I spent many hours with a seat at the bar. Cool bartenders, excellent regular patrons with great conversation. Multiple rounds of beverage, who could ask for anything more. On any given Wednesday, I would meet bartender Monica at the door to open up. Sometimes pizza runs were in order. Hearing stories of the day at work, or stories about long ago passed the time over a drink. It always amazed me how some people would come to the bar and not want to engage, it seemed a place to rant, laugh, and get drunk—avoiding life’s tribulations in the company of friends. My partner looking for me, wondering why I didn’t come home for dinner. It’s Wednesday! In the back yard, girls and boys would smoke a jay and come back inside trying to play it off. Crown Inn served as a place to drain the stresses of the day and in camaraderie share the moments that affected us. Family issues, work, memories, the struggles of living in the beautiful bubble that is Brooklyn, oh the horror! it was all good. Frank talking about how back in the day Basquiat would show up at the bar needing a fix. Or, how I met that one guy who had a Basquiat painting in his basement and his grandmother threw it out from her because she thought it was garbage, Or, how they went upstate with Bad Brains to record an album. It could get out of hand sometimes…leaving the bar to partake in other worldly adventures—barbecues, runs. Tricky, but all good. I’m sure the bartenders got tired of the same regular faces multiple times a week and dealing with these multiple personalities. They get points. I thoroughly enjoyed it. To me, it was the best place to stop in and commiserate, all over a brew or glass of wine or shot. Good times.