When I lived in Philadelphia I was a regular at two places. One was an arcade/laundromat around the corner from where I lived and the other place was a tiny, grungy bar named Dirty Franks (which by the time I left, could have changed its name to Clean Franks unfortunately).

Anyway, being a regular was great. At the arcade, I got to know all the employees and became close friends with the other patrons who also enthusiastically burned through pockets full of quarters playing Tekken 3 and occasionally Virtual On. Sometimes we’d even head back to their homes to play video games for free on their PlayStations while eating sandwiches their wives made and trying to keep their kids from unplugging our controllers, reseting the console, or otherwise ruining our gaming. Sometimes, we wouldn’t even play games… we’d just hang out.

The story was different at Dirty Franks, of course. There, it was all beer drinking, jukebox DJing and trying to talk to any new girls before any of the bike messengers who hung out there made their moves. The place was small, I vaguely remember the bartendress being attractive and friendly, plus I managed to make some interesting friends in the bike messengers.

When you’re a regular at a place it oddly becomes some kind of extended family. Like the tagline from the definitive television show on the subject, Cheers, goes: it’s a place “where everyone knows your name.”

It occurred to me this morning, that for the ten years I’ve lived in New York City, I don’t think I’ve ever been a regular anywhere. I have no idea why that is. Of course, there are some places I go to often, but not like the arcade or Dirty Franks and I wouldn’t say there are too many places outside of the slew of places I’ve worked and my block where everyone knows my name.

Are there just too many places to go here? Is it because there isn’t a place close to my home where you could easily blow hours of your day? (I guess some people do that at the gym, but that’s not really for me.) Is it because I don’t have quick transportation like my old motorcycle that sped me over to Dirty Franks? Is New York City just different? Am I different now?

Hmm… I really don’t know, but I should remember to be on the lookout for some special haunt out there where everyone could learn my name.

Today’s attempt at getting lunch truly got me thinking that I need to improve my short term memory. It started when I decided to go to Hale & Hearty for a sandwich. I thought to myself that before I leave the building, I should use the restroom (#1), then grab some money from the ATM conveniently located on the same floor as the restroom.

A few moments later, I find myself in line at Hale & Hearty being asked for around $7 to pay for my sandwich… naturally, I had no money on me and still had a desire to use the restroom. A quick run next door to an ATM and an understanding checkout woman made that issue go away fairly painlessly.

Back in my office, heading up the elevator, I think to myself that I should drop my sandwich off at my desk before heading to the restroom. I get to my desk, drop off my sandwich as planned and head to the restroom… only to realize that I was still wearing my coat.

Sure, this bothers me a bit, but I wash my hands and head back upstairs to my desk… only to realize that I didn’t complete the task I had intended in the restroom. You read that right. I walked in. Washed my hands. And walked back to my desk still carrying my excess fluids!

Now, I’m pissing myself off (pun somewhat intended), so I rush back downstairs (still wearing my coat, unfortunately) relieve myself, finally, then head back to my office…

I really don’t know if my mind is broken, but I need to remember to try at least something to somehow improve my brain functions… short of tying multicolored strings to my fingers, that is.

(image: Mr. Forgetful from the Mr. Men books by author Roger Hargreaves)