The truth is never as much fun as the conventional wisdom.
I went to the White Horse Tavern in the West Village for the first time last night with an old friend. It seems strange I’d not yet visited this literary landmark that is right up the street from my work, but, alas, the three-martini lunch went out of style long before I joined the publishing scene, and after work the place is full of tourists.
Tourists of what? Well the White Horse is famous as a watering hole to bohemian writers of the ‘50s and ‘60s—they say Jack Kerouac used to get tossed out fairly often. And it’s most famous for being the bar in which Dylan Thomas drank himself to death. I threw out this bit of trivia last night to my friend, who was unimpressed.
Because this tidbit smacks of skewed history, I thought I’d look it up. And I found out that in fact Thomas did have a few beers there on Nov. 5 1953 and began to feel ill. He went back to his room at the Hotel Chelsea where he passed into a coma, and died four days later at St. Vincent’s Hospital. According to the venerable Wikipedia, “attributing factors towards the cause of death are recorded as pneumonia, a result of the coma, with pressure upon the brain. Emphysema was also noted, due to Thomas' smoking habit and possibly his intake of morphine. His liver, according to the pathologist, was surprisingly healthier than one would have imagined. ‘Chronic alcohol poisoning’ was eventually ruled as the official cause of death.”
So did he “drink himself to death” there? Not really. I think that term only applies to when undergrads drink 21 shots on their 21st birthday and die immediately and directly as a result of the alcohol intake. Thomas had merely accumulated too much fun in his 39 years and his body couldn’t take it anymore. This does seem a morbid reason to visit a bar. (“Hey, maybe I’ll kick the bucket after having beers here, too!”) But there are worse. (“Hot chicks and 10-cent wings!) And I’m totally ready to undertake a tour of the bookishly cool saloons around town.
Anyone up for the Algonquin?
I went to the White Horse Tavern in the West Village for the first time last night with an old friend. It seems strange I’d not yet visited this literary landmark that is right up the street from my work, but, alas, the three-martini lunch went out of style long before I joined the publishing scene, and after work the place is full of tourists.
Tourists of what? Well the White Horse is famous as a watering hole to bohemian writers of the ‘50s and ‘60s—they say Jack Kerouac used to get tossed out fairly often. And it’s most famous for being the bar in which Dylan Thomas drank himself to death. I threw out this bit of trivia last night to my friend, who was unimpressed.Because this tidbit smacks of skewed history, I thought I’d look it up. And I found out that in fact Thomas did have a few beers there on Nov. 5 1953 and began to feel ill. He went back to his room at the Hotel Chelsea where he passed into a coma, and died four days later at St. Vincent’s Hospital. According to the venerable Wikipedia, “attributing factors towards the cause of death are recorded as pneumonia, a result of the coma, with pressure upon the brain. Emphysema was also noted, due to Thomas' smoking habit and possibly his intake of morphine. His liver, according to the pathologist, was surprisingly healthier than one would have imagined. ‘Chronic alcohol poisoning’ was eventually ruled as the official cause of death.”
So did he “drink himself to death” there? Not really. I think that term only applies to when undergrads drink 21 shots on their 21st birthday and die immediately and directly as a result of the alcohol intake. Thomas had merely accumulated too much fun in his 39 years and his body couldn’t take it anymore. This does seem a morbid reason to visit a bar. (“Hey, maybe I’ll kick the bucket after having beers here, too!”) But there are worse. (“Hot chicks and 10-cent wings!) And I’m totally ready to undertake a tour of the bookishly cool saloons around town.Anyone up for the Algonquin?
Photo 1: Dylan Thomas at the White Horse © Bunny Adler
Photo 2: © Phyllis Twachtman/New York World-Telegram and the Sun, 1961
Photo 2: © Phyllis Twachtman/New York World-Telegram and the Sun, 1961
8 comments:
I'm sorry, did someone say hot chicks and 10-cent wings?
Wish I could. Sounds like fun.
To add to the literary trivia:
Chuck Palahniuk (I probably misspelled his last name, sorry)used to live in the same apartment building that I presently do, on the same floor that I used to. In a studio no less. Maybe it was mine.
Not the hot chicks and 10-cent wings. I meant that the literary sight-seeing sounded like fun. Just to clarify. Although 10-cent wings are pretty tasty.
10-cent wings: the real cause of Dylan Thomas's death.
I'm up for the Algonquin next Friday.
Don't taunt us, Andy, unless you're really planning on making a cameo appearance from Seattle.
Indeed I will be in town Memorial Day Weekend, and hot chicks and ten cent wings seem like incredible value. I'm actually heading east this weekend, but I plan on going to DC to say hello to Karlos Wirsing.
Wehoo! Maybe we can find you some New York pizza so you can stop bitching about the West Coast style. :)
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