From: kasprj@vccnw10.its.rpi.edu (Jim Kasprzak)
Subject: Well Met at the White Horse
Reply-To: kasprj@rpi.edu
Organization: The Big Wedge 
Date: Fri, 18 Dec 1992 22:06:24 GMT


 When I heard of the plans for the Manhattan Rabfest, I realized that this
would be an excellent opportunity to escape from Troy for a day or two, 
meet some of the net.personalities I'd been reading for so long, spend
some time with a small subset of the Long Island Gang, and perhaps even
engage in some serendipitous holiday shopping at any interesting shops 
I managed to discover while in the Rotten Apple.
 
 So, after a relatively uneventful early morning train ride from Albany,
I met up with Maureen in the dungeon level of Penn Station, where she 
was wreaking cyber-havoc to kill time (not to mention a pocketful of 
quarters and numerous screaming virtual entities). We had plans to meet
Bill at his office on West 50th at noon, and since that was still more
than an hour away, we began making our way up Broadway, dodging motor
and pedestrian traffic and the occasional leaflet-brandisher.
 
 When we reached Times Square, Maureen discovered Perfumania, and since
I made the mistake of telling her that we still had plenty of time, she
decided that this would be an excellent opportunity to select some 
aromatic chemicals to bestow upon those near and dear to her. Since I
was brought up in a part of the country where the extent of one person's
notice of another's odor was limited to speculations on whether one 
should knock the manure off of one's boots before going to church, I am
not possessed of what one would call a discriminating olfactory sense,
and I found it necessary several times to step outside for a breath 
of refreshing midtown Manhattan air to clear my nasal passages.
 
 Eventually Maureen made her selections, which I will have to take her
word were good ones, bending her plastic only slightly in the process.
We then resumed our trek uptown, to the accompaniment of evangelical
holiday exhortations from Christians, Scientologists, Kibologists and
many others, reminding us that the solstice season is a universal time
of celebration which transcends all faiths in its uniquely human spirit
of peace (usually found when one passes out after the thirteenth 
Supercharged Eggnog) and goodwill (towards those merchants considerate
enough to suppress the Christmas Muzak in their establishments).
 
 Following our lunch with Bill, Maureen and I descended into New York's
mobile Black Hole of Calcutta, blithely ignoring the wise words I'd 
been fortunate enough to overhear from a young sage on the LIRR
platform at Syosset who was educating his parents on the relative 
merits of different forms of locomotion in the city: "It's better to 
walk, because you get more exercise, and subways do explode." But what
draws people to the city if not a sense of risk and adventure?
 
 When our subterraneous ferroequine steed reached 86th and Lexington
still intact, we opted to resume the more healthful course, making 
our way to the Metropolitan Museum of Art (but not without being 
distracted by the Himalayan Crafts shop, where we both found some 
suitable gifts and the opportunity to test the flexibility of our
embossed cards). We passed a few hours taking in the exhibits in the
Oriental wing, then headed out to put a healthy layer of food in
our stomachs before imbibing at the White Horse.
 
 I'd originally planned on having a burger and fries at the tavern,
but Maureen had her heart set on sushi, so we split the difference
and took our dinner at an Indian restaurant. We give the Tandoor 
Oven (on 83rd just west of 3rd Ave) our highest reccomendations;
it scores well in quality of food, ambiance, service, and reasonable
pricing. Fortunately my taste buds are slightly more cultured than 
my smell buds. I would warn anyone who does not care for highly 
spiced food to think twice before eating there. 
 
 Dinner being finished, we took the risky route downtown to 14th,
then walked down to 11th and followed Greely's admonition. This 
took us in due course through the Village, where I have a less 
than exemplary record of correct orientation. We only had to ask
for directions once, and were never genuinely lost: a good performance
by my standards. 
 
 The White Horse itself, at 11th and Hudson, was right where Mark
had left it. Following his instructions, we turned left upon entering
the bar and found ourselves in a slightly larger and more populated 
back room than I'd expected. I was trying hard to look as though I 
knew exactly whom I was here to meet, while trying to catch sight of 
a table with books on it which I figured would probably be my best cue.
Luckily I arrived just as the Mighty Mark Montreal, Crusading Nice Guy
At Large, was clearing the non-r.a.bble from a section of the room to
gather the True Believers. 
 
 The former occupants of our tables were most impressed with our 
literacy, seeing that we were so well-read as to not be familiar with
any of the books they could name. One guy asked, "Have you read _The 
Firm_? It's about this law firm." And I'd thought it was about a 
mid-eighties rock group. I guess I can safely take it off my list of
future purchases now. 
 
 We settled down to the important business of taking our libations, 
while our honored guest from Boston enlightened us with some history 
of the White Horse. It was revealed that this was the place where the
Shot That Killed Dylan Thomas was poured, so I told the waitress not
to get me what he'd had. Fortunately the White Horse has its own brand
of ale, and I firmly believe in supporting your local microbrewery. 
I ended up giving quite a bit of support to this one before the 
evening was through. 
 
 Once the mugs (and one plastic cup, which SteveNY promptly sent back,
mildly chastising the waitress for daring to entertain the thought 
that he'd be willing to drink Guinness from plastic) and a few 
burgers for the hungry arrived, our honored guest provided further
entertainment in his demonstration of large-scale, wide-area ballistic
condiment delivery systems. We were all duly impressed, and I still
retain the stains on my pants as a memento. 
 
 The Mighty Mark had brought with him some reference material,
including the press release for _The History of the O'Tooles_. We 
entered into a discussion on the origins and esoterica of O'Tooledom,
and upon hearing his cue, Posthumous O'Toole appeared in a cloud of
verse, saying that his wife and friend had sent him in as vanguard 
to discover whether we were truly here. Seeing that we were, he 
convinced them to come in anyway, which tripled the number of 
Differently Telecommunicationally Abled people in our party. Posthumous
and the Mighty Mark continued their capsule seminar on O'Toolitude, 
but Mark's unforgivable sin remained unrevealed. 
 
 True to our word, we hoisted our glasses to Fido and his compatriots
on the Left Coast, who were probably at that moment gawking at the 
world's largest salt pile. The opportunities for sailing in New York
had diminished considerably by the time of our gathering, though 
some of the Hudson River tunnels were still suitable for submarining.
We wished Cap'n Fido and his r.a.bid crew fair skies and good winds.
 
 The evening passed, as did many words, not a few mugs of ale, and 
even dessert, but in due time we bid each other auf Wiedersehen, and
scattered like smog into the New York night. I spent the night on 
the Island, and rudely awakened myself at six so that Bill could 
drive me to the LIRR. I felt that a tale such as this should somehow 
end with a book, so I picked up what looked to be a promising read
for the ride home, _A Short History of a Small Place_ by mumble Pearson.
It kept me quite entertained; I thought it read like a modern Huck Finn.
I'll definitely be tracking down more of Pearson's work in the not-too-
distant future.
 
 And with that ob book my post is through, and I bid you a good time 
interval of your choice until the next gathering.

------------------------------------------------------------------
     __  Live from Capitaland, heart of the Empire State...
 ___/  | Jim Kasprzak, computer operator @ RPI, Troy, NY, USA
/____ *| Sam Adams,Spaten# Life is too short #Hudson Lager,Beck's 
     \_| Pilsener Urquell#to drink cheap beer#Pete's Wicked Ale
      ====  e-mail: kasprj@rpi.edu or kasprzak@mts.rpi.edu 
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