That Time I Got in a Bar Fight at Glasslands
How being called a liberal brought out the worst in me
Vice wasn’t all bad. They had more money than God for a few years, and they spent it on parties and drugs and art. What’s not to like? Before we met, Dennis and his partner were the go-to audio company for Vice HQ in Brooklyn—a prosperous if blurry era for him. Every death star needs a DJ, so here’s to what money can buy.
Sacrificed to this god of glorious excess was the smaller, scrappy arts community that already existed in Williamsburg. In true Saturnalian fashion, Vice gobbled up the Kent street scene and spat out the tiny bones. They devoured the little guys in 2014, and now they’ve followed them into oblivion. Sic transit gloria mundi.
So Glasslands was just this place on Kent street, you know? Great bands. Good art. Real DIY in an indie twee aughts kind of way. Not exactly sawdust and swinging doors.
In 2008, I lived in Bushwick and bartended at Planet Thai, located in the hipster heart of Williamsburg. My regulars liked to come in and talk about how cool it had been five years ago. I found it tedious.
Cabs refused to take me home. They’d come to the first or even the second L train stop, but if you directed them further into Brooklyn, they’d be like, no. Get out.
I had one regular at Planet Thai who turned into a friend. It wasn’t romantic. Instead, we enjoyed a low-key and unfortunately rare platonic relationship. I gave him a bunch of free beer, and we used to hang out at the Ale House after my shift.
One night he asked me to meet him at Glasslands, so I rode the J train to Marcy and took the long walk to the river. I wasn’t about to waste my bar money on a cab.
We sat at a table in the balcony. He was super sad because his girlfriend was out of town and also ignoring him. His girlfriend came from money and he did not, which created an ambiguity that was new to him, being tall and handsome. The family didn’t respect him. I there-there’d him for a while, and then he was done talking about it and wanted to hang out.
We went our separate ways on the main floor. He had other friends there. I wound up sitting at the bar next to this guy he was thinly acquainted with. He was real mouthy and jerky, and I’d had enough whisky to be mouthy and jerky right back.
It wasn’t anything at that point but a verbal spar. I wasn’t heated. Sometimes you get into pissing contests with people. So this spiky conversation was spiking along, until he took it too far.
He made a crack about the homeless!
My only response was to make a surprise-ick face. I just thought it was not cool to say what he said, and it showed on my face.
He pounced on it. I think it was because I had a genuine response that was not part of the verbal sparring match. Hello. Don’t make fun of homeless people. What the fuck.
He pounced on it hard.
He said, “Oh, I get it, you’re another rich girl liberal. I bet you live in one of those glass towers.”
A handful of glass towers had already sprouted on the East River edge of Williamsburg.
It was like he called me white.
He didn’t know he pushed every button.
I’m proud of being a starving artist. I’m proud that my grandfather was a Wobbly. I’m proud that Dad was a migrant farm worker and my cousin punched a cop at People’s Park.
So when he made that crack, I felt the family rise up in me.
I punched him as hard as I could in the face!
I then continued to physically attack him. A wave, a mighty wave of anger had washed out my brains, and I was only the righteousness. I was an avenging demon-angel with one mission—to beat the shit-talk out of this shit-talking stranger.
I got dragged out right away. I had scratches all over my arms. His girlfriend scratched me bad. Because I was whaling on her boyfriend with my fists.
My friend came out of the bar with me. He was real ride-or-die about it.
He said, “I told that dude one day he was going to push it too far. I told him one day he was going to say the wrong thing to the wrong person.”
That wrong person turned out to be me.
I had so much adrenaline pumping through my body. My friend threw me in a cab, which thankfully took me home to Bushwick, where I had just moved in with my boyfriend.
I burst in the door all wild-eyed and scratched up, telling him, “I got in a fight!”
Looking back, I can’t even imagine what he must have thought at that point. We didn’t know each other very well. He must have been like, fuck. This is who I’m sharing a roof with, huh?
I’m sure he was also thinking—how the fuck do you get into a bar fight at Glasslands?
I did stop going there, kind of out of shame, but also because it wasn’t really my scene. I hung out in Bushwick, within walking distance of my apartment. To get to Glasslands, you had to get on the J train and then walk all the way to the water. Half the year it was fucking cold over there, and it wasn’t THAT cool.
A few years later, I visited again. I was hanging out on the block and Jeffrey Lewis drove up in his pickup truck. I guess the people I was with knew him, and he yelled out the window, “Hey guys, do you want to go to Glasslands?”
We were like, yeah sure. It was a car ride. If you live in New York City long enough, you know people act like dogs if they get offered a car ride. Who cares where you’re going—just jump in.
While we were cruising down Broadway, I mentioned that I got in a bar fight there once. And it sort of lowered the temperature. That was not the right thing to say. Jeffrey Lewis was unimpressed.
Once we got there, these two pretty young things snatched him away. He allowed himself to be raptured off to the VIP section with this semi-apologetic look on his face. Like he was being delightfully kidnapped. I was like, uh. I’m going home.
I walked to the Marcy station and rode the J back to Bushwick.
Less than a year later, Glasslands was gone, Vice was ascendant, and Dennis started making money hand over fist.
Wow. That's one more bar fight than I've been in. :-)