THE STATE OF IRELAND AND A WORD OF ADVICE FROM MISTER YEATS

 

“The longer you stay away, the less likely you are to go home.” That was another piece of wisdom the auld fellah imparted to me up in The Archway so many years ago.

 

He neglected to say that once your parents pass away, there’s even less likelihood of a grand return. It’s like the roots have been cut from under you.

 

I used to feel like I was floating over Ireland when I’d return on vacation. I could see and hear everything, but I was no longer involved. That’s when I got the idea of taking a tour group back every year.

 

Not only would I see Ireland through the group’s eyes, but I’d be working. That’s how I experienced America with Black 47. Each club, pub, or concert hall was a new challenge. You had to be alert because there was often a bonus to be negotiated. Likewise, to attract a crowd, you had to do interviews with local press and radio – that’s how I came to know each individual city, college or town. 

 

There’s not nearly the same pressure taking a group to Ireland; but I’m still working and making sure that those traveling with me are seeing the real Ireland.

 

And, boy, has the real Ireland changed over the last twenty or so years!

 

Ireland is now a modern, secular European country. Moving statues have long since hung up their dancing shoes.

 

I’m not even sure I saw a priest or nun in the recent couple of weeks I was over there. I did attend two concerts in St. Iberius, the stately Protestant church on Wexford’s Main Street. The place was jammed with opera lovers, whereas the nearby Church of the Immaculate Conception and the Friary where I’d served as altar boy, were deserted.

 

Membership of the EU has been good for Ireland. Many old friends now winter in Portugal or The Canaries, “It’s much cheaper and you can’t beat the weather,” they tell me.

 

Big Tech and favorable tax laws have dumped bucketfuls of Euros on the country. It goes without saying that this moolah has not been equitably distributed.

 

Still, everyone lives in fear of President Trump and follows his daily pronouncements like scripture. Will he introduce new tariffs on Pharma exports, will he force Ireland to rescind its favorable corporate tax laws?

 

Is he really going to check every visitor’s Facebook page for snide comments about his sanity, or for supporting a Palestinian state? I’ve had to assure ladies in their 70’s who wish to visit their American grandchildren, as well as students in their teens, that the man from Queens has bigger fish to fry.

 

They even worried about me being allowed back in the US after describing the great man as a “megalomaniac” in the local newspaper. But here I am in Lower Manhattan, jet-lagged and writing this, with no sign of ICE breaking down my door.

 

Ireland is still a beautiful country that can take your breath away. A visit is good for the soul.

And yet, the country is becoming more like the US by the day. Things I heard with Black 47 while crisscrossing the US 30 years ago, I heard in Ireland last week -  that self-same dull rumble of racism and xenophobia. 

 

It’s not loud and the great majority are resisting it, but the “us against them” sensibility is, as ever, being fanned by lies and rumors spread on social media.

 

Recent Irish governments have done the country no favors by allowing quite so much immigration and refugee intake in the midst of an acute housing shortage. Biden revisited!

 

In the long run this influx of people will add immeasurably to the country. In the short run, however, there will be further turmoil as budgets tighten - for as the owner of a popular Wexford pub mentioned, “disposable income is at a new low.”

 

It doesn’t take a genius to notice that the “rare auld financial good times” are coming to an end. Same as the US,  “affordability” will be the next big word in Irish life. It will sit snugly next to “immigration” and “refugees.” 

 

In other words, beware of politicians – Irish or American - who traffic in loud words and drastic solutions.

 

For as Mr. Yeats put it, “The best lack all conviction, while the worst. Are full of passionate intensity.”

YER MAN FROM PEARL RIVER MEETS JAMES JOYCE

 “I’m pingless,” said I.“And I thought you were just brainless.” Replied Yer Man from Pearl River.

He had been wondering why I hadn’t replied to his text immediately.

 

Meanwhile, I was wondering why I’d ever given him my phone number in the first place.

I hadn’t heard from him since well before the Pandemic. In fact, I assumed Covid had done a number on him. 

 

But then, I never really knew him. He was a self-appointed literary guardian – “just making sure you don’t lose the run of yourself,” as he put it one day.

 

Did I need such a person in my life anymore?

 

He also commented on my Celtic Crush radio show, and attended many Black 47 gigs, around Westchester and Rockland County. 

 

But how could I tell if he was even the original “Yer Man From Pearl River;” or a Bot out of Hell come to haunt me?

 

What times we live in!

 

I’d long ago stopped giving out my phone number – not that I’m particularly paranoid, it’s just that as a self-employed person I work on deadlines, and don’t have time for random phone calls unless they’re from family or close friends. 

 

I’m not much of a texter either, especially since you’re expected to return such jittery interruptions forthwith.

 

Hence, my choice to go pingless. I have all rings, prompts, buzzes and nudges silenced on my iPhone.

 

“Aren’t you afraid of missing out on something?” Yer Man from Pearl River inquired solicitously during our reunion call – he snuck through my defenses because I had been expecting a call from my sister in Ireland.

 

Don’t get me wrong – I’m far from some solitary monk squirrelled away in the bowels of Manhattan. It’s just that I value my time.

 

Think of it! When you’re pingless the world is your oyster. You’re not jumping from Billy to Joe on text, plus I rarely get spammed anymore.

 

Am I any happier because of this? Immensely so! When I go for a walk, I often don’t even take my phone, nor do I wear the obligatory white Apple earbuds.

 

Instead I amble along like people used to. I’m tuned into the same rhythms of the city that poets and musicians from Walt Whitman through Miles Davis, Brendan Behan to Bob Dylan moved to. I have no need of podcasters or other “influencers” screaming in my ears.

 

It’s a lot safer too. I’m less likely to get a belt in the back of the head from some crazy who doesn’t appreciate my hair-style. Although a majority of contemporary lunatics appear to be conversing with argumentative old girlfriends or concerned fathers-in-law through concealed microphones.

 

This makes for a noisy world and I’m determined to keep my little patch of it as quiet as possible.

 

That’s not to say I’m some kind of luddite. I use my phone and laptop frequently to seek or confirm information; for instance, I was stuck for a name a few minutes back and googled “first poet of the Manhattan skyline?”

 

Bob’s your uncle, out popped Walt Whitman. The old poet and printer has always fascinated me, consequently I had to restrain myself from following him down an AI rabbit hole, one of the temptations of modern life.

 

I don’t use Instagram. Nor do I subscribe to X or anything of that nature, and the thought of getting information on current affairs through social media strikes me as beyond ludicrous.

 

Try it sometime – de-ping yourself! You’ll find a certain sense of self returning. You’ll definitely be less stressed and time-constrained, and your neck will feel a little more supple when you no longer have to crane it downwards to fixate on your phone.

 

You may even find an original idea or two bouncing around again in your cranium. Don’t take my word for it, I’m merely heeding the advice of Mr. Joyce. Would Jamesy have written Ulysses if he’d been following Taylor Swift on Instagram?

 

As the great man put it, "I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art... using for my defense the only arms I allow myself -- silence, exile, and cunning.  

 

As for Yer Man from Pearl River -- Ah well, I guess everyone occasionally needs a guardian angel. 

THE FLIGHT OF THE OSPREYS AND A STATE OF UNEASE IN THE COUNTRY

 The ospreys dallied a few weeks longer this year. They’re usually gone by the third week in September. But then, 2025 was a banner year.

One day I counted 9 of them, diving, fishing, then transporting the catch back to the chicks who eagerly await their diet of  live sushi.

 

I’d never seen more than 4 fishing together. 9 was almost overwhelming.

 

With their departure, a familiar sense of foreboding has returned. It will be April before I see them again. I’ve experienced that same feeling every year since the pandemic began.

 

Of course I shake it off as autumn, that season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, melds into early winter. If you make a living from the arts you have need of a robust optimism. It’s no business for the weak of heart.

 

It runs in the family. My granny lived with my paternal grandfather on 100 acres of farmland almost within sight of the spires of Wexford town.

 

She had married well but was from sailor stock and always retained a large part of her townie nature, replete with superstitions and nautical lore.

 

She loved birds too, her favorites were swallows, and she was comforted by the mud nests they built in the eaves of her tall house.

 

However, when September drew to a close, so too did her sense of foreboding grow, as swallows from near and far gathered on the telegraph wires that snaked down her avenue towards the road.

 

My grandfather, a somewhat somber man, had learned over the years to remain silent while his wife fretted about the imminent departure of the swallows.

 

She watched through her large kitchen window as October days ached by and Wexford’s biting East winds grew stronger. And then one day at the sound of a great whoosh, she would run outside as her spring and summer companions departed.

 

My grandfather would barely look up from his Daily Independent or Financial Times. Still, he would sigh with relief – the gathering tension would halt now and dissipate over the following weeks, until her only mention of swallows would be, “I wonder will they return early next year.”

 

Isn’t it odd how natures are passed on from generation to generation no matter how far away from the original clan you’ve strayed. I sometimes stop in surprise as I see one of my own sons throw a look across the room, the very image of a long dead uncle that he has never even met.

 

And so it goes with the ospreys. Like my granny I wonder if they’ll return early, they’ve been known to stray up north from Florida or Mexico soon after St. Patrick’s Day.

 

Is it age, or the purposeful instability caused by the current president, that deepens the palpable sense of foreboding that seems to have settled on the land?

 

I have little respect for his policies or general carry-on, but I have to admit that the Trump/Miller/Vought strategy of” flooding the zone” has been highly effective. Even for a political junky like myself who reads the Times and Journal every day, I can’t keep up, and in fact now often leave newspapers unopened and favorite news shows un-watched.

 

It’s too much, the brain can’t take it all in. I meet people every day who are retreating into their shells. This president who must dominate every news cycle is winning.

 

Or is he? I chanced to watch about 5 minutes of his recent speech to the United Nations. It was staggering in its assumptions and conclusions. 

 

“Green energy is a scam, renewable energy is not strong enough to fire up the plants that you need to make your country great; oil, gas and beautiful clean coal are the answer.”

 

As for the transformation of the planet we see all around us: “Climate change itself is the greatest con job ever perpetrated on the world!”

 

Thank you, Mr. President, more speeches like that, sir! With elections coming next year, we need such rants to rouse us from our benign somnolence.

 

However, we’ve gone far beyond a battle between two bickering political parties. We have an urgent, even existential, need for a return to some form of national sanity before the ospreys return in 2026.

SOMEWHERE BEYOND "NEITHER HERE NOR THERE."

 

“You and me are neither here nor there, young fellah,” the auld lad said to me one night in The Archway. I wasn’t sure what he meant.

 

He was probably about 50 then and I wasn’t long into my twenties, but he looked years older from the drink and the life in construction.

 

He always sat on his own when he came to see Turner & Kirwan of Wexford. A rarity, he liked that we played original music – so I occasionally joined him for breaks. Four sets made for a long night.

 

I could tell he was lonely, and as Christmas grew closer he seemed to shrink back into himself. 

 

Turner and I were particularly lightheaded that night, for Mr. Barry, the immigration lawyer out in Queens, had said our papers would be arriving any day and we’d definitely be going home for our first Christmas in three years.

 

“We don’t fit over here and come another few years you won’t fit back home either.” The Auld lad persisted.

 

I would have disagreed with him but that would only set him off.

 

In the long run, he was right but that first Christmas back home in the 70’s was only brilliant.

The trip with Aer Lingus was magic in itself. A right old party was thrown for us and my brother Jimmy that afternoon in Tomorrow’s Lounge in Bay Ridge. 

 

We were already at least a sheet to the wind by the time we hit the Kennedy Airport bar, already jammed to the ceiling with Paddies equally shellacked. The party transferred en masse to the plane.

 

Back then, most people smoked and the hostesses delighted in serving Irish beers. The party continued unabated to Shannon, where my father picked us up. We made a couple of stops on the way, as he tried valiantly to keep up with us.

 

The party continued for the full five weeks as we made up for two lost Christmases. The Wexford girls were sweet, and our old friends delighted in the stories we only half-exaggerated about our exploits in CBGB’s and the Lower East Side and how mighty the craic was in The Bronx.

 

Occasionally I’d catch my mother glancing at me, worried but unwilling to say anything. Hadn’t we promised her we’d be home for a couple of weeks in the summer!

 

That rarely happened. There was always some dream to pursue, a record contract to be gained, and later a book to be published or a play to be produced.

 

Around the seventh year in New York and the third Christmas home in Ireland, I began to understand what the auld lad had been talking about – I was neither here nor there. The previous Christmas, instead of going home, I’d taken a Jack Kerouac On The Road trip across America in a car to be delivered to California.

 

We crashed in Pennsylvania but, true to our word, we got that smashed-up Audi in one piece to its owner in Sausalito. 

 

I’d lost track of the auld lad by then; Sean, the bartender up in the Archway, thought he’d gone with the great displacement from The Bronx to Pearl River. 

 

I hope he found some consolation in the greenery of Rockland Country, far from the concrete fields of The Bronx.

 

I thought of him in 2000 when I went home to say goodbye to my mother. Smoking had been banned and the plane felt somewhat civilized, I sat in silence most of the journey and wondered just where had the years gone.

 

My baggage had been misplaced in Kennedy. I wasted a valuable hour searching for it in Dublin Airport, my mother’s hand was still warm when we got to the hospital.

 

I’ve returned home many times since then, and somewhere along the line I realized I’d finally disproved what the auld lad said. I’ve gone way beyond “neither here nor there.” My life is firmly set in New York City.

 

I still visit Wexford, Dublin, Belfast, Donegal, Galway, Dingle, and all the other places I’ve loved in Ireland, but New York is home.

 

I hope the auld lad found similar solace and meaning up in Pearl River, though I have a feeling his ghost still haunts The Archway along with so many other displaced souls.

NOT YER GRANNY'S MUSIC - NEW SOUNDS FROM IRELAND!

There is so much good music coming out of Ireland today, it sometimes makes the head spin.

Not so long ago Scotland was ruling the Celtic roost with such melodic, beat-driven bands as Runrig, Peatbog Faeries and Beluga Lagoon among others.

 

Now I have only to open emails and out will pour mp3s of new Irish artists of merit such as Amble, Kingfishr, Bog Bodies, Poor Creatures, Maggie Carty, Chasing Abbey, Tolu Makay, Cardinals, Lemoncello, JigJam et al.

 

When you add these to already somewhat established artists such as Fontaines DC, Lankum, Lisa O’Neill, The Mary Wallopers, Kneecap, and Jiggy, it makes for a great mixed bag to choose from for my weekly Celtic Crush show on SiriusXM.

 

Why this sudden burst of Irish talent, you might ask?

 

Well, Ireland is now a self-confident European nation, no longer an isolated island looking for its influences from the US or UK.

 

It hasn’t hurt that the UK shot itself in the foot by pursuing its own cultural isolation with Brexit, or that a fatigued US is succumbing to the xenophobic charms of Donald Trump and his Know-Nothing notions.

 

Ireland has won some major battles of its own – peace and ongoing reconciliation in the North, and a displacement of religion from the halls of government to its proper place in the church and home.

 

The people themselves have changed  and exude a new self-confidence. Not the cocky, money-grubbing aggression of the Celtic Tiger era, but a quiet inner-belief that is pleasant, and even inspiring to be around.

 

Where did that come from? 

 

I’d give a lot of credit to individuals like Rory Gallagher, Roy Keane, Bono, Bernadette Devlin-McAliskey, and so many women in the North and South who refused to be silent or settle for second-best.

 

A tip of the cap also to Ireland’s diplomatic corps who have quietly, but confidently, advanced Ireland’s name and interests abroad.

 

But back to music! Fontaines DC (for Dublin City) are arguably the best new rock band in the world. From the first chords of their first song of note, Boys in the Better Land, I knew they had it - whatever “it” is.

 

Their singer/lyricist Grian Chatten is a showman par excellence and is prolific, even in the midst of budding superstardom he puts out tasteful solo work.

 

It’s impossible to define Lisa O’Neill, except that this Cavan woman was influenced early on by the street singer/traveler Margaret Barry. Her songs such as Old Note are touching and deep, yet uplifting at the same time.

 

The Mary Wallopers from Dundalk could well be a new Pogues, although that would be selling them short. Deeply influenced by Traditional Music, they turn it on its ear. They haven’t, as yet, written a classic, but when they interpret a song, that’s the version I hear in my head. Listen to The Frost Is All Over. 

 

Have you noticed something? Most of the music I’ve mentioned is made by culchies. And the plot continues to thicken.

 

I often think of Amble and Kingfishr in the same breath. Three strapping, but sensitive, males in each band, a lead singer with a strong, rich voice emoting loss and redemption to restrained guitar chords. 

 

And yet each band makes you stop and think in a way that American singer/songwriters rarely do nowadays. I think that’s because their songs are distinctly drawn from modern Irish life. Try Amble’s Lonely Island and Kingfishr’s Shot in the Dark.

 

How would you describe Bog Bodies? Well, they were formed by an archeologist, Dan Maher, from the depths of rural Tipperary. This is heavy folk unlike Amble or Kingfishr, the Bodies have created a sound all their own, driven and darkly mystical with very well-constructed songs. Try Toward The Harvest and then hit the boards with Dead Are Dancing.

 

Chasing Abbey from Tullamore has a seductive way of getting into your head. They employ looped beats, and rap above them often to a Trad-influenced banjo line. Listen to Arís is Arís and you’ll find yourself returning to it again and again.

 

If you’re looking for rural accents, these culchies do not stint and it’s refreshing. They’re loud and proud, and more importantly, authentic. 

 

They’re not singing about your granny’s Ireland but of a new confident, cosmopolitan island. Take it or leave it.

REBEL GIRL AND THE LEGEND OF THE WOBBLIES

 

“Make America Great Again.” I’ve often wondered, to what era our president is referring? 

 

The 1950’s springs to mind but back then the US had its highest ever percentage of unionized workers – hardly “greatness” in Mr. Trump’s eyes.

 

He has been touting the Gilded Age of late: “We were at our richest from 1870 to 1913...” What he’s saying is that a wealthy oligarchy lived off the fat of the land, while many Americans subsisted in relative poverty.

 

And oh, were there immigrants in the Gilded Age! They streamed in from all over the planet, adding to the many millions who had arrived since the 1840’s.

 

Who cared for these “great unwashed?” Churches and fraternal organizations did their best, but ultimately labor unions were the beacons of hope for the striving masses.

 

In most cases Federal and State governments worked hand in glove with the oligarchy. 

 

The 1914 Ludlow, Colorado massacre of mine workers and their families by the state militia and the “Pinkerton goons” hired by John D. Rockefeller is a prime example. The striking miners were merely seeking to exercise their state-mandated right to join a union.

 

In many ways union leaders and their members were the real heroes of the Gilded Age. Most are forgotten now, no museums or foundations named in their honor. 

 

But the International Workers of the World (IWW), commonly known as the Wobblies, will always be remembered – probably because the US Government perceived the union as an existential threat and set J. Edgar Hoover, a 22 year old ex-librarian, to destroy it. 

 

The IWW was formed in 1905 by Big Bill Haywood, James Connolly, and Mother Jones among others and continues to this day, although in a much diminished form.

 

Their mantra and aim was OBU (One Big Union). They welcomed all workers including immigrants, African-Americans, women, and Asians and accepted both craft and unskilled wage earners.

 

They were a thorn in the side of such oligarchs as J.P. Morgan, Henry C. Frick (yep, he of the museum), and the aforementioned Rockefeller.

 

The IWW’s inclusive approach suited the social and political turmoil of the early 20^th Century.

 

There was a huge floating labor force that could be hired or fired at the whim of employers. This often led to wage cuts amid competition for jobs.

 

The Wobblies waded into this morass, their union halls sprouted up all over the country. Most halls provided a piano, brass instruments, vats of soup, English lessons and a mailing address for the mostly itinerant workers.

 

Swedish immigrant and Wobbly diehard, Joe Hill wrote songs of satire about the bosses, and anthems of solidarity for the workers that were sung across the land.

 

In many localities unions were forbidden to hold public meetings. The Wobblies challenged this denial of a basic right - as soon as one speaker was arrested another would step up on his soapbox, until the jails were packed and the courts clogged. Thus was free speech regained throughout the West.

 

While imprisoned in Spokane, Elizabeth Gurley Flynn publicized the common practice of jailers hiring out women prisoners as prostitutes and that practice ended.

 

The Rebel Girl was everywhere in those days; she, Margaret (Higgins) Sanger and Italian anarchist, Carlo Tresca were among the leaders of the successful 1912 Bread and Roses strike in Lawrence, MA, a hallmark in the battle against rampant child employment in America’s mills and mines.

 

But the tide turned against them in 1917 with the entry of the US into World War 1 and the ensuing Red Scare. 

 

The Federal Government resented the IWW’s resistance to the military draft and suspected that One Big Union might eventually evolve into a worker’s political party.

 

Most of the Wobbly leadership was sentenced to long prison sentences under the wartime Espionage Act as repression was unleashed nationally.

 

With James Connolly having been executed in Ireland, Joe Hill in Salt Lake City, Big Jim Larkin imprisoned in Sing Sing, the Wobblies began to lose their appeal and impact.

 

With a head for facts and figures and a never ending supply of index cards, J. Edgar Hoover collated law-enforcement information nationwide. This he used to devastating effect in prosecuting the IWW leadership, leaving us with a tantalizing question: Could One Big Union have morphed into an American version of the British Labor Party? 

 

We’ll never know but the legend of the Wobblies lives on.

 

 

Rebel Girl, a musical by Larry Kirwan, will receive its first staged readings on Sept. 27 at 2:30pm and 7pm at The Arthur Laurents Theatre, NBPAC, New Brunswick, NJ. Some tickets will be reserved for Irish Echo readers. Contact Tom Marlow at blackfortyseven@aol.com stating preference for which show. Tickets are free but admission by invite only.

BROOKLYN GIRLS

New York neighborhoods used to be measured by the quality of their saloons. One of the reasons Brooklyn’s Bay Ridge always hovered near the top of my list was Tomorrow’s Lounge on 86^th Street.

It was a Donegal joint, owned by Jimmy Morrow (hence the name) and managed by the dapper Tony Harkins when I first visited back in the 70’s.

 

Tomorrow’s was like paradise to Turner & Kirwan of Wexford. It sported a piano for Pierce, we bought a Fender amp for my guitar, stuck two Shure microphones into it and voila, we were a happening band with our own PA sound system.

 

We had already snagged a Manhattan Thursday residency at John Mahon’s Pig and Whistle (frequented by a bevy of Radio City Rockettes, no less). We were on the pig’s back!

 

But Bay Ridge was the making of us. Within weeks, staid Tomorrow’s piano lounge was rocking to a whole new clientele of twenty-somethings singing along to Dylan, The Dead, Simon & Garfunkel, T Rex and our own thorny songs.

 

It was a whole different world to Ireland, socially and otherwise; we were unleashed and liberated by this lovely neighborhood. We played at least 4 hours a night and got better by the minute. 

 

On one of our first breaks I was standing by the jukebox when a lovely young woman murmured, “Wanta dance?”

 

I looked over my shoulder. There was no one behind – could she really mean me? I had never been asked to dance before – not even at a ladies’ choice back in Ireland. My life changed, American women were open and friendly, they worked long hours and didn’t have time to beat around the bush.

 

My brother, Jimmy, soon arrived from London, the three of us along with our best friend Bob Schwenk got a roomy apartment on Ovington Avenue. Now we could really explore the wonders of Bay Ridge.

 

Back then, the three main ethnic groups were Italian, Irish and Norwegian with sprinkles of just about every other nationality. In the more commercial areas  it was a rare street corner that didn’t house a bar, each with its own steady clientele.

 

These saloons functioned like clubs, everyone was on first name basis, and you were made to feel at home as soon as your butt hit a barstool.

 

Bay Ridge food too was splendiferous, especially in the Greek diners and Italian restaurants, while the Sicilian and Calabrian young ladies vied to take you home for dinner, so their families could delight in your “cute accent.”

 

On nights off you’d stroll hand-in-hand with one of these sultry beauties down by the broad Narrows and marvel at the sea-going vessels inching by. 

 

“The Verrazzano hangs like a string of pearls in the night

I’ll steal them for you, darlin’, wear them tomorrow

Make everything be alright.”

 

Those lines from Brooklyn Girls still echoes from those innocent days, while across the river Staten Island brooded mysteriously. 

 

Word of Turner & Kirwan of Wexford was spreading. The Daily New devoted two pages to us, we bought a van and began to play from the Jersey Shore to The Hamptons, all through Queens, up into the stormy Bronx and beyond to New England.

 

In an odd way, my heart always remained in Bay Ridge and those early days of acceptance. We released an album and WNEW-FM played it often. 

 

In Bay Ridge no one ever called us Turner & Kirwan of Wexford, we were just Pierce and Larry – still are to those who remember.

 

Many of our original following got married, and moved off to Staten Island, Jersey and Pennsylvania. But every now and again I hop what used to be the RR and walk the old streets.

 

Vestiges of the past still remain, The Three Jolly Pigeons rocks on, The Canny Brothers still sing their Bay Ridge anthems, the local “wise guys”, once so formidable, are all old men now who shuffle down 86^th Street for espressos on 3^rd Avenue.

 

New nationalities abound in the carefully kept side streets, all friendly when smiled at, and why wouldn’t they be? Bay Ridge is still Old Brooklyn, a little paradise nestling at the mouth of New York Harbor where apartments are large, and rents lower than in trendy “new” Brooklyn.

 

As for Tomorrow’s Lounge, it’s long gone but lives on in the hearts and minds of all who ventured there.