in the second row seat between sisters Shelia and Patricia.

In 1971 a child’s car seat was the oldest sibling’s lap.  Eileen's head was down for fear of her life.

Brian had wide opened eyes. His head swiveled looking all around. It didn’t matter that he was a baby. My Mother wasn’t having any of that.

A dirty oil rag was in the front seat between my parents. My Mother threw it over Brian’s head like he was a ring toss peg. Even he wasn’t going to be allowed to look. He tried to pull it off but couldn’t because Eileen was holding his arms. Brian feverishly shook his head trying to shake free of the oil rag.

Later on in life I realized we were driving through the area of New York City where the Tunnel Bunnies worked. It was a stretch of streets that started in Times Square and ran ten blocks to the Lincoln tunnel entrances for New Jersey.

It was a place where packs of half-naked hookers walked around looking for clients. There could be ten of them at an intersection at one time.

The clients would pull their cars over. The Tunnel Bunnies would take care of business right there.

Being a kid I had no idea what was going on just feet away from my wholesome family station wagon.

It seemed like forever with my head down. My mother was facing us. She watched us like a hawk school-marme. I could feel the heat getting hotter from her stare burning the top of my skull.

After a few minutes stuck still in traffic, I noticed I could see the close-up action from my side eye. My curiosity was getting the better of me. I had to get a full peek. The commotion of the street was a lure calling out to me to defy my mother. I needed to look.

My sister Mary was in the back section of the station wagon with me. She was scared. I could see from my peripheral vision more ladies in their underwear.

My mother saw that I could see.

Put your faces to the floor! As close to the floor as possible! Mary and Kevin lie down back there. Face to the ground! Let’s go!

Her Irish brogue always got thicker when she was mad. She sounded like she was in a cow field in Ireland shouting away a fox.

Mary and I laid flat-faced. Our noses were touching the floor.

I heard the underwear ladies whistling and making woohoo noises outside.

I wanted to peek.

I needed to peek.

I was terrified to peek.

The thought of getting the Irish wrath when I got home held my face down.

I began to think, ‘Was a two second glimpse worth the fury of my mother?’

I listened to an underwear lady say, You want a date sugar?

A million thoughts raced in my mind like symbols spinning on a slot machine, ‘Should I peek? Don’t peek! Was it smart to peek? Peak you chicken! You will not be allowed out of the house for a month if you peek! Sneak a Peek! No peek! Yes peek! You’re crazy to peek! You’re crazy not to peak!’

The mind spin was out of control. Ten seconds of undecided thoughts spun in my brain before finally stopping on, ‘Go for it! Have a peek!’

I heard a new and different underwear lady coo, Oooh… You’re a handsome one.

I started to think on how to pull the peek off.

With my nose on the floor I realized I couldn’t see my mother in my side eye. The second row seat was shielding me from her. If I couldn’t see her than she couldn’t see me. Even at a young age I understood that law of physics.

I side-eyed around for five seconds. It was official. If I turned over my mother wouldn’t be able to notice from where she was. The back seat was a wall of cover.

It was a great discovery.

To be safe I calculated once more the angle of my mother’s eye sight from my position to hers. For certain she couldn’t see me.

I whispered to Mary with a facedown side-eye, I’m gonna peek. Ma won’t be able to see me if I turn to look up.

Mary whispered back with her facedown side-eye. She was scared for me, No… Don’t do it. Ma will kill you.

Mary was closest to me in age. We were a year apart. We always stayed together on family outings.

I’m going for it, I mouthed to Mary.

Her eyes bugged outward with fright.

Something fantastic was happening right outside the station wagon. I was determined to witness it. I turned my body from face down to face up with a silent ease.

Traffic was still halted. I could see another half-naked woman an inch from the side back window of the station wagon. She was wearing underwear that went up her big butt crack. I wondered where the bottom half of her underwear was. I could see her entire ass. There were pock marks all over it. She was reaching in the window of the car stopped two feet from us.

Hey handsome. So what do you say? Do you want a date? She asked.

Amazed, I thought, ‘What is going on? A woman in her underwear is asking a man stopped in traffic if he wanted a date. This must be a good place to find a wife. I got to come here when I’m older.’

The underwear lady continued talking, Come on Sugar! You want some sweetness tonight?

Everyone in my family station wagon could hear the underwear lady. Including my mother.

John could you turn up the radio please!? My mother asked my father.

My mother never asked my father to turn the radio louder, especially a Met game. Something was up.

My father went to High School in Manhattan. He was oblivious to the chaos. He made the radio louder. Ralph Kiner was calling the play by play of a New York Mets baseball game.

Tom Seaver is pitching a great game….

Ralph’s voice could be heard through the small radio speaker on the wagon’s dash. His voice going head-to-head with the half-naked lady’s sales pitch.

I decided I better turn back around. The way my mother asked for the radio to go louder was no nonsense. I knew if I got caught peeking I was doomed.

I shimmied around slow and easy. The image of the big giant pock-marked butt crack etched into my mind forever.

Mary looked at me with a facedown side-eye. She was relieved I didn’t get caught.

We weren’t allowed to raise our heads until we were in the Lincoln tunnel.

The Mets game ended about two minutes after we got into New Jersey. The Mets won. My father turned the radio to the Yankee game. Three innings later we pulled onto my street in Old Bridge, New Jersey. Phil Rizzuto the Yankee announcer was telling a crazy story. He was calling somebody a Huckleberry when my father turned the car off.

My Mother made Irish soda bread with raisins that night. We ate it warm with melted butter. It was delicious.

I kept saying to myself, I have to go back to that place when I get older. I have to.

2

Saint Patrick's Day 1979 (Warning Very Graphic)

CHAPTER 2

SAINT PATRICK’S DAY 1979

(Warning Very Graphic)

Eight years passed to Saint Patrick's Day 1979.

I was half-a-man of fifteen years old on my own in Times Square with some high school friends.  We were all freshman.

The decadence of 1970’s New York City was seen the instant we got off the bus at The Port Authority station. The first eye catching sight was flashing neon that read Girls, Girls, Girls. My friends and I were drawn to the sign like steel to magnets.

The place was called Show World on the northwest corner of 42nd Street and 8th avenue. Another sign on the building read 7 Live Bedroom Acts and Live Sex.

My friends and I stood looking at the door of Show World not knowing what to do. It was scary and enticing. I now knew how Adam felt about the apple.

We got to go in there, one friend said, half drooling.

 Let’s go to a bar first. Get buzzed, I replied, pulling my guys up 8th avenue.

In 1979 the drinking age was 18 years old in New York and New Jersey. In 1979 New York City, the legend of the unwritten rule was true, If you can reach the bar and act alright. You can get a drink.

I was six foot two at 15. I was also 145 pounds. I was a skinny wiry kid. My friends were also tall. We walked north on 8th avenue to 44th street where an orange pink neon sign was lit with the words ‘Smith’s Bar’. We stopped to look through the window. It was pretty busy. We agreed to go inside.

The place was packed with Saint Patrick's Day revelers wall to wall.  There were other groups of teenagers in the bar milling about too.  White headed Irish old men were seated everywhere.  Irish music was blasting.  Everybody was singing along.  It was great.  We bought two pitchers of beer for four or five dollars.

We were kids and had planned on coming to New York City for the Saint Patrick’s Day parade for months. I saved my paper route money for this day. The other guys did the same from their jobs in deli’s and food stores. We were set.

It was March in New York City. It wasn’t freezing but it was cold. From the window of Smith’s Bar we could see women outside wearing their underwear under coats. I wondered if any of the half-naked women were the ones I saw when I was younger.

Look, hookers! My buddy pointed out.

Those are hookers man! Wow! Hookers! I never saw a hooker before, another enthralled buddy said.

It made sense now why my mother made us put our heads down years ago. Hookers were everywhere. Sex was everywhere. At fifteen I knew what sex was, unlike when I was seven. Energy of the sickest was all around. It was a combination of danger and joy. I loved it.

We drank and sang Irish tunes in Smith’s for over two hours. At noon we had a good buzz going. It was time to go to the parade.

We walked further north on 8th avenue.

After two blocks we went into a deli to grab beers. In 1979 New York City nobody bothered you drinking in public. As long as the booze was covered by something. The deli guys would give you a small brown paper bag the perfect size for a can of beer, or pint bottle of hard booze. We marched brown bags in hand.

We passed thousands of people wearing green. Almost everyone in green was carrying brown bagged beers too. If we passed five thousand people, four thousand nine hundred and ninety eight of them had brown paper bags in their hands. The two that didn’t were holding lit marijuana joints.

In 1979 New York City nobody bothered you if you walked down the street smoking weed. The smell of weed, hot pretzels, piss, puke, hot dogs, happiness, and regret were everywhere in Times Square.

We were somewhere around Central Park when we heard bag pipes coming from the east. Hearing bag pipes in the streets of New York City on Saint Patrick’s Day is like receiving a sacrament from the Lord.

My friends weren’t as excited to hear them as I was. Saint Patrick’s Day was just another day to drink for them. For me it was personal. My mother always made me remember I was Irish. It was very important to her. She was an Irish immigrant who came to America at nineteen years old. She always made Saint Patrick’s Day a big deal in our house. I knew corn beef, mash potatoes, homemade rice pudding and Irish soda bread would be waiting for me when I got home. I had chills hearing the pipes.

We watched the parade for about ten minutes until my restless friend spoke, Let’s get out of here. Let’s go to a peep show. Let’s go back toward the Port Authority where all the hookers are walking around and look at them.

I was the only one who cared about the parade. I knew I was going to have to recount it for my mother when I got home. I had a good enough visual of the parade for my memory. I saw plenty of bag pipers, drunken cops, step dancers, and plastered firemen to recount for my mother later on.

Ok. Let’s get out of here. We’ll go to Times Square and get peeps, I said.

We walked south on 7th avenue through the heart of Times Square before crossing over to 8th avenue to the Port Authority.

Every step we took was a new scene of mayhem. We saw drunk women yelling at each other. We saw bums lying in their own piss and people selling weed out in the open.

The closer we got to 42nd street and 8th avenue the more porno shops and peep shows there were. My buddies had their sights set on Show World with live nude girls, sex shows, and peep movie booths. None of us had any idea what we were in for.

In 1979 big cities all across America were literally falling apart. In Times Square it was evident. The sorrow of addiction and homelessness was oozing out at every nook and cranny. Abandoned buildings were strewn about. It was rough. Two hundred police officers were stationed there every night. They didn’t even put a dent in the crime. The corner of 42nd Street and 8th avenue was declared the most dangerous place in America; right where Show World and The Port Authority stood. We arrived not knowing what to do.

Fuck it! Let’s just go in, I said. If they throw us out.  They throw us out.

I was the first in the door.

The others followed.

Nobody in Show world questioned the five fifteen year old kids walking in at once.

I noticed other groups of teenage kids inside. Some of them I recognized from being in Smith’s Bar earlier. I quickly realized nobody was going throw us out.

To be a part of the action in Show World you had to buy tokens from a guy who stood at a podium that was four feet higher than the floor. He looked like a giant.

I reached up to hand him a five dollar bill.

He said nothing when he handed me my tokens. The others did the same.

Each token was worth a quarter.

We stood in disbelief at how easy it was to be there. A pounding Boomp, Boomp, Boomp beat of some type of music I never heard before mixed in with orgasmic moans of women in ecstasy. The moans echoed throughout the place.

There was a guy shouting into a microphone as the moans and the beats pulsed, You drop it. We mop it! Let’s go fellas! Live sex upstairs! Yeah that’s right! You drop it! We mop it!

We decided to split up to explore this palace of perversion and carnal lust. We set a meeting spot on the corner of 42nd and 8th in a half hour. None of us had watches. I looked around for a clock. There was no clock.

I looked up in the sky to ask the token guy, Do you know what time it is?

Never looking up from counting bills, he growled, No. We all chuckled at each other seeing how much of a fuck this guy didn’t give.

Screw it! Guess how long a half an hour is. See you later, I said to my friends.

We all separated.

There were signs that pointed behind the token guy that read ‘Live Nude Girls’. Two of my guys walked toward that hallway. One guy went upstairs to the live sex show.

I walked downstairs toward the sign that read twenty five cent movies. I figured I would start at the bottom of this wonderland and work my way up. The last one of my guys decided to go downstairs too.

Grown men with quiet concentrative looks on their faces were everywhere. We were teenage metal heads in blue jeans. The grown men were dressed in suits and construction worker outfits.

We weren’t the only teenagers in Show World. Other groups of kids from New York and New Jersey were walking around too. All the teens dressed the same. Either a velour shirt with a denim jacket. Or, a black concert t-shirt from a metal band worn under a not buttoned up flannel shirt.

At the bottom of the stairs I saw walls and walls of phone booth type apparatuses. I went to the left. My friend went to the right.

We nodded, ‘See you later’.

Outside the one-man booths were posters of the titles and a synopsis of what the movie was about inside. I browsed the pictures. Titles like French Whore, Mandingo Time, Two On One Fever, and Blondes Likes It Hard were plastered on the booths.

I thumbed over the signs the way one would a card catalog at the library or looking at LP’s in a record bin. Both extinct practices now.

I scanned the posters for a few minutes. I saw my friend go in a booth. I snuck over to see what he was seeing.

Southern Belle Rides the North Pole was his choice.

The picture outside his booth had a hot blonde in cutoff jeans. She was on her knees in front of a guy dressed in a Civil War era Union Soldier’s uniform. The Union soldier had his junk out.

In January of 1979 a TV show called The Dukes of Hazard aired for the first