Greenwich Village is one of the nicest areas in Manhattan. The crazy twisting streets are a wonderful contrast to the grid-block streets of midtown. Throughout much of its existence, Greenwich Village as been regarded as a bohemian mecca. It is, for all intents and purposes, the birthplace of the Beat Generation, though I don’t really like making a statement like that -it opens the doors for all kinds of debate. Birthplace or not, no nostalgic or historic look at the Beat Generation in NYC can be complete without including Greenwich Village. Though it has gentrified enormously since Kerouac’s hay-day (ironically, in part a result of the bohemianism which made it popular), The village is still a fantastic place to visit.

So much of noteworthiness has taken place in Greenwich Village, I can hardly begin to convey all of it.

Beat Facts:

Howard Johnson’s:

415 6th Ave and West 8th Street. I always feel lonely at this corner, perhaps because it was raining and misty the first time I found it, or perhaps it has something to do with the events that took place here in early 1957. Kerouac met Joyce Johnson here on a blind date encouraged by Ginsberg. Jack had been short-changed at a corner store so Joyce had to buy him dinner. He had franks and beans, though I’ve seen documentaries and read bios where they claim it was a hamburger and fries. I’ve seen Joyce herself say it was franks and beans in filmed interviews. I’ll go with that.

The Howard Johnson’s is long gone. Perhaps that too, contributes to the lonely feeling here.

Chumley’s:

A long standing Bohemian hangout, this historic bar has entertained a lot of famous writers, many of whom got rat-arsed here on a regular basis. Chumley’s should be made a national treasure. Situated on 86 Bedford Street, it opened during prohibition and could be the source of the term “86ed”, a reference to the patrons being thrown out by prohibition agents through the 86 Bedford entrance.

Unfortunately, in April of 2007 the chimney collapsed while work was being done on the building. It was shut down. I’ve read varying reports that it may or may not re-open. Everything I seem to find on the net is rumour, except that very little has changed to the building itself and that re-opening dates keep getting mentioned, but pass without notice. The scaffolding is there, and there are reports that now and then a worker or two can be seen scuffling around inside, but if a re-opening ever does happen it is a long ways away. Finger’s crossed.

The Whitehorse Tavern:

Dylan Thomas, the Welsh poet, made this place famous by drinking himself into oblivion here a few days before he would die of “chronic alcohol poisoning”. (Don’t let new bartenders tell you he died in the bar though, that’s a myth. He died at St. Vincent’s hospital. Also, there is another popular myth that he drank 18 straight whiskies the night. It isn’t true).

The Whitehorse was a popular watering hole of the Beats, Kerouac paid frequent visits here, especially while living with his girlfriend Helen Weaver who had an apartment across the street. He overindulged on more than one occasion, in fact he overstayed his welcome a few times too, which landed him on the street. Someone apparently scrawled “Kerouac go home!” in the men’s room one evening when Kerouac was making a particular arse of himself. I’ve yet to go to the Whitehorse and not seen those words scrawled on the bathroom wall, no doubt by other Beat pilgrims trying to keep the torch of Beat history alive.

Incriminating Evidence:

An Afternoon at the Whitehorse:

I love dive-bars, especially in NYC. The Whitehorse doesn’t really constitute a dive bar anymore, or is it all that bohemian. In fact, depending on the day and time, it is most often frequented by Wallstreet types coming up for a post-work pint, and to talk to each other about their cleft assholes and the yankees. That, however, does not keep me away. The footprints in this place are strong. I always sit at the bar with the portrait of Thomas staring at me from the side room.

On one of my visits, a pretty boy came in wearing an expensive coat and sat next to me at the bar. He bugged the shyte out of me for over an hour, belittling the fact that I was a writer, etc. His girlfriend chimed in when she arrived about an hour later. Without getting into precise details, I “accidently” broke the two of them up before the night was over.

Lesson: Too much whiskey in my belly, and a purpose, makes me a dangerous man.