Et tu, McCoy's?

Went to a fancy Classical music concert the other night, where attendees were dripping in diamonds and dupioni. Nevertheless, the gentleman seated in front of us occupied himself during the slow parts by excavating earwax with the armtip of his eyeglasses. Just goes to show ya. Something.

Fortunately, we were full of beer.

Had some time to kill before showtime, and I wanted to show my beau McCoy’s in Hell’s Kitchen (768 Ninth Avenue, between 51st & 52nd). I remembered it as the classic gritty Irish bar. Last time I was there, we sat across from a built-in jukebox next to a family toasting the matriarch being sprung from the hospital. Sprung a bit early, I’m guessing, as she was still donning a hospital gown and bracelet, and was hooked to a rolling IV pole. This wholesome scene was then interrupted by a wobbly gentleman entering the bar, threatening its patrons by announcing he was toting a bomb in his backpack. The weary bartender sprung to action with the most customer-comforting command ever.

“Get ouuutta hee-uh.”

Bomb Dude muttered something about Barbie shoes and the Disney-controlled United States Congress, then left. Take that, Department of Homeland Security.

Sadly, this place has gone the way of many great old NYC bars that’ve died. Or worse, those that’ve died, but haven’t yet fallen over. McHale’s, Terminal Bar, the original Siberia, The Village Idiot (yet another place I’ve seen a patron belly up to the bar wearing a fresh hospital bracelet). All gone. McCoy’s now boasts 10 big screen TVs, a less communal seating setup, and likely a more by-the-book response to terror threats. The juke’s still there, but my will to pump coin has gone.

We had two glass o’ Bass and headed for the show, where I spent much of my time pondering what shade of goo would shoot from Mr. Decorum-Free's head, once he successfully pierced his eardrum with his eyeglasses.